#like I do think it’s funny when someone says they don’t want us to no about this wnd it’s like quick google search

[solar-wing]

⚣ Conner Kent: NSFW Alphabet 🟥

⚣ 🟥 A/N → Something to hold y'all over until the next story is up 😉. Funny enough, I knew I had done these headcanons before, but couldn't find the document, so I just started fresh... only for me to find my original headcanons right as I was exporting the document💀 my fucking life... I swear. Anyway, ENJOY! 😁

⚣ 🟥 Word Count → 10.0K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 🟥

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Attentive and clingy.

To consider what Conner is like after sex is also to consider his half-human Kryptonian nature. As will be mentioned further down, Conner is someone with higher-than-average stamina compared to most other humans and meta-humans alike. So, his aftercare is a combination of various elements.

Despite a gruff and emotionally reserved exterior that Conner likes to maintain, he is someone attentive and considerate in his vulnerable moments. Especially in the early stages of his freedom/life, he’s still learning his strength and how far he can go without irreversible effects. In those rare moments when he allows his walls to drop, he may not always be skilled with his words, but his actions convey someone who wants their partner to feel safe, understood, and comfortable—both physically and emotionally.

He’ll clean up if that is what’s preferred, but expect a tendency to hover, especially if it was a rougher session. He may check for bruises and wounds he may have accidentally inflicted, help carry to the bathroom or wherever is needed, etc. His main thing, however, is to just embrace and cuddle in the aftermath, especially if he’s in a more possessive mood. With his origins and abilities, he will, without thought, wrap his body around his partner like a shield; bonus points if he’s still inside.

It’s a vulnerable move, but it’s an assurance for him. It surprised him how much he cares, considering his initial purpose. An intense need for intimacy and closeness that he doesn’t realize is there, but which becomes completely apparent in those tender after moments. So when he kisses your shoulder or murmurs a gravelly “you okay?” into your neck, know it’s his silent way of saying “you matter.”But, also don’t be surprised if a particular pride shows through, especially if it was one of those sessions. You will find out very quickly how smug that man can be when he's flexing himself inside of you or giving a slight, forceful nudge against you as a reminder of who you just let wreck your insides, and why it will only be him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

On himself: Considering Conner was quite literally engineered to be perfect—or at least, the ideal copy of Superman, he doesn’t think about his body in terms of vanity, since he knows it’s already the standard and most desired in society’s eyes. It haunts him a bit, though, the knowledge that who he is and how he comes across to the world might not be fully authentic. But if there’s one part he takes subconscious pride in, it’s his arms.

Not just for how strong they are (though they are ridiculous—ropey veins, thick forearms, biceps that stretch seams), but for what they can hold. Something that will be a recurring topic is how Conner unconsciously values intimacy. Whether he realizes it or not, much of his reasoning for his arms being his favorite part of himself is less to do with him being built like a weapon and more to do with using that body to cradle someone without hurting them. The contrast gets to him, and he loves the little things. When you slap his arm in scolding, and the immediate flushed and turned on expression, no matter how subtle, follows afterward, it is at the strength and size of his arm. How you grip his arms in the middle of the act, especially when you’re overwhelmed as he’s rocking your bodies together, back and forth. How his arms look against you when carrying or holding you against him—that one’s a favorite—every time.

On his partner: Conner loves the look and feel of a pair of good-looking thighs, especially when they're straddling him, squeezing around his hips, trembling under his hands as he parts them. It makes him lose his composure fast when he has a view of powerful, plush, or quivering thighs locked against him—he’s obsessed with them. His touch there will often—almost always—linger, with his fingers spreading across the soft give, gripping tighter than he may mean to, and sometimes spacing and tracing his thumbs lightly across the skin to see them quiver and jiggle from the tickling sensation.

They’re a go-to comfort spot pre-sex, during sex, and post sex. Don’t exactly know how that middle one works out, but it works for him. Whether he’s resting his head there using the natural warmth or coolness as a pillow, burying his face between them in the most titillating of ways, nudging his hips and body between them as he buries himself inside you, or even as something as simple as carrying you over his shoulder and getting to hold and press your thighs under his arms—bonus points! A thought to keep in mind, though: exercise caution when selecting your bottomwear. Conner’s not overtly pervy, but his eyes always drop, and his palms will wander as if your thighs are some kind of gravitational force his hands can’t escape.

In addition to that, know that Conner is 100% an ass man. A man who is obsessed with lower limbs, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out the man likes a good pair of jiggly booty cheeks! But, don’t get him wrong, he likes a good chest just as much as the next person, especially if it's pressed up against him in the dark, warm, and soft against his own sturdy frame, but ass is where his hands naturally go, as if on instinct. Again, be careful with the choice of pants or shorts, as Conner does not have it in him to even pretend he’s not staring, let alone hide it. There’s a control aspect to it as well; a satisfying element in how he can grip your ass to pull himself deeper onto you, grind you against his thigh or front, or fondle you while you're bent helplessly over his shoulder. It’s his favorite handle, whether he's fucking rough or holding you close during slower, messier sessions.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Conner has a visceral relationship with cum, one that’s considered equally primal, possessive, and dangerously addictive once he allows himself to lean into it more. In the beginning, when he’s learning about intimacy and sex as a whole, the sensation of ejaculation is obviously one of the ones that takes a bit getting used to for the half-human. But there’s something gleeful that happens in his brain and chest when he watches it happen, especially when his partner is involved. Whether it’s him unloading across your stomach, painting your lips in slow, hot strokes, or feeling and knowing his spunk sits inside you. He can’t explain it, not in clear words, but it does something to him to see you messy because of him. It’s akin to the feeling a child may get when playing with a toy that another kid has to watch them play with, but he got to it first, and therefore, it’s his.

And Conner cums a lot. That Kryptonian hybrid biology delivers in multiple ways. Thick, hot spurts—the kind that rope across your body in heavy streaks or flood deep inside you and leave you gasping at just how full you feel afterward. Even if you shower, you may still feel it hours later. The weight, the stretch, the stickiness — especially if he didn’t pull out. Which, being honest, is experiencing the feeling of release inside of you, which is a feeling he will not give up without a fight, meaning you beg and demand him to pull out. Even then, he still might not do it if he doesn’t feel it’s a good enough reason, but only if the trust is there.

He also becomes more needy the more he gets into it. He isn’t verbal—more of a growler, low and deep in your ear—but right before he finishes, there’s an unhinged desperation that cuts through his stoicness. His voice goes gravel-thick, his grip will tighten like he needs to anchor himself, and when he finally releases? He shudders through it, as if experiencing massive body chills, and the feeling of release is short-circuiting his brain. His entire body will be flexed and tense, his teeth gritted and mouth half open while he’s panting against your neck.

If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how many orgasms you've been put through), he might not even pull out when he's done. Might just stay there, hard or soft (depending on the round) and twitching, while you clench around him and the mess he’s made.

And don’t even get started on the experience of watching you swallow. That shuts off Conner’s higher brain function completely—well, except for the thought of another round. He’s a menace.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Conner has jerked off to surveillance footage of you.

There was a time, early on in the new life of freedom, living in Mount Justice, when he didn’t understand the concept of boundaries or shame. His body felt unfamiliar, and he didn’t understand completely the urges and sensations he felt, and self-control was something that barely existed—both on the battlefield and off. He’d linger too long in the monitor room when someone like Wally left the cams running after training. Or when a specific teammate was shirtless and sweaty in the Cave gym, watching him stretch in ways that weren’t intended to be sexual, but his eyes always stuck anyway.

The guilt eventually hit… after. But not before he’d unzip behind closed doors and jerk himself off to grainy feed in the dead of night, biting down groans with the heel of his hand, getting off to you who would never know how he watched you like prey.

He has long since deleted the footage and records of him downloading it to a personal drive, which he keeps locked away and may forget about. But the memory still burns.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Conner started not knowing anything about sex outside of its meaning, purpose, and definition that would be described in a textbook, thanks to his programming, but it didn’t last long.

After coming out of Cadmus, it was one thing to know the reasoning behind why his appendage would get so hard and stiff, erect in his pants; another thing entirely to experience it, particularly around specific individuals whom he’d stare a second too long at whether it their bare shoulders, collarbones, sweat-glossed muscles, thighs and asses, etc.. He didn’t know how to name it, but he felt it, and once he started exploring that feeling and touching himself, he became determined to figure it all out.

He’s not a flirt, he’s not exactly smooth, and he doesn’t know how to dirty talk worth a damn, especially if he’s too far gone to think. But what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in raw, physical instinct. Impatient and impulsive as he may be, he takes the time to learn about you. The way you breathe when he hits a specific spot, or how you squirm when he teases you while restraining and holding you down. He learns what triggers you, like how fast your heartbeat will jump when he pins your wrists and growls into your neck, grinding into you like he owns your body.

And once he not only learns you, inside and out, but also himself, he’s as much of a force to be dealt with in the bedroom just as he is in a fight. The way he holds your body, the tight grip on your hips has that sultry thrill of feeling manhandled, while his rhythm is something he’s learned and developed to a devastating precision. He learns to it’s okay, more than OK, to fuck you through your orgasm, especially when he has a point to prove, making sure you’re shaking and leaking by the time he’s done. Yeah, now he knows what he’s doing. He figured it out by watching, by testing, by listening to the different ways you moan his name and what causes each type.

It’s an obsession he has with proving himself, showing he’s the only one who can and will do the things to your body in the way that elicits the most euphoria and pleasure no other could hope to achieve. He still gets flustered, though, by things that may catch him off guard—especially if it’s you trying to turn the tables. Give him a minute to learn and adjust, something he’s learned from Dick, and now, when you challenge him, he‘s prepared. Something will drop behind those blue eyes, and you’ll get the side of him that grabs you by the throat, shoves you into the mattress, and fucks you like it’s the one true thing he was made for.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Face-Down, Ass-Up – Brutally intimate, this position gives Conner complete access to you, watching your back flex, your hole stretch, your ass tremble with every punishing thrust, watching you be helpless in the best way. You’re his, so every time he’s buried inside you, pressing you down into the mattress, chasing that deep rhythm that makes your legs twitch and your moans go ragged, he feels worthy. His grunts are rough, hot against your skin as he leans in, all weighty and dominant, hips snapping into yours while your thighs quake and your body jerks forward with every impact.

And if you try to crawl away, he will drag your ass back with one arm under your waist, lifting your hips higher, forcing you to take all of him. There will be no mercy nor escape, just the heavy sound of his groans and the obscene slap of skin. And when he finishes inside you, he won’t pull out, not until it drips down your thighs and he’s made it clear exactly who you belong to.

Standing Carry – Conner uses this position when he both needs closeness & intimacy, and also to prove a point. It’s when the jealousy’s been boiling for hours, and the fear creeps in that someone else might ever see you like this, trembling, moaning, walls squeezing around him. He’ll lift you like it’s nothing, pushing your back against the wall, making you lock your legs around his waist, and forcing you to cling to him like he’s oxygen. He likes seeing your body open instinctively to him, giving him everything and inviting him in without a single word. He’ll take it slow at first, grinding deep into you while your ass is gripped in the palms of his hands as he’s burying his face into your neck like he needs to inhale you to survive. It’s his arms, his strength holding you suspended, as if gravity obeys him now. He has your entire being in his grip, making you vulnerable here with your chest exposed, face open, and neck defenseless.

If your moans echo in the space a little too loudly, you’ll quickly find a hand over your mouth as he’s still rutting. It’s not to be cruel, though, only to protect what’s his. Conner wants no one else to witness any part of this experience that should be and is exclusive to him. No one gets to feel how your nails would dig into their back like they do for him, or how your cock leaks between your bodies and legs quiver against him as he pushes himself inside more and more. Getting to watch your head fall back, and being the one who gets to grab your jaw, forcing your mouth open just enough for him to kiss you through the overstimulation. He’ll cum with a full-body tremor that’s mostly silent, except for the deep, guttural groans into your throat. And he won’t put you down, at least not immediately.

Folded in Half — You want to show him he matters and that he’s the only one who can have you like this? Let him fold you like a prayer and rut into you with a single-minded intensity that has you squirming and crying, trying to get away, but you can’t because he has you pinned under him, your knees bent back to your chest with his body flush to yours. Both your chests (yours more than his) will be slick with sweat and rising with every panting breath. And as he fucks you like this,  fully pressed in, buried deep, there’s nowhere to run. You’re defenseless and wide open, his for the taking.

He’ll watch you as you break apart under him, only allowing your hands the freedom to rub and claw at his back, grip onto his arm, or inside his hair as he continues to pillage and wreck you for himself. But if even once, he feels you try to push against him, now those same arms will be restrained, pinned against the bed as he continues to show you his strength and worth. His mouth will stay busy as well, whether it’s latching onto your neck, your collarbone, or your jaw as tears pool in the corners of your eyes from him hitting that sweet spot too many times in a row. And when you reach the point of no return, he’ll grab your wrists (once again) and pin them down while increasing his speed and intensity, fucking you harder through your own orgasm while chasing his own finish like he’s branding you from the inside.

Bent Over a Surface – This is more for when something has pissed him off, whether it’s you or someone/something else. Conner will find a private place and a surface, any surface to bend you over whether it be over the counter, a dresser, or even public ones as long as he knows no one is around like the kitchen table, or the back of the couch, any flat surface that lets him watch your spine curve and your thighs shake. In these moments, he craves submission and affirmation—he wants to see you begging, writhing, and reaching back for him. Even when he’s being rough—especially when he is—he wants to see your fingers clawing at his hip, or hooking around his arm, silently begging for more. He needs to see you offering yourself even when your body is barely keeping up.

That’s when he’ll get filthy, hands gripping your waist, slamming into you with punishing force, low animalistic growls rising from his chest, and his teeth nipping the back of your neck. If he thinks someone could hear, he’ll cover your mouth, and not for your sake, but for his. No one else gets your whines, your gasps, your broken little pleas. He’ll fuck you until your knees buckle and your body spasms around him, and only then will he bury himself one last time and cum so deep you feel it hours later. Pregnant.

Lap Dance 180/Kneeling Cradle – Propped up on his lap, body limp against his chest, impaled and whimpering into his neck. This one is less about dominance and more about proof. You on top, his cock buried deep, fully seated inside you while he holds you there, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. In a post sex haze, whimpering, overstimulated, your bodies sweat-slick, and hearts racing in sync. Conner’s voice is barely audible, just the occasional breathy “mine” as his hands roam your body. You shift and tremble every time he twitches inside you, but you don’t move to pull off—not that he’ll even let you—and neither does he. It’s the aftermath of a possessive rut where he’s already cum inside you once, maybe twice—even thrice—but doesn’t want to leave the warmth yet, doesn’t want to let go. Placing small, but biting kisses to your flesh, staring hard either at you or into space, notably a mirror to watch your body cling and convulse over him while he subtly shifts himself inside you. You’ll kiss his temple, let out a soft whine from the tip of your tongue, shiver, and cling to him while digging your fingers in his hair, and he’ll growl low, hips thrusting up again, slow and deep. For Conner, it’s both an intimate moment and the most proud and validating moment, seeing and feeling you spent against him, entirely at his whim and control, accepting and affirming him as your one and only. Smug and prideful.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Conner is serious — almost painfully so — in the bedroom.

Not because he’s humorless or doesn’t get teasing, but because sex, to him, isn’t casual. It’s intimate and personal. You’re giving him something no one else sees: your body, your sounds, your trust. That shit means something to him—grounds him and makes him feel real. It makes it something he feels like he can’t joke about.

When he’s deep inside you, gripping your thighs while your eyes roll back and your body spasms under his? The guy is locked in and focused, breathing like he’s fighting a war, an internal one.

But, there are rare, human moments—vulnerable cracks in the tension. Like when Conner fumbles a button because he’s too worked up and grunts in frustration, only for you to laugh and kiss him, and he gives this quiet, low chuckle that almost sounds surprised. Or when he pretends he doesn’t find your sex puns the least bit amusing, but you catch that slight chuckle disguised as a scoff. He won’t banter, and he won’t make jokes during foreplay. But if you whisper something dumb in his ear, asking something like if he’ll break the bed again right before he starts driving into you senseless, you might get a rare smirk. A half-laugh even, low and huffed, followed by a possessive growl and an even harder thrust that proves he definitely is.

Most of his “playfulness” is physical. Holding you down when you get bratty. Pulling out just before you cum and watching you squirm. Locking eyes while slowly pushing back in and watching the overstimulating panic cross your features, and nipping at your shoulder when you try to tease him, grinding deeper as punishment. It’s a domineering mischief, made personal.

But every once in a while, when the post-sex glow is warm and you're both spent, you’ll get the rare, boyish side of him, the side that forgets he was made in a lab. The side that laughs, not because anything’s funny, but because he feels safe.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Conner keeps it low-maintenance and straightforward, but always clean, partly due to his half-Kryptonian DNA, which doesn’t allow him to grow a lot of hair, so he doesn’t have to obsess over grooming. His body is naturally smooth in some places and lightly dusted in others, the mix of his human half of DNA contributing to the latter.

Head hair: Dark, thick, tousled — doesn’t try to style it, but it always ends up looking good, especially post-sex, sweat-mussed and curled at the edges.

Facial hair: Virtually none. If it tries, it’s gone the next morning. Either his hybrid DNA burns it off fast, or he shaves out of habit with near-military precision. You won’t catch him with a scruffy chin unless it’s been a long day.

Body hair: Minimal. Just a faint trail from his belly button downward, and a subtle dusting on his pecs and arms — enough to feel masculine when you run your palms over him, but not sufficient to tangle your fingers in.

Pubic hair: Yes, dark and short, trimmed but not bare. Definitely matches the drapes. He doesn’t style it, but it’s tidy, primarily for your sake. He likes it when your face is down there, and he wants to keep you there.

He doesn't ask about your preferences outright, but he notices what you like. If you lick a particular trail on his stomach? Expect that area to be extra-clean next time.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

The thing about Conner is you’d expect him to be loud, overly verbal, and cocky with his words and actions, but it couldn’t be more of the opposite. He’s quiet, barely uses any kind of dialect that’s not some animalistic sound or him uttering the word “mine”, and he doesn’t always know how to say what he’s feeling. All his communication is felt in his actions, which is the core of intimacy. You feel and understand his desires and feelings through every touch, every thrust, every tremor in his breath. For him, sex is never just physical. It’s both a physical and a territorial, emotional, and sacred act.

He makes love like he’s starving, not for pleasure, but for closeness. His hands will be everywhere, whether it’s one on your hip, the other behind your neck, or one caressing your thigh and ass while the other gropes your chest. What’s almost certain is how he’ll lock you against his body like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He groans against your skin, mouth dragging open across your shoulder, nipping, sucking, tasting you like you’re his favorite treat.

And when you wrap around him, clench down, whimper in his ear? He’ll slow down, push deeper, linger in the sensation. Not because he’s teasing — but because he’s trying to feel everything. He looks at you like you’re fragile and precious and also his. Even when he’s fucking you rough—when the thrusts are hard and the sweat’s dripping down his back—there’s a reverence to it, like worship.

Afterwards, he’ll hold you tight like you might disappear. Breath pressed to your neck, arms locked around you, fingers smoothing sweat off your spine as your heartbeats sync up. He won’t say much, might not say anything at all. But if he kisses your hairline, or rubs circles on your back, or tucks your leg over his waist, that is the I love you. To Conner, intimacy is everything he doesn’t trust the world with, but gives to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Conner doesn’t jerk off often, and not because he doesn’t need to, because he absolutely does. Something not typically considered in Kryptonian biology is a naturally higher libido. Conner and Clark have a lot of energy from feeding off the light of the sun, and all that extra energy they don’t burn off from fights and the use of their powers (which is barely anything) goes either to their energy reserves or their sex drive. After Conner learned what he was doing with the security cameras was wrong, he stopped masturbating, but that didn’t help anyone. He went weeks with no type of release or relief, walking around with a hair-trigger temper, fists clenched and jaw tight, ready for a fight at the drop of a dime. Until one day, the dam broke after he was triggered by who knows what.

So, due to this innate high drive, Conner is frequently in the mood for sex, but that doesn’t mean you always are. Plus, he’s not the easiest to get along with always, so there are times he will do something that pisses his partner off, and they’ll refuse sex or any type of play with him for who knows how long, which again, creates problems for everyone. A sexually frustrated Conner might as well be a synonym for an angry Conner, and jacking off is the only reprieve he can get, no matter how slight the reprieve is.

He’s not gentle with it either. Grunts and snarls echo through his room as he jerks rough and fast, hips pumping up into his hand, abs clenching, spine bowing when he squeezes the base to hold off just a few seconds more. And when he cums, he shoots across his stomach or his hand, hot and heavy, often with a bite mark on his lower lip or a red flush across his chest. If he’s in a particularly possessive headspace, he’ll jerk off with one of your shirts, your underwear, or something that reminds him of you, pressing it to his face while he spills all over himself. Then he lies there, panting, arm flung over his eyes like he’s disgusted at how badly he needs you. Because no matter how hard he jerks it, how much cum he wrings out of himself, it never compares to the way he gets off inside you. Which only happens when you both inevitably make amends, usually with Conner finally admitting his wrongs and apologizing, the sex that follows afterwards is a sure enough guarantee you won’t be walking straight when he’s done.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Possessive/Territorial Behavior (Jealousy)

Conner isn’t loud about it—but his jealousy runs deep. There’s something about the idea of anyone other than him laying a hand on or even looking at what’s his that flips a switch in him. It’s not always verbal—sometimes it’s the way he tightens his grip around your waist; whether in public as he presses you against him, and especially in the bedroom, mid-thrust that has you clinging to him, which he internally celebrates. Sex becomes not just an exchange, but a declaration: you’re his, and he'll brand it into your body with his mouth, his cock, and his scent until there's no doubt about it.

Rough & Consensual Non-Consent

Conner has an addictive, almost compulsive need to let go—but only with someone he knows wants him to take control. The line between aggression and affection blurs when he’s riled up. He thrives off the fantasy of overwhelming his partner, dragging them against the wall, flipping them over the couch, pinning their wrists until they’re squirming. But it’s always anchored in deep trust—his softness shows after, but in the moment, he’s all teeth, sweat, and power. And the sound of you begging for him to slow down? Only makes him go harder.

Bondage/Restraints/Muffled Gag

Conner likes control—visually, physically, and emotionally. Something about seeing his partner tied down, wrists stretched above their head, legs spread open for him and only him, makes his own restraint snap. Gags especially? They’re not just about muffling sound—they’re about the intimacy of making someone moan so shamelessly they need to be silenced. And that sound, stifled behind cloth, tape, even just the palm of his hand, gets him harder than anything else. He sees you like that—helpless, gorgeous, pliant—and it hits that deep, dark part of him that needs to own.

Multiple Orgasms/Orgasm Control

He’s a slow-burn sadist, even if he doesn’t admit it. Conner has a fixation with watching his partner unravel over and over again, writhing and overstimulated, begging for mercy he’s not ready to give. If you’re twitching beneath him and unable to stop gasping, he’s doing his job right. On the flip side, if he says you’re not allowed to come yet, you won’t—not until he lets you. There’s nothing he loves more than seeing you trembling, desperate, on edge—because he put you there.

Praise Kink

For someone built to be used, giving praise is deeply therapeutic for Conner—and receiving it is even more potent. He doesn’t need empty compliments; he needs confirmation that he's enough. That you want him, not just physically, but entirely. During sex, praise given to him is raw and reverent: “You feel so good.” “I only want you.” “All yours, always.” Even when you just so much as whimper, moan, or gasp—it feeds something vital inside him. Makes him feel like a man, not a weapon.

Breathplay (Choking)

There’s something dangerous and intimate about Conner’s hand on your throat. He doesn’t overdo it—he’s too careful—but when the moment calls for it, he wraps his fingers around your neck and watches your eyes widen, lips parting in a gasp. Not to dominate for the sake of it, but because it amplifies that control, that connection. The grip reminds you that he could ruin you, but chooses not to. That duality is what turns him on the most, the way your breath hitches when he tightens just a little? Unforgettable.

Breeding

Conner’s obsession with ownership manifests heavily here. It’s not about actual reproduction (unless we’re talking Omegaverse)—it’s about marking, about leaving a part of himself inside you. The idea of finishing deep, of his cum leaking out while you tremble and collapse around him, scratches an itch nothing else does. He wants you to feel him long after he’s pulled out, ruined, filled, and branded from the inside, even if it’s messy. Actually, especially if it’s messy, that’s how he knows it was real.

Manhandling

Your favorite thing? The way Conner doesn’t even realize how easily he lifts, flips, or pins you. He manhandles you without a second thought—hoisting you by the thighs, slamming you against a wall, pushing your back into the bed until it creaks—because it’s instinct. But you love it, and he notices. The flushed look on your face, the breathless whimper when he throws you around like a ragdoll. It makes his chest puff with pride, because if he was made to do anything… maybe it was this.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Conner tends to gravitate toward places that tap into something more profound: instinct, control, and intensity. Impulsive as he is, he doesn’t just choose the first empty room he finds (unless it’s after an argument and he hasn’t been able to feel your body in forever—two days). He needs both privacy and pressure, environments where he can feel everything: his strength, your surrender, the weight of what he can’t say out loud but can show with his body. Plus, there is a bit of an egotistical part that likes having to travel to his destination for sex, especially if he’s dragging you along, whether pulling you by your arm or just hauling you over his shoulder and bringing you there himself like a barbarian. It’s not just about getting off; it’s about asserting, feeling you clench around him somewhere he decides, and no one else gets to see. Some of those places include:

The Training Room (Sparring Mat, or Pinned Against a Wall)

This is Conner’s domain. It's where he’s honed control over his body, where tension builds during physical contact, and where he can unleash aggression without apology. But when the wrong look or a cocky smile lingers too long during a spar, suddenly he’s flipping you to the mat—not for a pin, but for a grind. Sweaty, panting, growling between kisses. He’ll fuck you right there, your limbs tangled, bruised in the best way. The walls are soundproof anyway, right?

His Room at Mount Justice (especially the bed, the floor, or up against the window)

His bedroom is the only space that’s his. It’s quiet, it’s controlled, and it’s where he lets go the most. Sex here is raw but intimate—slow kisses with frantic thrusts, a fist tangled in your shirt as he bites down on your shoulder, whispering things he’d never say aloud anywhere else. If you end up spread on the floor, ass-up, or shoved face-first into the mattress while he pounds into you with his voice breaking? That’s how he says I need you without the words.

Out in the Woods, Isolated and Wild

Conner's instincts crave isolation. Out here, he doesn’t have to think. No team, no cameras, no pretending. He’ll bend you over a rock, a fallen log, even the hood of a parked vehicle, or hold you up, pressing you against a tree or the same parked vehicle—panting, snarling, cock buried deep while birds scatter from the growls ripping from his throat. He likes the way sound carries. The way you squirm when there’s nowhere to hide, and every whimper echoes. There’s no pretending here—it’s just the two of you, and he’s feral.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Quiet Acts of Loyalty (Domestic Turn-Ons) – It’s not just the way you look—it’s how you show up. Helping him with his laundry, sticking up for him in disagreements against others, and wearing his clothes to bed, checking if he’s eaten (even if, as a half-Kryptonian, food is not 100% necessary for him), and sliding him the last slice of pizza without a thought. These unspoken acts of loyalty hit Conner in a place that goes straight to his cock. Because to him, that’s not routine, it’s choosing—you’re choosing him. And it makes him want to pin you down and return the favor, complex and slow.

Anger & Denial (Arguing) – Nothing wrecks his control more than when you two argue and you don’t give in. Conner’s temper flares quickly—especially when he feels challenged—but that sharp line of your jaw, that look in your eye when you shut him out and deny him sex, it lights a fuse. Even if he’s the one who stomped off first, he’ll end up restless, hard, and furious that you're withholding something he feels is his. Denial doesn’t turn him off—it gets him hot. Also, tread lightly when choosing the silent treatment route and ignoring him. That’s a huge trigger for him.

Casual Physical Contact (Tension-Building Touch) – You don’t even have to be trying. Just brushing past him on your way to the fridge, resting your hand on his chest for balance, sitting between his legs with your back to him while watching TV, rubbing your hands through his hair while he lies on your chest, is enough to get him going. All that casual contact riles him up more than full-on seduction. It’s the subtle stuff—your trust, your nearness, your comfort—that makes his body thrum with need. If he shifts in his seat and you pretend not to notice, it only makes it worse.

Jealousy & Competition (Signs of Possession) – Whether it's you smiling too long at someone else or laughing harder than you need to at something that’s really not that funny (at least to Conner it’s not). Even if it’s harmless, even if he knows you love him—Conner feels that fire start in his gut. That loutish edge to his personality doesn’t just fade when he’s in a relationship; it sharpens. Sometimes, it’s all the excuse he needs to drag you away and remind you who you’ve chosen and why you won’t be choosing anyone else.

Your Confidence – You don’t always give in, and you challenge him. You roll your eyes when he flexes, or you call him on his broody bullshit, and that friction is hot. It reminds him you’re not intimidated—but you still want him. When you hold eye contact and don’t flinch, or press your finger to his chest without a single trace of fear? He’s hooked. Conner’s more than willing to take the lead—but your fire keeps his lit.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Conner Kent definitely has limits, whether rooted in his origin story or his developing values. A  zero tolerance for degradation and humiliation, and it goes both ways, whether from him or directed at him—it clashes with his pride. It brushes too close to old insecurities about being something not human or just a person. And if he won’t allow other people to degrade him or his partner, he’s not gonna turn around and participate in that himself. Another thing is he refuses to do any type of public sex in openly risky or inappropriate places, like crowded venues and densely populated areas; the idea of being watched without consent or putting others at risk violates his protective instincts. He’s not against doing things in public, but rather where some type of privacy is guaranteed, and he can actively control the situation. And he may enjoy rough play and variants of CNC, but he draws a hard line at anything that blurs the lines of actual consent without clear, pre-negotiated boundaries—he has to know his partner wants it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Conner has a strong preference for receiving, not out of selfishness, but because the act directly feeds into his need for validation and dominance. When he first experienced receiving head, it was very overwhelming. He’d gone from only using his hands to having someone else use their hands, and then their mouth, and he fell off the edge. The act itself of someone, willingly submitting, eyes locked on his, mouth stuffed full of him—it rewired something in his brain. He didn’t realize how badly he needed to feel wanted like that until it happened. So now, having his partner on their knees, lips stretched around him, eyes watering from the size and pace—it lights an intense fire in him. He’s not quiet about it either: deep, ragged grunts, low groans, and the way his hand finds the back of a neck to keep them there when he’s close.

That being said, he’ll also give head himself, but only when he’s feeling a specific mood and energy, particularly the possessive or teasing kind—tongue slow, purposeful, dragging through slick like he owns it, because he does. And if his partner’s a moaner? Even better! He’ll hold them open and eat/suck like he’s starving, just to hear the sweet, wet payoff. But either way, he’s in control.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Conner’s pace is something psychologically rooted, no question about it. When things feel uncertain for him, his emotions become chaotic, or his sense of identity starts to slip, he regains control in one of the few ways he knows how, through the physical power of his body.

That fast, relentless pace? It’s him drowning out doubt and silencing insecurity with every harsh thrust, gripping his partner like they’re the only thing grounding him. He fucks like he’s fighting for something, whether it be ownership, reassurance, proof that he’s wanted, that he matters, that he’s not just some half-baked clone—and many times, it’s all three. Fast, rough, and relentless is typically his default mode, the kind that you down, leaves bruises, and makes the bed creak with every deep, punishing thrust. He fucks like he’s got something to prove—because half the time, he does. It’s not just about release; it’s about staking a claim, about chasing that feral need to own every gasp and tremble.

But when he slows down, that’s a bit more dangerous territory. Slower thrusts mean letting feelings catch up, letting someone see him. His own vulnerability scares the hell out of him, so in easing up, there’s tension behind it—something careful and calculated meant to keep him in control even when he’s on the edge of falling off. There’s typically never any randomness to his pace, always an intent behind it—it’s a confession he doesn’t know how to voice. And when he slows down, it’s not gentle, it’s taunting. Slow, grinding rolls of his hips meant to pull every moan and cry from you until you’re begging him to move faster. Whether he’s slamming or dragging it out, he’s in charge, and he’ll make damn well make sure you feel every inch of it.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Conner’s all for quickies—especially if he’s pent-up, frustrated, or just needs his partner right then and there. His quickies are almost always sparked by something simmering underneath—jealousy, possessiveness, or straight-up frustration. He saw someone flirting with you, or you two are currently in an argument, and now you’re ignoring him (he hates being ignored), or maybe you’re just walking around in his shirt and acting oblivious to what you’re doing to him. Whatever it may be, just know the half-Kyptonian is not above dragging you into the nearest utility closet at the Cave, bending you over the nearest surface he can find, or just straight up taking off with you over his shoulder in the middle of a mission to sort out your differences. For him, it’s less about strategy and more about you having him fucked up, and now he’s got to show his ass… well, your ass to be more accurate.

He fucks hard and fast in those moments, all teeth at your neck, with his fingers digging into your hips. There’s no time for finesse, just the brutal rhythm of someone who’s been exercising a lot of patience (the patience in question was nowhere to be found). And when he finishes inside you, don’t be surprised at his smugness—grabbing your chin and muttering some low, possessive shit like “Mine. Don’t forget it.” Quickies don’t replace proper sex for him, but they’re a damn good way to shut down jealousy, blow off steam, or prove a point.

He’s impatient, intense, and has a quick fuse, especially when he feels like something’s slipping out of his control. That’s when he’ll corner you, grab a handful of shirt or arm, and make it 20/20 vision clear you don’t walk away from him, tease him, or disobey him and expect to get away with it. It’s not always rational—it’s instinct, reactive, and a little (very) unhinged. But it’s honest—he just needs to reassert that connection again for his own sake, in a fast and raw and undeniable way.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Conner’s relationship to risk is less about thrill-seeking and more about exploration within boundaries, as he had to learn intimacy from scratch. Most of his early experiences were built on experimentation—testing sensations, reactions, and emotional responses without a roadmap. It’s made him more open to trying new things, especially with a partner he trusts, but only after he’s developed a strong foundation of what he likes, what he hates, and where he draws the line.

He’s very deliberate with what he chooses to engage in. He wants to know why something turns him on before he lets it into his sexual vocabulary. Still, if you bring it up, especially in a way that affirms Conner and showcases your submission in new ways, it’s hard for him to say no. He likes discovering new layers to his desires, particularly when they’re framed as things he gets to master or claim. What turns into a “maybe” for others becomes a “let me learn how to do that right” with him.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Conner’s stamina is absolutely fucking insane—and it shows. His half-Kryptonian biology gives him a supercharged libido and the kind of stamina that makes most humans look laughably underpowered by comparison. He’s not on Superman’s level—thank god—but he’s close enough to put his partner through three or four orgasms before he even thinks about finishing. He can go for multiple rounds without even needing to recover, not just fucking until his partner’s legs are shaking, but until he’s worn them out. That’s not just indulgence; that’s restraint. When he’s in that intense, hungry mood, it becomes a low, growling thrill to hold himself back, to keep fucking, keep working them over until they’re whimpering and overstimulated—until he decides they’re done. The first orgasm is just the fuse; what follows is pure combustion. Extended sessions, short breaks, round after round until they’re breathless, fucked dumb, and clinging to him? That’s exactly his idea of satisfaction.

It doesn’t help that he can already last a reasonable amount of time in each round, especially now that he’s gotten more experience under his belt. Even when he’s wound tight, Conner knows how to hold off, edge himself for the sake of drawing out his partner’s pleasure—or just proving he can. He gets off on making them come first (again and again), especially when they're begging him to let go finally. The gag is, even if he does, there’s usually another round already loading in the chamber.

But beneath that raw physicality is something much more personal. Conner’s stamina isn't just about endurance—it's about intention. He’s not a selfish lover. In fact, he might be the exact opposite. That relentless, almost desperate need to prove himself bleeds into every touch, every thrust, every moment of sex. He wants to be the one—your one—the only person who can get you off this good, thoroughly, and consistently. When others fall short in their relationships, Conner rises, laser-focused on your pleasure as if it were a mission he needed to complete. Because if he can make you come undone in his arms, if he can leave you trembling, satisfied, and gasping his name… then maybe, just maybe, he’s worthy of being yours.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys weren’t something Conner was immediately introduced to in his early experiences with learning sex. Truthfully, he didn’t even know about them; he had to learn everything the hard way, through observation, trial, and a little too much awkward Googling. But once he found out what was out there, a deep-seated curiosity quickly developed. The toys that could be more used on him didn’t interest him too much, but the ones he could use to enhance pleasure for you, and by extension, himself? Anal plugs he can use to keep his load inside you after he’s finally decided to release have entered the chat. Restraints, blindfolds, gags, and floggers he can use to practice sensory and impact play when you piss him off have entered the chat. Cock rings that help not only make him more complicated, but delay his orgasm even longer than usual (that’s just criminal), which all adds to how he can better fuck you… have entered the chat.

A doggie style strap??? Not only has it entered the chat, it’s been added to the cart. With these new additions, he’s got even more in his arsenal to wreck you just right. It’ll take some experimentation, but he lives for the power of it—of knowing it’s him doing this to you, even if it’s just a toy between your legs.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Conner doesn’t start as a tease—he’s too blunt, too direct, too used to wanting something and going for it. He’s not the kind of guy who flirts with delay for the fun of it—but he learns fast, and once he figures out that teasing can break you open better than brute force, once he realizes how badly you squirm under his gaze, he uses it with a mean streak. When you're bratty, defiant, or pushing his buttons,  that’s when the sadist comes out. He’ll pin you down with his full body weight, forcing your legs open with his hips while holding you down against whatever surface he has you on by your arms, grinding into your hips while dragging his cock in slow, shallow thrusts that barely satisfy. And he won’t say much, but the message is clear in his expression and movements—he’s waiting to hear you beg. He wants verbal surrender, affirmations laced with need, praise pouring from your mouth with every twitch of his hips. If he’s in that mood, your orgasm’s his toy—he’ll overload you until you’re limp and shaking, or deny it altogether until he’s had his fill and finished first. Who knows when that will come? In tighter scenarios, he’ll once again restrain you while tossing you around, flipping you over his shoulder, handling you like property. That’s his kind of tease—a lesson, not a game. And when you inevitably give in, he takes everything.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Conner’s not loud by nature, but when it comes to sex, quiet doesn’t mean silent. He’s a heavy breather, a growler, a low-throated groaner whose noises carry weight—dominance, frustration, hunger. You feel them more than you hear them, rumbling up from his chest and against your skin, especially when he’s deep inside or grinding slow to drag every twitch out of you. His voice only sharpens, saying what he needs to say and nothing more—every syllable edged with tension, control, and possessive heat. His words, when they come, are clipped and commanding: “Stay there.” “Stop moving.” “Open your legs.” “Cum.” He won’t whine or cry out—not unless you break him down first. But if you really get him there? You might hear something raw slip out—his name, your name, something primal—and then it’s over.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He gets off on being watched—but only if it’s someone who wants you. Jealous and possessive, ass Conner? Allowing someone else to see and hear you in your most vulnerable, fucked-out state is a 100% absolute fuck no. Unless it’s him. The one who's been testing Conner’s patience for weeks—flirting with you, sweet-talking you, pretending like the half-Kryptonian standing next to you doesn’t exist. Worse, mocking him behind a smile: a half-breed clone, trying to play boyfriend? Please.

That’s all it takes to snap the thread. Conner’s done keeping your moans to himself. He picks the location carefully—public enough for risk, controlled enough to make sure only he decides who witnesses this act. And when you protest? When you squirm and beg for somewhere more private? He just throws you against the nearest surface and presses—deep, slow, mean thrusts that slap your ass with every push of his hips, muffling your cries with his palm or a stretch of your own sleeve. “Nah. They wanna see what I can’t offer you? Let ‘em watch you take it.”

The footsteps come closer. Conner smirks, right on cue.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He starts fucking you harder, louder, bouncing you on his cock like he’s tuning your body to the sound of dominance itself. And when your voice cracks—when your legs tremble and your breath hitches and all you can do is whimper his name? That’s when Conner meets the bastard’s eyes. Doesn’t say a word. Just owns you with every stroke.

It’s not about being watched. It’s about being witnessed about proving, without words, that no one—no sweet-talker, no smooth bastard, no human—could ever fuck you like this.

He’s obsessed with the contrast of control—especially when you cry for him. Not from pain. From desperation. From being strung along, teased until your whole body aches, until you're clenching around nothing, slick and trembling, your legs refusing to stay still. He lives for the sound of your voice cracking when you beg—when that proud little tone you typically carry melts into breathless pleas, like, "Please, Conner, I can’t—please, I need it—”

That’s the fucking switch. That’s when it stops being about restraint and starts being about wrecking you. That’s when he stops teasing and starts snarling. All that held-back power, the measured pace, the forced patience—gone in a flash. He grabs your hips with bruising force and slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the breath out of your lungs. And when you choke on your moan or sob his name as your body spasms around him, he loses his goddamn mind.

He’ll curse low against your skin, panting, "More." The further undone you get, the more unhinged he gets. Because to Conner, those tears? That trembling voice? That helpless whimper that only he can pull out of you? That’s proof—proof that no one else can touch you like this. That only he can reduce you to this level of need. That he’s the only one you’ll ever come undone for. And the moment you give him that surrender, body and voice and all? He’ll take it. Every drop of it. And he’ll fuck you so deep and hard, you forget how to ask for anything else.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Conner’s cock is more girth than length, sitting at a weighty 8.5 inches fully hard, which is still above average (the dude’s half Kryptonian…come on now), but it’s the sheer thickness that steals the show. The kind that stretches your lips on the first lick and burns deliciously on the first push in. A grower and a show-er, his base is heavy and girthy, tapering only slightly up the shaft, which has a slight upward curve that helps reaching your spot all the easier. Conner is definitely built for performance, to put it mildly.

His tip is blunt and flushed deep red when aroused, framed by a prominent ridge and just sensitive enough to make your teasing feel like sweet torment for him. Veiny, but not ropey—Kryptonian circulation keeps him pumped and engorged longer than any human standard. It’s the kind of dick that leaves your jaw sore after sucking it, your hole gaping after taking it, and your spine arching from the way it hits every time he slams deep.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Conner’s sex drive is only comparable to that of the other person with whom he shares his DNA. His half-Kryptonian blood fuels a relentless, carnal yearning that never quite quits—like a campfire with an endless amount of firewood to keep it going, creating a need and hunger that’s impossible to satisfy fully. It’s why Conner basically craves some type of sexual release on a near-constant basis, with a raw, animal urgency that edges on desperate at times. Masturbation is slowly but surely becoming useless in that regard, which doesn’t help the building aggression and temper when Conner doesn’t properly let loose. Because now, the only other effective way he can handle his pent-up energy without sex is fighting… go figure.

RAH RAH RAH, HE BIG STRONG MASCULINE MAN! RAH!!!

When he’s around you, that desire twists into an almost obsessive fixation: every glance, every brush of skin, every quiet moment between fights becomes a spark igniting the fire hotter. His need isn’t just physical—it’s a constant ache for validation, sensual reverence, and the unmistakable proof that you want him just as badly.

He’s the kind of guy who can’t wait to tear your clothes off the moment you’re alone, who’s always chasing the next surge of heat, the next whimper or tremble that confirms you’re his. And when he’s denied—whether by circumstance or defiance—that yearning turns razor-sharp, feeding his possessiveness and his insatiable drive to fuck and claim you harder and deeper than before. An unrealistic goal of his is that he’ll fuck you so good, even in an argument, you’ll never deny him because of how good he makes you feel. That hasn’t happened yet, so all he can do is keep trying. He’s nothing if not stubborn—a stubborn, horny bastard.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Conner doesn’t crash right after sex—he winds down. Half-Kryptonian stamina means even after he’s left you gasping, shaking, and entirely spent, his body still hums with power and adrenaline. He’s not one to roll over and start snoring; instead, he lingers—still buried deep, refusing to pull out. That knot of warmth, that connection, is too satisfying to lose. You’re full of him, wrapped in his arms, and he’s staying there. Sometimes, he just lies right on top of you, heavy and grounding, face tucked into your neck, with his arms locked around your waist like a protective vice, his breath still heavy against your ear. It’s not just possessiveness—it’s instinct. You’re his, and post-sex is when that hits the hardest.

Other times, he’ll plant himself against your chest, resting his head between your pecs, arms locked around your waist, while your limbs end up draped over his broad shoulders and back—exactly where he wants them. It’s a silent command for you to stroke his hair, dig your fingers into his scalp, give him the gentle attention he doesn’t know how to ask for with words. And once the afterglow fades and you’re soft against his chest, Conner does let go, finally letting that hypersensitive, overstimulated heat lull him to rest. That’s when he finally slips into sleep—warm, spent, and curled against you like he never plans to leave. It’s deep and heavy, the kind of knock-out that leaves him slack-jawed and dead to the world for hours. Just don’t expect to escape—his grip doesn’t loosen. You’re trapped under that musclebound heater of a body until he wakes up again…and judging by his morning wood and always-hungry libido, you’re not getting out of bed anytime soon.

☀️ | Conner Kent/Superboy | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[jongst4r]

hey can i request another jay x fem!reader, established relationship, something domestic? Maybe something like they are cuddled up talking and him teasing her which turns into a play fight, reader could be a bit bratty and jay is playing along being cocky and everything and lastly putting her back in her place 😁

anonie i want to kiss your brain… i love this concept so much 🥹

warnings: soft dom!jay, established relationship, kissing, dirty talk, praise, slight fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t.), reader is bratty, both of them teasing each other, pretty fluffy, use of petnames.

it starts with your legs tangled under the blanket, limbs all over each other like usual.

jay’s got one arm under your head and the other resting on your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles over your hoodie. well, his hoodie. it doesn’t really matter anymore — he steals your chapstick, you steal his clothes, and at this point half your wardrobe smells like him.

you’re lying on his chest, lips moving slowly as you ramble about something, and he’s doing that thing where he pretends to listen but you can feel his smirk against your hair.

“you’re not even paying attention,” you mumble, poking his ribs.

“yes i am,” he says, way too fast to be convincing. “you were saying something about… socks?”

“i was talking about our anniversary dinner plans, loser.”

jay blinks. “…right. socks.”

you lift your head to glare at him, smirking. “you think you’re so funny.”

“i know i’m funny.”

you roll your eyes, poking his chest again, this time it’s harder, more deliberate. “you’re annoying.”

he grins down at you, one eyebrow raised. “oh? big words for someone so soft and cuddly all over me right now.”

you scoff. “soft? please. i could beat you up.”

jay laughs, deep and condescending. “baby. you couldn’t even open the jar of pickles earlier.”

“because it was stuck.”

“because you’re weak.”

your mouth drops open.

“you’re so lucky i love you,” you mutter, climbing on top of him to straddle his waist like you're about to wrestle him.

“ooh. threats and cuddles? you’re such a menace.”

“say that again and i’ll—”

“you’ll what?” he says, that smirk getting cockier. “you’re gonna fight me? in my hoodie? looking like the cutest little brat on earth?”

you scowl. “don’t call me cute.”

he laughs again, hands finding your thighs. “you’re so cute. especially when you’re pretending you’re tough.”

“maybe i should remind you i’m the one in charge.”

jay leans back against the couch, eyes sparkling with mischief. “oh yeah? go ahead, baby. show me who’s in charge.”

you try to shove his chest, but he catches your wrists in one smooth move, flipping the two of you over so fast the room spins. now he’s straddling you, smug as hell, pinning your arms above your head with one hand.

“huh,” he says, leaning down close, nose brushing yours. “would you look at that. the girl in charge is under me again.”

“you’re such a jerk.”

“you’re the one who started it, brat,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous in the way that makes your thighs press together. “so now i’m gonna finish it.”

you swallow hard.

“yeah,” he whispers, a teasing smirk on his lips. “just like that.”

his free hand slips under the hoodie, up your stomach, over your chest, stopping just under the band of your bra. he’s not in a rush. he’s enjoying this way too much.

“all bark, no bite,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “you like it when i make you behave, huh?”

you glare at him.

he presses his hips down against yours. slow, grinding. and your glare melts into a gasp.

“still wanna be in charge?” he asks, tilting his head. “or are you gonna be a good girl now?”

you’re already arching under him, breath catching, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct.

his hand slips lower. “that’s what i thought.”

his voice is smug. you’re still under him, eyes wide and needy, your legs already squeezing tighter around his waist like you can’t help yourself. like your body knows it’s his.

jay leans in close, mouth brushing your ear. “you get worked up so easy, baby. it’s cute.”

you squirm under him. “shut up.”

“make me.”

you open your mouth, trying to say something snarky, but then his fingers slide beneath your panties and all that attitude slips out of you in one sharp breath.

“fuck…”

“oh? what was that?” jay’s already smirking, rubbing slow, steady circles over your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. “nothing smart to say now?”

you try to glare at him, but your hips betray you rolling up into his hand, chasing the friction without even thinking. his eyes darken at the sight.

“there she is,” he murmurs. “my pretty little brat. always acts like she’s in charge until i’ve got her like this.”

you hate how right he is. you hate how good it feels. and you really hate how cocky he gets when he knows he’s won — the tilt of his mouth, the way he watches you like he already owns you.

“bet you’d let me fuck you right here, huh?” he breathes, voice rough now. “on the couch. hoodie half off, legs spread, begging for it.”

you don’t answer.

so he grabs your jaw, tilts your face up to look at him.

“i said,” he repeats, slower, firmer, “would you let me fuck you like this?”

you nod quickly.

but he’s not satisfied.

“use your words, baby.”

you blink up at him, breathing fast. “yes. i’d let you. please, jay—”

he grins.

“good girl.”

he pulls his hand out from between your legs and you whine, annoyed, but then he’s sliding your shorts down, underwear with them, tossing them somewhere across the room. your hoodie’s bunched up over your ribs now, leaving you bare and open under him, flushed and impatient.

he’s still fully dressed. infuriatingly smug about it, too.

“gonna let me take care of you?” he asks softly, leaning down to kiss just below your ear.

you nod again. “please.”

“that’s all i wanted to hear.”

he doesn’t waste time.

you feel his sweats drop just low enough, alongside his boxers, and then the slickness of his tip pressed right up against your core, hard and heavy, dragging slowly through your folds. not pushing in yet. just teasing.

you gasp, hips twitching.

“so wet for me already,” he mutters. “such a good girl when i’ve got you like this.”

and then, finally — finally — he slides in.

your head drops back with a moan, spine arching as he fills you up all at once, deep and slow, until he’s bottomed out.

“fuck,” he groans. “you feel—shit—you feel so good.”

he waits there for a second, breathing hard against your throat, both hands gripping your thighs now.

and then he starts to move.

slow, deep strokes at first, dragging his hips back only to roll them forward again, letting you feel every inch of him, every soft drag and thrust and grind.

you’re already falling apart, eyes fluttering, fingers clawing at his hoodie.

“jay,” you whimper. “please—”

“please what?” his voice is rough, teasing, steady. “tell me, baby.”

“faster,” you breathe. “need more.”

“you sure?” he smirks, picking up the pace, hips slapping louder now against your skin. “thought you were in charge earlier. what happened to all that attitude?”

you can’t even answer. the sound of his hips meeting yours, the warmth pooling in your stomach, the way he knows how to fuck you just right — it’s all too much.

he leans down again, mouth at your ear.

“you act like a brat, you get fucked like one.”

you gasp, back arching as he thrusts harder now, faster. his rhythm sharp, relentless. every thrust hitting so deep your breath catches, tears welling in your eyes from the sensation. your nails dig into his arms, your thighs trembling around his hips.

“you close?” he asks, panting now.

you nod, choking on a moan. “yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

and he doesn’t.

he fucks you through it, watching your face the whole time as your body falls apart under him. you moan his name, clenching around him so tight he has to grip the couch to keep himself from losing it.

“that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “cum for me.”

that’s all it takes.

your legs shake, eyes rolling back, mouth falling open with a breathless cry as the pleasure crashes through you like a wave.

and jay’s right behind you.

he buries himself deep, groaning your name as he cums inside you, hot and messy, hips stuttering with every pulse.

for a moment, everything’s quiet, just the sound of your panting breaths tangled together.

he kisses you after. so softly, like the last minutes weren’t filthy at all.

then he leans back, wiping sweat from your hairline.

“still wanna be in charge?” he grins.

you frown playfully.

and he just laughs, arms wrapping around you again, smug and satisfied.

“that’s what i thought.”

© jongst4r, 2025

[gigiii1sblog]

I LOVE YOU, IM SORRY 016

Chapter Sixteen: Almost A Farytale

warning: fluff, angst, sexual content, and more that I don't condone.

Y/N:

It’s been a year and a half.

Eighteen months since I walked out of that house and never looked back. Since I watched my reflection change in real time from someone who believed in forever, to someone who learned how easily it shatters.

I still feel the ache. Just… differently now. It’s dulled into something quieter. Less like a stab, more like a shadow that moves with me. I’ve learned how to exist with it. To live around it. But some days like today, it feels heavy in my lungs again, right beneath the surface of my ribs.

I stand in front of the mirror, curling the ends of my hair, watching the girl in the reflection. She’s not the same one who threw a birthday party with her whole chest and heart. She’s older. A little colder. A little smarter. A little lonelier.

I haven’t seen Matt since that day. Haven’t talked to him. Haven’t stalked his socials in months. I made myself stop.

But I did hear things. Through silence, you still hear. A due date. A gender. I didn’t seek it, but somehow, it always finds you.

I also haven’t talked to Nick or Chris. Not since the club.

Nothing happened, really. No fights. No drama. Just… silence. I stopped replying, and they stopped asking. Maybe they didn’t know what to say. Maybe I didn’t want to hear it. Or maybe I needed to disappear for a while, and they respected that in their own quiet way. I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anyone.

Tonight’s different, though.

I’m going on a date.

I almost said no, fingers hovering over the keyboard when I saw his message. But something in me said yes. It’s not love, not even close. But it’s… something. A chance to dress up. To laugh. To be touched by someone who doesn’t come with history like a loaded gun.

He’s taking me to Disneyland. I know, it sounds dramatic. But I think part of me liked the idea of being surrounded by something whimsical. Something innocent. Something so far from who I used to be.

I smooth my jeans down over my thighs and grab my gloss. My fingers are shaking a little.

It’s not nerves for him. It’s nerves for me.

For the version of me I buried.

For the one who used to talk about blue-eyed babies and backyard swings and never questioned if love was safe.

And maybe I’ll come back tonight feeling okay.

Or maybe I’ll come back cracked open again.

But at least I’m trying.

At least I’m walking out the door.

MATT:

It’s almost funny how quiet life gets when everything is loud inside your head.

Our apartment is soft, simple, baby toys scattered across the carpet, sunlight warming the hardwood floors in the morning. There’s a framed sonogram on the kitchen counter. A pink onesie hanging to dry on the balcony. The kind of place you’d call stable. Domestic.

And in a way, it is.

Avery and I- yeah, we’re something now. More than we were before. Moved in after the baby turned five months, tried to make it feel like a home. We sleep in the same bed, share a calendar, have matching mugs. She’ll rest her head on my chest at night and trace her finger along the tattoo on my arm. It’s warm, sometimes even sweet.

But it isn’t love.

Not the kind I once knew.

Not the kind that tore through me with wildfire and made me want to be better just because she existed.

This feels more like… obligation. Familiarity. Two people trying their best not to fall apart while raising something that needs them. It’s not bad. We laugh sometimes. We touch. We even go out to dinner now and then like some version of a real couple.

But I catch myself staring at Avery when she holds the baby, wondering if this version of my life was ever meant to be mine.

Or if it just became mine when I ruined the one I really wanted.

The baby, our daughter, is perfect. Blue-eyed, messy-haired, loud-laughing little thing. She calls me “Dada” and grabs my fingers like I’m her whole world. I’d do anything for her. I do.

She’s saved me, in a way.

But she also reminds me every day of what I lost.

Nick still isn’t really speaking to me. He loves the baby, spoils her every time he visits. But with me? There’s a wall. Every joke feels half-hearted, every hug awkward and short. He doesn’t look at me the same. I think part of him still sees her when he sees me, and hates me for it.

Chris is quieter. He checks in. Comes by with weed sometimes, lets the baby climb all over him while he scrolls through his phone. But even he doesn’t ask questions anymore. He used to. Used to push. Used to say things like, “You really fucked it up, huh?”

Now he just shrugs like the damage is done and there’s nothing left worth saving.

I don’t blame them.

Sometimes I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.

It’s like I built a life out of the rubble and tried to decorate it to look like something whole. But even with the baby’s giggles echoing through the apartment and Avery curled up on the couch beside me, there’s still a ghost in the room.

And she doesn’t speak.

She just stares.

And I stare back.

Because I gave someone else a child,

and lost the future I always imagined, with blue eyes, and her smile, and the kind of love that only happens once in a lifetime.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever really left her behind… or if I just carried her into everything I do now.

Avery doesn’t know that the first time we took the baby to the beach in December, wrapped in soft pink blankets, cheeks rosy from the wind, I had to fight off a memory so strong it nearly knocked the air out of my chest.

That winter, years ago, when I took YN to the coast. No tourists, just wind and salt and her eyes squinting into the sun. She kissed me with sand still on her lips. We stayed until it got dark. We didn’t even bring towels.

I told Avery it was just “peaceful” there.

She smiled and agreed. But I was somewhere else entirely.

Another time, we got ice cream at 11 p.m. The baby was fussy, so we took a drive, windows down, and Avery fed her tiny spoonfuls of vanilla from the front seat while I parked along the overlook.

She laughed, told me it felt like a movie scene.

And I didn’t say it, but I had lived that scene before. With YN. Summer after tour ended. When we didn’t have much money but we had each other. She danced barefoot in the parking lot that night, dripping strawberry cone all over her hoodie.

Sometimes, when the baby’s asleep and the world is quiet, I play songs for her. And the other night, I held her in my arms and hummed “And I Love Her” by The Beatles under my breath.

Avery looked over, said how that is a really good song.

I just nodded.

Didn’t tell her it was the song I played after taking YN to In-N-Out for the first time, just the two of us, a couple days after we met at that party.

We sat in the car for almost an hour after eating.

She dipped her fries in ranch. Talked about music and constellations and what it felt like to kiss someone you were afraid to lose.

She made me laugh so hard I forgot to care about anything else. I watched her like she was something I wasn’t sure I deserved.

And on the drive home, that song came on. And I remember thinking, this is her. This is the girl.

It’s not fair to Avery.

She’s been patient. Kind. She’s trying.

She didn’t ask for a man with ghosts in his chest.

But I don’t know how to be someone who doesn’t remember.

I’ve built a new life. One I show up for. One I’m grateful for.

But every so often, in the middle of something ordinary, I’ll catch myself drifting,

to the old apartment smelling like her perfume,

to the way she used to mouth the lyrics of every song,

to the feeling of being so deeply seen I couldn’t look away.

And I wonder if I’ll ever get to live a single day without asking:

What if I hadn’t fucked it all up?

Y/N:

Milo: Outside when you’re ready :) Disneyland awaits.

I smiled. Not because I was ready. But because I wanted to be.

And maybe that was good enough.

The car pulled up five minutes early.

That alone was enough to make me blink twice, most guys I’d met could barely be on time for a phone call, let alone a full-day plan. But Milo was leaning against the passenger door of his silver Audi, holding a little iced coffee tray like it was flowers, and smiling like he wasn’t nervous.

“Good morning, pretty girl,” he said when I stepped out. His voice was soft, a little raspy. He always spoke like the world might be listening, so he kept it gentle.

I tugged at the edge of my cardigan, suddenly unsure if the light makeup I’d done looked like effort or like overthinking.

“You remembered the coffee,” I smiled.

“Of course I did. I’m not a monster,” he teased, handing me the one with extra vanilla cold foam. “And I figured you’d need it if I’m dragging you to Disneyland on a Saturday.”

I laughed as I slid into the seat. “Dragging? I thought this was your idea.”

“It was, but I’m giving you the credit. You look cute when you get excited.”

He got in and started the car like he wasn’t making my heart lurch. He was charming in a kind way, not a loud way. Everything about him was easy. Comfortable.

And that scared me a little.

The radio was playing something quiet and mellow as we drove through the early morning light. Milo didn’t talk the whole time, he let me rest my head back, sip my coffee, and just be. It was the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. I liked that.

Still, my eyes wandered sometimes, to the window, to the sky, to places memory lived.

I thought about the last time I went on a real date. The last time someone held my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist like I was something soft. Like I was his.

I thought about that night Matt and I drove to In-N-Out a few days after we met at a party. How we sat in the parking lot with fries and his hoodie in my lap. He played “I Love Her” by the Beatles on the aux and eventually after a couple month of talking he told me it reminded him of the first time he saw me.

It was raining that night.

My chest ached like a bruise now when I remembered it.

“You okay?” Milo asked gently, eyes still on the road.

“Yeah,” I answered too quickly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. Just smiled and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, you deserve a good day. That’s the only rule.”

I nodded, trying to believe it.

Outside, the signs started changing, Mickey ears on the highway, the shimmer of distant park rides. My heart fluttered in a strange way. Like something was starting.

I didn’t know that a chapter was about to open and close all in one day. That fate would twist itself in the middle of Main Street and force me to look back.

For now, I just smiled at Milo, grateful. He didn’t know the whole story. He didn’t need to. He was kind. He was safe.

The morning sun was warm on my skin, and for once, the ache in my chest felt like it had faded into the background, just a whisper.

Milo held my hand as we walked past the gates, the buzz of the park filling the air, children’s laughter, the distant chime of the carousel, the scent of popcorn and cinnamon wafting around us.

We stopped first by the castle, where a little girl in a sparkly Elsa dress gasped as she met the real Elsa. Milo knelt beside me to tie his shoe, his eyes bright as he watched the scene. “You know,” he said quietly, “I never thought I’d be a Disneyland person. But this… this is kinda magical.”

I smiled. “Yeah. It’s like stepping into a dream.”

We wandered into Fantasyland, where the princesses and princes greeted kids and adults alike. When I spotted Belle, I couldn’t help but smile, her gentle kindness always felt like the kind of love I hoped for.

Milo nudged me and whispered, “Want me to get you a rose?”

I laughed softly, the sound coming easier than I expected. “Only if you promise not to curse me like the Beast.”

He winked. “Deal.”

Later, we found ourselves in line for the teacup ride, spinning in circles until our laughter was breathless and light-headed.

“You’re a terrible spinner,” Milo teased, pretending to swerve dramatically.

“Oh please,” I shot back, “You’re just mad I’m better.”

The way he laughed, deep, genuine, felt like a balm.

As we slowed down, the teacups settling, I caught his gaze and saw something soft and hopeful in his eyes.

Maybe it was the day, or the way the sun hit his hair, but I allowed myself to believe, just for a moment, that I could feel light again.

And in that moment, I forgot the past.

Forgot the cracks.

Forgot everything except the warm squeeze of his hand in mine.

He insisted I close my eyes.

We were standing just outside one of the little souvenir shops, and even though I was still a little flushed from Space Mountain, I did as he asked.

I felt the soft fabric of something plush settle over my head, the strap adjusting under my chin.

“Okay,” Milo said. “Open.”

I blinked at him, then at the reflection in the glass. On my head was a pair of baby pink Minnie Mouse ears, sequins sparkling in the sunlight, a tiny bow sitting perfectly between them.

“Milo,” I whispered, half amused, half flustered. “You didn’t have to—”

“You hesitated when we passed them earlier. That was enough.” He smiled, proud of himself. “You’re the Minnie to my Mickey today. Just go with it.”

I tried not to let the weight of those words settle too deeply into my chest. So I laughed instead. “Only if I get to pick our next ride.”

We ended up on the Jungle Cruise, cheesy jokes and all, and I watched Milo laugh harder than he probably should have at the skipper’s puns. He bought us Ice Cream after, and we sat under a shaded bench near Adventureland.

He fed me a spoonful with the tip of the plastic spoon, teasing when some of it landed on my nose.

“Don’t move,” he said, and wiped it gently with his thumb, letting his hand linger for a moment on my cheek. It felt… easy. Safe.

By midday, we were knee-deep in churros and had taken selfies in front of the sleeping beauty castle, I caught myself smiling, real, not forced, in more pictures than I had in months.

When we passed a couple slow dancing to a jazz band playing near New Orleans Square, he held out his hand and wiggled his brows. “Dance with me?”

“In the middle of Disneyland?” I laughed.

He didn’t flinch. “Exactly.”

So we danced, barely swaying, his hand at my waist, my chin tilted up toward the sky as we giggled like idiots. And for a few brief minutes, nothing else existed.

Not the ache.

Not the memory.

Not the future.

Just this: sunlight, music, and the soft warmth of someone who wanted me to be happy. Who didn’t ask for my story but held space for the girl who had one.

Later, we rode It’s a Small World and made sarcastic commentary the whole time. He pointed out which dolls looked like us. “That one’s you,” he joked. “She’s cute but kinda scary when you look too long.”

“Rude,” I gasped.

“And that one’s me,” he added, pointing at a pirate-looking one. “Dumb and waving aggressively.”

We ended the ride laughing so hard our cheeks hurt.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But it was peace.

It was good.

It was mine.

⸻

The fireworks bloomed above Sleeping Beauty’s Castle like painted explosions. Gold, pink, and lavender light tore through the sky, crackling in slow motion, reflecting in every pair of eyes watching. It felt like a movie. It felt fake. Too perfect to be real.

Milo’s arm was around my shoulder, pulling me into him gently, his hoodie smelling like sugar and cologne and something safe. I was leaning into it. Into him. I even laughed when he whispered something stupid about how Mickey probably has back problems from smiling all the time.

For once, I let myself exist in the moment.

We had matching wristbands, cotton candy-stained fingers, a selfie with Cinderella who said we looked like a “very sweet couple.” My Minnie ears were slightly crooked, and I hadn’t bothered to fix them. He bought them earlier, grinning like he was proud of himself, calling them “a trophy for the prettiest girl here.”

We were supposed to stay for the fireworks. That was the plan.

That was the whole plan.

Until I heard it.

“Y/N! Come here, baby!”

The world didn’t stop immediately. Not at first. But my body did.

My shoulders stiffened. My mouth dried. Something inside me twisted violently, like my stomach knew before my mind did.

It was the way he said my name.

The way it sounded when he used to say it.

I turned my head slowly, like I already knew what I was going to see but didn’t want to.

And there he was.

Matt.

Kneeling on the pavement not far from the edge of the crowd, just outside the line of stroller traffic. His hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair a little longer than before. His face, God, his face. So familiar it hurt. And so different it made me want to cry.

He was holding out his arms.

And running toward him, wobbly and full of excitement, was a little girl. Dressed in a lavender dress. Light-up shoes blinking with every tiny step.

She had curls.

And the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen.

She looked just like him.

I barely noticed Avery standing beside them, her head turned toward them with a soft, tired smile.

But I saw everything else.

I saw him catch the little girl in his arms.

I saw the way he lifted her with ease, his whole body curving around her like a home.

I saw the way she melted into his shoulder, the way his lips brushed her temple.

I saw him whisper something in her ear that made her giggle.

And then he turned.

And his eyes met mine.

Right there, beneath the fireworks, under all the light and smoke and Disney magic, our eyes locked like fate had just grabbed both our collars and slammed us into the moment.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like I’d dreamed this exact scenario before. Or maybe had nightmares about it.

My legs stopped moving.

My heartbeat turned to glass.

And in the exact same second my eyes blurred with tears, one slipped free and rolled silently down my cheek.

He didn’t move.

I didn’t either.

Just two people, two ghosts, staring at the versions of each other they never expected to see again.

He looked stunned. Wrecked. Like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

And the worst part?

The little girl, his daughter, tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the fireworks like none of it meant anything at all.

Because to her, it didn’t.

To her, I was just a stranger.

To me, she was everything I lost.

Milo’s voice was distant. Like he was underwater.

“YN? Are you okay?”

I blinked and forced air into my lungs.

“I— I wanna leave.”

“What?”

“I need to leave. Now.”

My voice cracked like glass under a boot, and that was when he really looked at me.

“Did something happen?”

I shook my head and turned, wiping my face with the back of my hand like it would erase the sting.

“I just… I need to go.”

I didn’t wait for him.

I didn’t dare look back again.

Because if I did… if I looked into those blue eyes one more time… I was scared I wouldn’t leave at all.

And God, that little girl.

He gave her my name.

And I had nothing but a tear-stained memory, falling apart beneath a sky of fireworks.

MATT:

The fireworks were beautiful.

That kind of over-the-top, choreographed magic that’s supposed to make people believe in things again. Like hope. Or happy endings. Or the idea that anything can be okay if you just wish hard enough beneath the right sky.

I wasn’t looking at the fireworks.

I was looking at my daughter.

Her cheeks lit up with every burst of color. Blue. Then gold. Then pink. She giggled when she pointed to the sky and I nodded like I hadn’t seen it too many times already. Like I wasn’t exhausted. Like I didn’t feel hollow in places I couldn’t even name anymore.

Then I said it.

“Y/N! Come here, baby!”

And that name tasted like a bruise.

I meant her, my daughter. But the moment it left my lips, something shifted.

I felt it.

Like a cold ripple in warm water.

Like my heart tripped over something invisible.

I bent to pick her up, all lavender and laughter, and when I looked up…

I saw her.

Her.

Standing just beyond the stroller crowd. Still. Frozen. Drenched in the glow of the fireworks like the universe lit her up on purpose.

It was like the air left my lungs in one breath.

YN.

She hadn’t changed, and she had. Her hair was longer. Her face a little sharper. But her eyes, God, her eyes were the same. Wide, brown, and bottomless. Like the first time I looked into them across a crowded birthday party. Like that night in the car when I told her I didn’t deserve her. Like every second she ever cried into my hoodie, and I let her.

She was standing beside some guy. He had his arm around her. She wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at me.

And I swear to God, if she had run, I would’ve chased her. If she had spoken, I would’ve listened. If she had cried, I would’ve begged.

But she just stood there.

And I did the one thing I shouldn’t have.

I stared back.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Because that was the woman I loved more than I ever thought I could love anyone. And now I was holding the child she never got to experience with me.

The daughter I named after her.

Avery shifted beside me, her voice soft. “Matt?”

But I barely heard her. My ears were ringing.

Then I saw it.

A single tear, streaking down YN’s cheek like a silent goodbye.

And my stomach fucking dropped.

She turned away. I saw her push past people, shoulders tight, hands trembling.

She was leaving.

Again.

And I had no right to stop her.

I looked down at my daughter. She was still laughing. Still pointing at the sky. Oblivious to the hole in my chest.

“Let’s go find a quieter spot,” Avery said, touching my arm. “Too loud here.”

I nodded but didn’t speak.

Not until we were walking away did I find the courage to say anything at all.

“She saw me,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “She saw us.”

Avery looked up, brows drawing together. “Was that her?”

I didn’t answer. She already knew.

Her hand brushed against mine as we walked. I didn’t take it.

And later, hours later, when we were driving home and my daughter was asleep in her car seat, I looked out at the highway and thought about every version of life we could’ve had.

All the ones that never happened.

All the ones I destroyed.

And even with Avery beside me, even with my baby girl breathing softly in the back seat…

I’d never felt more alone in my life.

Y/N:

The air in the car was different now.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that comforted you after a long day, it was thick, pressing down on my chest like it wanted me to speak, but I didn’t have the words. My stomach still felt hollow. My ears rang, not from the fireworks, but from that voice echoing in my head:

“Y/N, come here baby.”

And it wasn’t mine he meant.

Milo kept glancing at me from the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting over the gear shift like he didn’t know whether to reach for me or give me space. The road lights flickered across his face, softening the crease in his brows.

“Are you okay?,” he finally asked, voice cautious but kind. “Did I… do something wrong back there?”

I shook my head. My voice caught before it even reached my mouth. “No, it’s not you.”

He nodded slowly, like he wanted to believe me but didn’t. “You don’t have to talk about it. I just, I hope you had fun. I was really looking forward to today.”

“I know,” I said quietly, eyes on the window, watching the night blur past. “You were great, Milo. Really I had so much fun with you.”

“But something changed,” he said softly. “After the fireworks.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I didn’t want to hurt him. He was sweet. He bought me ears, made me laugh, danced with me in line for churros. But the moment I saw Matt… everything tilted.

“I saw someone,” I finally admitted.

He looked over, his eyes flickering with something like understanding. “An ex?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

“Oh,” he breathed.

A beat passed. Then two. He slowed the car a little as we got closer to my place. “Was it… serious?”

I stared at my hands. My nails were still painted the color he once said reminded him of me. My ring finger twitched.

“I thought it was forever,” I said honestly. “I thought he was it for me.”

Milo stayed quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have come today. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. That wasn’t fair to you.”

He pulled up to the curb outside my apartment and shifted the car into park. His voice was gentle, but there was a quiet sadness in it. “It’s okay. I’d rather you be honest than pretend.”

I finally looked at him, the guilt burning hot in my chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He gave me a small, tired smile. “But I’m not the one you were thinking about when the fireworks went off, was I?”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t expect me to.

I stepped out of the car, gave him a soft thank you, and shut the door. He waited until I was inside the gate before driving off. I stood there a moment, in the stillness of the night, the wind cool against my skin, my heart still pounding from something that didn’t even happen.

I should’ve gone inside.

But instead, I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers and opened my messages. The contact was still pinned, though I hadn’t touched it in over a year.

Chris 🕺

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then I typed:

hey are you busy?

And hit send.

My heart ached. My hands trembled.

And all I could do was wait.

lmkkk what yall think about this.. sorry for the cliffhanger BTW I LOVE YOURE GUYS COMMENTS & MESSAGES IN MY INBOX PLEASE KEEP THEM COMING 🙏 ( ignore the mistakes pls and thank you🥲)

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[pocketsizedquasar-3]

if i had a nickel for every time white trans friends / mutuals suddenly blocked me without a word (usually immediately after i’ve dared to talk abt TPOC issues) id have like so many goddamn nickels lmfaooo

[bleue-flora]

@death-is-a-workman and @wairdbrein oops I saw your reblogs after I updated this and since they kinda bring up a similar point I figured I’d just respond to them both, so I’ll just add them here if that’s okay.

I mean… it’s funny how we go to the ideas of enjoy, dominate and control space and such when I feel like in general it’s okay for people to not want people in their personal space. In the same way they may not want other people to touch them. I feel like that’s not only a natural human response but a very reasonable need. And part of respecting fellow human beings is not getting up into their faces especially when they ask. Sure depending on how you ask or how you refuse it can be seen as rude but I don’t think anyone sees it as being controlling or a bad thing and if they do that says more about them and how they are unwilling to stop making someone uncomfortable.

On the other side, of course we as people also sometimes crave closeness and crave touch and we might then seek it out, but it should also be with the other person willing to share that. And of course when we want it and are seeking it out versus people just doing so without our want or consent is different and changes our feelings on it. Not just because of control but because sometimes we as people might want to seek out a hug or for someone to sit next to us, but sometimes may just want space to ourselves. As a personal example, I don’t really like to be touched or people to be super close cuz I can feel claustrophobic, but I know my aunt’s love language is touch so I might allow her or give her a hug knowing that makes her feel loved. But that’s my choice, no one should force you to do that or participate in that if you don’t want to and I say this as someone who has in recent years come to realize this and start setting boundaries. Like in the southern US or at least my experience it is very common for there to be hugs amongst people you know just as part of greeting or saying goodbye, but you can communicate that you don’t want to participate in that because it makes you uncomfortable and that doesn’t mean you are being bad or controlling. Sure, there are people that might be offended at first but then that needs to be another conversation, and even if they are hurt by your boundary if they care about you they tend to honor it. But that’s also where tact comes into play and making sure to express your discomfort in a respectful and nice way that won’t hurt their feelings and feel personal.

Having said that, it is common in heated situations when confronting someone to get up in their face as a form of intimidation. I mean you see it in television all the time with men about to fight sizing eachother up face to face, often highlighting their height difference. So in that sense it makes sense that Dream would get in people’s faces and approach in certain confrontational contexts. Though again, usually that was more often a mutual thing. Typically, Dream would be up close when others were too so that’s why to me whether or not he was comfortable because he initiated it didn’t matter because in the situations I was looking and thinking about Dream isn’t shying away from people or seems uncomfortable.

And I’m not talking just pre and post-prison but what I noticed was actually a difference within the prison itself, where Dream neither seems super bothered with Tommy or Bad getting up close to him and even does so himself back. Even though Tommy had even been punching him, he doesn’t seem bothered by Tommy being in his space or at least doesn’t really comment on it like he does to Techno later. In general, he doesn’t seem to start shying away or seem as bothered by people getting close in prison unless it’s Quackity or Sam getting angry. Which both make sense, staying away from active threats makes sense.

But my question or what I found interesting isn’t why he shies away or approaches before and after prison, because there are plenty of reasons why they can make sense. My point was really, why Dream shied away from Techno and even verbally remarked about personal space. Because isn’t Techno the one guy who hasn’t hurt him? And I guess, it made me wonder if it wasn’t about initiation. If it wasn’t about control, intimidation, confrontation, or avoiding active threats . But something else. If it was a trauma response from Quackity or prison in general we actually get to see Dream portray and if there are even further reasons. Perhaps Dream didn’t want anyone near him or touching him because every touch for months only brought pain. But maybe too Techno was the only person he felt like he could actually ask that of.

And while it makes sense for it to be trauma it is important to know that it’s kinda inconsistent in prison and afterwards. When he’s threatening Tommy he’s getting closer, when he’s threatening Sapnap he’s moving farther away, in the finale he’s all over the place as he bounces but seems to settle on a further distance more often than not than he does in staged finale. And what’s sorta strange, (which we absolutely could easily explain away), is if it’s trauma why isn’t it consistent? If it’s intimation and him trying to go back to how he was before prison than why does it seem like his instinct after prison is distance and to flee. If his goal is to be as intimating and controlling over the space and such he’s not doing a very good job…

Anyways… again this isn’t to say we couldn’t come up with many reasonable reasons for why he acts differently in these few scenes we have, but my point wasn’t really that but more how I found it interesting how not only did he more avoid Techno or didn’t often approach Techno, but how he went as far as to even communicate his discomfort. That he asked Techno is what I found interesting and how that contrasted with other scenes in prison even where people like Tommy were in his face and actively hurting him. It’s the fact that Sapnap doesn’t get close to Dream in his visit and Dream doesn’t get close to him, even when in previous disagreements they had been up in eachother’s faces. That’s what I thought was interesting, that Dream seems fine initiating that closeness or reciprocating it even in prison, but in this situation he actually pushes Techno away, it’s that bordering on hypocrisy that I noted even if we could easily explain why. And eventhough it makes perfect sense, to the point it’s basically trauma headcanon bordering on actual canon at this point, I wondered if it was actually a thing that extended beyond when he was recently tortured, sure it makes sense for him to not want closeness in prison so soon after Quackity, but did that extend beyond that. And do we actually see that in canon beyond implication. Unfortunately, since we are rather limited in the scenes we have post-Quackity and post-prison it makes it hard to compare hence why I looked at the two finales since they should be at least similar contexts and maybe reveal whether this discomfort of closeness extended beyond prison…

I’m not entirely sure what conclusions or what it means exactly, but something else I noticed while making my prison video was how Dream gets up in peoples face like when talking to Tommy and yet with Techno getting close later he responds with “person space.” Which honestly now that I think about it, it almost seems to come as a surprise to Techno. Perhaps Techno getting close was meant to comfort Dream, who maybe seemed before like a person who likes that or at least someone who wouldn’t shy away from it, or even Techno just knowing that some closeness and maybe touch would do someone who’d been in isolation for so long some good.

I don’t know, I mean we do get to see, especially in Quackity’s last visit, how he corners Dream and gets real close so perhaps it’s because of that. It almost makes me curious of whether we can see a difference in how close he stands to people in conversation pre-Quackity vs post-Quackity… like comparing staged finale vs real finale…

[comradekarin]

so i’m not directly for a tiktok ban ig (not completely mad about it, will miss the edits though) but I do think it’s funny when people imply that information they get up there isn’t accessible elsewhere. now, lets pretend for a second that tiktok isn’t filled with blatant misinformation, disinformation, lies, rampant racism/misogyny and political brainrot… i have a hard time agreeing with this idea that carefully algorithmic curated tiktok tidbits by your favorite creator is better than idk actually picking up a fucking book, or reading the newspaper/articles, or watching the news, or paying attention in school or listening to experts in their fields or doing your own research. like the pete hegseth hearing for instance… someone on tiktok was like “god how else would i have been able to listen to this! thank god for this app!” and the hearing was plastered on virtually every platform you can imagine. so im not saying tiktok is completely useless. i have learned things up there i hadn’t known before. but tiktok absolutely should not be a substitute for how you gain and interpret information in the same sense that facebook/twitter also shouldn’t.

information you could find if you just took the time to google it or read about it is not being “uncovered” or “brought to light” by tiktok. that’s how we get insane conspiracy theories.

[titsthedamnseason]

the other really fun thing about listening to the first time readers talk about tog is that they love saying “this book is too predictable” and bookmarking that statement with multiple wildly incorrect (but admittedly VERY interesting) theories 😭

[ebodebo]

SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT! │ clark kent

You and Clark have a fight. You leave his house and go to the Daily Planet after hours to work and calm down. Clark finds you there and helps ease your mind.

CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, oral sex (fem!receiving ofc,) vaginal fingering, hair pulling (rawrrr his curlsss,) arguing, playful banter, TEASING, & no use of y/n.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: been thinking about making this little fic since i watched the movie and i finally finished it! i need this midwestern goober so bad. it’s not even funny. on that note, i hope you enjoy this horny concoction!

"You're giving me a headache," you sigh, taking a deep sip of your water as you lean against Clark's kitchen sink, watching him hurriedly untie his tie. Your voice is tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

"Oh. Am I?" he replies, sarcastically tossing his tie onto the coffee table.

You set your glass of water down on the counter and massage your temples. "Clark, I know you care about me. You want to keep me safe, but I feel like you're suffocating me," you say earnestly.

He walks over, his voice firm and unwavering. "I'm trying to protect you. You don't understand the risks."

You shake your head with a humorless laugh. "For Christ's sake, Clark, you secretly arranged for someone to escort me home after brunch with Jimmy. You didn't even ask if that's what I wanted. That's not trust,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark mimics your stance, crossing his arms over his chest, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I trust you; you know that. I just don't trust most other people.”

“You’re interfering with my work,” you accuse.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he responds, tilting his head.

“No?” you answer, your tone sharp. “You’re still trying to convince me to drop my exposé on that crime ring in Gotham because it’s too ‘cliché.’ But I know you’re really just worried about me getting hurt,” you say, giving him a knowing look.

He bites his tongue before speaking again. “Do you honestly believe those criminals wouldn’t come after the pretty news reporter who put them on blast?”

You give him an unamused look, your anger simmering just beneath the surface. "What about the other night? When I was walking home from the library, and you swooped in out of nowhere, 'coincidentally' walking me home. You didn't trust me to take care of myself then, either, even though I'm perfectly capable," you assert, your displeasure evident.

"I'm not saying you're not capable," he replies, spreading his hands in a placating gesture.

You take a deep breath, eyeing him for a moment before uncrossing your arms and resting them at your sides. "It just… it feels like you're more concerned with protecting me than actually being with me."

"That's not fair," Clark’s voice rises, his jaw clenched with tension.

"Fair? You're the one who's being unfair. You try to keep me in a bubble and control every situation." You flail your arms to emphasize your point. Clark opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "And for the love of God, do not blame that on Superman. Just don't."

"In case you forgot, I am Superman. He's a part of me. You knew that going in," he declares confidently, lifting a finger to point at you.

You roll your eyes and push off the counter, your feet padding around him. "Whatever, Clark," you mutter, feeling fatigue take over.

"No, no. Don't 'whatever, Clark' me," he says, turning his head to fix his piercing blue eyes on you as you walk toward the couch to grab your jacket. "Just—at least look at me," he pleads, his voice tinged with desperation.

You spin on your heels to face him, scowling slightly. “Just tell me—are you my boyfriend or just Superman trying to protect a civilian?”

His lips press into a flat line, clearly showing his frustration. “Don’t do that,” he replies, his voice strained.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Do what, Clark?”

He twists his head and closes his eyes in a display of impatience. “You always bring that up when we argue,” he snaps.

As you adjust your jacket and stride toward the front door, you mutter under your breath, “It’s hard not to.” You look up to lock eyes with him; his gaze is already fixed on you. “I just... I need some space.”

“Okay,” he nods lightly, wiping the exhaustion from his face before lazily pointing to the couch. “I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed.” He turns on his heels toward the couch, swiping a pillow off the cushion. 

“No, Clark,” you begin, your voice catching in your throat. “I just—I need to be away from you.”

He turns around, a pillow in hand, a stunned expression on his face. “You’re leaving me?”

You take a deep breath, trying to muster more courage. The way he looks at you, his bright blue eyes sunken and sorrowful, makes you want to run and jump into his arms, but you resist.

You need him to respect your bodily autonomy.

“I just need to be alone,” you say firmly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “At least for the night.”

He stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Okay, fine,” he replies, glancing away as he tosses the pillow back onto the couch. “Whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle. “Goodbye.”

“Will you—can you at least text me when you get home?” His voice is so soft that you almost miss it. “So I know you’re safe?”  

You pause, caught in a moment of indecision, your silence lingering in the air.  

The door swings open and then closes with a soft, definitive click.  

You should have responded, but the fear of breaking down in his kitchen left you speechless.  

Clark's gaze remains fixed on the front door until he catches a whiff of your perfume, making his vulnerability crack through.

At that moment, he realized he couldn’t hide behind the bright cape or the shiny name. 

He could feel the full weight of his humanity, and it was crushing. 

The Daily Planet, although it is your day job, has always served as a sanctuary during times of unrest after hours. However, being here now is giving you an even bigger migraine than you already have.

You feel the strain in your eyes as you stare intently at your computer screen for the third hour. Your fingers tap anxiously against the keyboard as you struggle to find the right words.

The cursor blinks ominously behind the few words already on the page, a silent mockery of your writer's block. Doubt and frustration seep in, clouding your thoughts and making it even harder to focus.

Your mind keeps drifting back to your fight with Clark. 

The look on his face when you turned down his offer to stay over feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. His expression was filled with pain, as if he believed you would never return to him.

You stretch your fingers, trying to stave off the creeping carpal tunnel, before sinking back into your chair with a soft squeak.

"Thought I'd find you here," a deep voice booms from beside you, making you jump and whip your head around to see who spoke.

"Shit," you curse, holding a hand over your heart, and find Clark standing there, still dressed in his white long-sleeve shirt and black slacks. "You scared me," you admit. "What are you doing here?"

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his pants. "I came here for you."

You exhale a sigh and turn to look back at your computer screen. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Clark," you confess, squinting to read the few words on the page.

"You don't have to, sweetheart," he says, taking a few steps closer. "Just hear me out, okay?"

Your eyes remain fixed on the screen until you feel your chair being spun around, forcing you to face him. "Clar—" you start to say, but he interrupts you, his hand still on your chair.

"You're stressed. I get that," he begins, looking at you with intensity. "You work too hard and don't sleep enough."

"I also have a boyfriend who doesn't trust me to take care of myself," you interject, raising an eyebrow.

He pulls back his head in faux shock. "Hey, who's this other boyfriend? Do I need to fight him?"

A smile breaks through your lips as you playfully push against his chest. "Shut up, you dork," you tease, your tone light.

Clark smiles as he glances at your computer screen. "Let me see this," he says, already moving behind your chair to take a closer look.

You turn to him, aware of him hovering over your shoulder. "I'm just working on this exposé. It's nothing."

"Mhm. Nothing is right," he teases with a playful smile, his dimples showing. "There's hardly anything on here."

"Hey," you point to the very few words on the page. "Don't you see the top line?"

He leans in closer. "Oh, yeah," he replies with a sardonic tone. "I have to keep an eye on you. With just those three words, you'll have me out of a job in no time. Very hard-hitting stuff," he jokes.

You turn to look at him, perhaps to throw another playful jab, but instead, he seizes the moment to kiss you deeply. His lips are warm and soft, and the taste of his breath takes your own breath away.

"You didn't text me," he murmurs against your lips.

You almost don't register what he's saying. "I didn't say I was going to," you reply with a dry mouth. "I thought that implied I wasn't going to."

“Oh, is that what you thought?” He presses another kiss to your lips, pulling back slightly to speak. “I know you can take care of yourself. You’re my tough girl, right? But it puts me at ease to know that you’re safe.” He kisses you again.

“Mhm,” you hum against his lips, your lips brushing against his. “I just need you to respect my boundaries, okay? You can keep me safe without suffocating me,” you bring your hands up to touch his cheeks lightly.

He leans in closer, his voice low and husky. “Was that so hard?” 

You pull him closer by his cheeks, whispering, “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”

As soon as the command slips from your lips, he leaps into action. He kisses you with an intense passion, a fervent need that consumes you both.

His hands gently cradle your cheeks, deepening the kiss with each passing moment. They then slide down to your waist, pulling you closer as you find yourself pressed against the desk, the kiss never breaking.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, skimming across your bare skin and making you shiver. “Are we really about to have sex in the workplace, Mr. Kent?” you ask, breathless, as your fingers thread through his curls.

“I think we are, sweet girl,” he breathes, moving to pop open the buttons to your blouse.

He shoves the blouse off, pressing hot kisses against your collarbone. “I hate when we fight,” he murmurs into your skin, his hand gripping your ass through your pencil skirt.

“Certainly makes for an enticing night,” you say, tilting your head back so Clark can kiss up your neck.

He pulls back for a moment, fidgeting with his belt. You move your hand to stop him, locking eyes with him. “You want to take care of me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he replies without hesitation.

“Then, show me. Show me how well you can take care of me,” you say, biting your bottom lip as you slide onto the desk, opening your legs wide enough for him to see your red lace panties.

His eyes glance to look at your panties as he stands with his hands on his hips. “I thought you didn’t want me to do that anymore,” he darts his tongue across his lips, eyes still honing in on your cunt.

“Get on your knees, Clark,” you direct, voice low, letting your heels drop to the floor.

He smiles, his dimples appearing. “You’re demanding,” he accuses, with humor, as he sinks to his knees, big hands coming to rest on your thighs.

“And you’re not putting your mouth on me fast enough,” you whine, head tilting back as his grip tightens.

“Oh, you mean like this?” He leans in, pressing a deep kiss on your cunt, your panties rubbing against your clit gently. 

“Fuck—yes,” your hand drifts to rest on the back of his head, putting him where you need. “Just like that,” you encourage, pulling him closer. 

He brings a finger up, pulling your panties to the slide so he can feel your bare cunt on his lips, already twitching and wet under his lips. His tongue flicks against your clit, making you surge forward. “You’re sensitive,” he mutters into you.

“Well, your tongue is in my—ah, Clark,” you moan, back arching, feeling his tongue drag across your aching clit.

He pulls his head back slightly. “What was that, sweetheart?” 

Your hand rests on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Goddamn it—you… you,” you say, voice strained and breathless.

“Took your breath away, did I?” His tongue slides across your puffy clit, eliciting a whimper from you.

His hand braces impossibly tighter on your thigh, and you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your skin as his skillful tongue prods against your needy bud.

You're practically grinding against his face, trying to chase your high. Your finger in his hair pulls him up to look at you with one of his curls. “Give me your fingers,” you order, the thought of release burning away at your senses.

He obliges; naturally, he’ll do anything to please you.

“Mhm. See,” he tuts. “Demanding,” he hums as he brings two fingers up to push in and out of your greedy cunt, not allowing you time to respond. Your head is tilted back as your loud moans fill the office.

“Ah, listen to that. Music to my ears,” he says, eyes hyper-focused on his fingers plunging in and out of you. “They’ll hear you all the way in Gotham.”

“So, let them—fuck—so… so close,” you manage to choke out, his fingers making you fall apart faster than you expected. 

“Yeah?” he prompts through a breath. 

You nod your head, your lower stomach tight and skin sizzling as you come undone, your thighs trembling on his fingers as you come.

You glance down at him, your eyes heavy with fatigue. “Shit,” you curse with a dry laugh.

He makes you laugh as he moves to stand, watching you before brushing the hair out of your face. “How’d I do?”

“There’s always room for improvement,” you toy, your chest still heaving.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah,” he replies, stepping closer to dip his head to kiss you, sweet this time.

Well, aside from the fact that you can taste yourself on his lips.

He pulls back, studying the glint in your eyes, a silent conversation passing between you. “Am I still your Superman?”

“No,” you begin, wrapping your arms around his neck, making him raise a confused eyebrow. “You’re my Clark.”

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: i clearly got carried away with the dialogue, but it's always my fav part lmao i hope you enjoyed! muah!

[awesomeshadow773]

I’ve been pondering for a whiiile if I should make a Feelingshipping side account on here too…

I have one on the ‘used to be bird app website’ and it feels really nice and fun to have a space to just post and maybe ramble about them

I would still post stuff about them on here too, but I could go even wilder on one just for them :>

I always think about posting random thoughts about them on twitt but I never seem to fully commit to it (maybe I will soon who knows gah). Then I have thoughts on how I would be much more comfortable doing it on Tumblr and the idea of a side blog becomes even more appealing as I think more and more about it lol . o .

even though this IS my blog, my head’s like ‘omg you want to post sooo much Guriie here calm down’ even though I can technically do whatever I want haha overthinkerrrr

aaaand… the fact that I can post my thoughts here a little more just proves my point on how much more comfortable I am about sharing them lmao

I eventually… EVENTUALLY will make art for other things, but Green and Yellow are just such a comfort 💛💚 and I think they deserve all the love ahahaaaa

so…

perhaps I’ll make one?

Just a little space to gush about them… hehe

And post as many sketches as I want >:)

[inknopewetrust]

Flaming Hearts Fan Club

summary: you, a shit-out of luck reporter, are stuck following around the world’s most self-centered superhero for his fan club’s magazine.

OR

Johnny Storm sees a challenge… and you just can’t help but resist him, right? You’d never kiss and tell.

[Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader] [WC: 12.3k]

Warnings: SMUT! MDNI! 18+ hesitant lovers, love at first sight, both have preconceived notions of one another, fluff, flirtation, Johnny is more than a flirt people! explicit language, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), a lil bit of edging.

Quick Links: Masterlist

“No.”

“Come on,” she begged. Her puppy eyes were glinting in the office lights. “Please. Pretty please? I’ll even say it with a cherry on top.”

“No!” You laughed at her absurdity. You interviewing Johnny Storm on behalf of that magazine? Non-heroic immolation sounded more grand at that very moment.

“What if I tell you I’ll throw in a bonus?”

Swiveling around in your chair, you looked at Lucy’s comically large black cat-eyed glasses and blinked once.

“Nothing on planet Earth could get me to step foot in the Baxter building. The goddamn sky could be falling and I would rather be crushed by the weight of gravity than spend ten minutes in heatwave’s presence.”

“He’s called The Human Torch.”

You nodded unenthused. “Wonderful.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. She laid herself dramatically atop your desk’s perched edge. Her frown deepened; eyes wallowing in self-destruction at your refusal.

“What about a big bonus?”

“Fifty dollars isn’t a “big bonus” no matter how many times you emphasize that it will cover my groceries for a month. I’d rather starve.”

“Good grief,” she wailed. “You’re a lost cause!”

“I’m the lost cause?” You feigned offense. “You are all in love with the same womanizing astronaut who spontaneously bursts into flames and cries hero when he destroys ten apartment buildings with a shallow “sorry!” You are lost causes.”

“Maybe you actually have a giant crush on him and you just don’t want all us girls to know about it.”

“Mhm,” you feigned and turned back to your work.

Materials laid askew before you in the most unorganized manner. Articles half edited remained inked in red while photographs of worthy news were plagued by post-it notes with reminders of what, where, and why.

Lucy walked around your desk. Her fingers gliding along the top of it before stretching out in observation.

“I think you actually like him,” she said matter-of-factly. “Is it the eyes? They’re so blue that they just swallow you whole like the sea. Or! Or is it that he’s a funny guy? I love men who can make me laugh.”

“Yeah, well,” you scoffed, “you laugh at everyone’s jokes so it’s not that impressive.”

“But he’s a hero! And a rich one—you see the tower? And the car… don’t even get me started on the car.”

You hummed. “Every girl just wants to be picked up in an invisible floating object.”

She narrowed her eyes accusingly. “Do you just hate fun or what?”

Shrugging, you picked up a photo and held it to the light. Lucy took you in as you distracted yourself from answering her accusatory question.

By all standards of the word, Lucy thought you fit the definition of “beautiful woman” but your beauty stumped her with your lack of social life. You had no husband, no boyfriend, no guys circling on the side. You lived alone in a decent apartment where your late nights in the office were more important than getting home at a reasonable hour to someone willing to treat you right.

You were good at your job—great, even. But you were lonely and even a single star in the farthest galaxy could see it.

Lucy wasn’t implying that Johnny Storm was going to sweep you off your feet or ride in on a golden carriage to save you from a desolate nature. You weren’t going to fall in love with him after one interview. She took your vocal objection to as a win, however. Getting you out of your comfort zone, exploring something new, and hell, he just happened to be the attractive guy at the subject of your piece.

It was different, new, and it was perfect for you.

“$300.”

You kept your eyes glued to the photograph.

“$350,” Lucy propositioned instead.

“$400?”

Your face curled up in polite decline. “I mean, I’d go through so much trouble. Not to mention the traffic and then the extra fare for the train ride home… I’m losing free time and precious seconds I could be completing other articles for Friday’s edition…”

“$500 extra, final offer.”

Dropping the photograph, you folded your arms in front of you seriously.

“There are twenty other girls who would love to be an inch away from his breathing space. Why are you asking me?”

Lucy gawked, looking around the cubicles for other reporters to share an incredulous look but no one dared look at their boundary-crossing boss. Her curly black hair whipped back around to you in seriousness.

“They don’t have a spect of talent that you do. And besides, what story is going to benefit from a fan writing about their idol or someone they wish to become their husband?”

“You think the other girls would try to… you know, sleep with him?”

“I think every person who had a mutual attraction with Johnny Storm would try and fuck him.”

“Jesus,” you muttered. “We’re at work you know.”

“I know you won’t though,” she smiled mischievously. “Even though you won’t admit he’s cute.”

“Lucy,” you sighed heavily. You put a hand to your forehead as if she was stressing you out.

“But I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I mean get it where you can.”

“I’m a professional,” you reminded her.

“Exactly.” Her eyes told you a million reasons to take the job against your better judgement.

Do it: there was plenty of money involved. Do it: imagine the publicity your writing would gain if you did. Do it: it may be published in a fan club publication but it will fly off the shelves and will bring money into the organization.

Do it: it’s only one, fifteen-hour session following around Johnny Storm for a “Day in the Life” feature that would be the first of its kind for any of the Fantastic Four.

Why couldn’t it have been Ben? Or Reed? You thought. At least with them you fathomed you’d be treated like an actual reporter, not just a set of eyes, boobs, and ass with two legs and a mouth that smiled pretty.

“$800.”

Shit.

Your eyes flicked up immediately, locking onto Lucy’s with a determination you didn’t have ten minutes ago. Now that was a bonus.

“Alright,” you sighed and nodded your head in agreement. “You’ve got a deal.”

The Baxter Building was a towering shadow in the center of the city. Scaling into the sky with reflective glass, the world bounced back from it like a mirror. Anyone could spot it from the edge of the river—the spaceship docked in its back lawn didn’t help hide it from view.

The four residents were something of a spectacle. In your opinion, they were the center of the universe when it came to politics, space exploration, and the general news. They brokered deals and were looked to by actual leaders to just about anything regarding the world’s most serious problems.

And they were handed that because they once rode through a cosmic storm and were transformed with abilities that brought forth a more dangerous era of life on Earth. You didn’t know how to reconcile the fame they achieved when dangers now lurked everywhere. You wished Earth would go back to the way it was. Boring news stories, a few interesting STEM articles, and an entertainment section that didn’t make the front page everyday.

It was easier. Simpler.

But there you were: standing anxiously outside of the Fantastic Four’s home to write an entertainment feature for the front page.

You adjusted your bag’s strap on your shoulder, straightening your spine and titling your chin higher in faux confidence. Finger lifting to the call button, you breathed out, breathed in, and pressed.

“This is the Baxter Building. Please state your name and matter of business at the tone,” a robotic voice responded.

As instructed, you relayed the information necessary. You tried to focus in on the glass before you but nothing of its contents inside appeared. Just you, your reflection, and the city still bustling behind you. The faint whizz of a police ship passed by above.

“Mr. Storm has been informed. Please wait patiently at door number 2.”

You stepped back to eye the numbers above the doors. You were at door number six and in your purview, another police ship flew by in the sky. Was it always this noisy for them?

Nevertheless, you positioned yourself outside of door two with space left for it to swing open and not hit your toes. Your heels were shiny, catching the light of day in polish while the woolen fabric of your dress beneath your coat caught the February chill.

How long would he make you wait? You fathomed he would take his time. Slowly descending from his golden palace, swiping at his hair to land in a perfect Ivy League wave, he’d wink at the few building employees he’d cross paths with along the way and send their body’s into nothing but a puddle of wooed soup to step over.

He was a hothead—that much you knew, or heard, rather. Boisterous, self-centered, and expectant. It was the why of Lucy’s ask of you. You wouldn’t melt into a puddle. Johnny would surely sense your displeasure of being there and give an honest, professional interview… at least, you imagined that was her “why.”

A minute ticked by and then two. You shifted again on your feet before giving up at standing straight and relaxing with a slouched hip. Three. Four. Five. A third police vehicle soared by and in a flash, a searing heat erupted from the middle of the building and poured down onto the street below. Your head whipped up so fast it gave you whiplash as the brightness of Johnny Storm’s body consumed by a fiery blaze flew off the side of the building.

You’d never been in the presence of any of the Four in their element, but it was magnificent, if not inconvenient. The heat melted snow around you and you realized that no one ever talked about it. He couldn’t touch anyone with the flames even if he wanted to. There was no way he wouldn’t seriously injury someone while fully lit.

However, for as quickly as he followed after the police, you knew the clock was ticking again. Service over duty, a little reporter isn’t going to halt the saving of those in danger. You looked around the courtyard and set at its center was an art piece depicting the powers of the family. It sat elevated enough for you to sit and you did: for fifty-three minutes while Johnny Storm saved the city.

Goodness was it cold outside.

Your feet had lost feeling long ago and your hands were locked together frozen. Your shoulder’s shook, legs bouncing to keep the blood flow alive.

At fifty-five minutes, the door to the Baxter Building opened with a start.

And by the heavens were you irritated by the tiny sliver of relief the intrusion offered. A small white and blue robot with eyes made of film reels appeared in the doorway.

It beeped at you from afar. You looked around. You were alone and the sole focus of the robot. With a finger, you pointed to yourself.

It sounded a robotic cheer and pointed a metal finger back.

“Hello,” it said loudly.

Alright then.

The robot had a four at the center of its chest and as you approached another decal became clear. In zigzagged letters it spelled out H.E.R.B.I.E.—its name.

“H.E.R.B.I.E.?” You inquired. It beeped. You were familiar with its design and its features. H.E.R.B.I.E. had been featured in a recent edition of Good Housekeeping and the “Four Favorite Meals” of the team were entombed into the social strata.

“I’m here to interview Mr. Storm. It was supposed to have begun an hour ago but—“

H.E.R.B.I.E. sounded again in acknowledgement.

“Johnny,” it said clearly. “Follow.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. led you through the doorway and into the spacious lobby you recognized from press conferences aired on the nightly news. The room was empty sans another lone robot watering a potted tree near a set of steps.

H.E.R.B.I.E led you to a bank of elevators and pressed the button labeled “up”.

“Upstairs,” H.E.R.B.I.E.’s static voice relayed.

“Upstairs,” you repeated. “Is Mr. Storm in now? I would rather wait—“

“Saving people,” H.E.R.B.I.E. answered. “Helping people.”

You nodded and it must have registered it as the end of the conversation because the bot wheeled itself to the panel, stuck its hand in a slot, and pressed floor twenty.

When the doors reopened, they opened up to a home.

The floor was magnificently built with floor to ceiling windows stealing the most treasured views of New York City. It was furnished and colored in aesthetic perfection. A central television, a sunken living space, the art of science hanging on the walls. It was gorgeous.

You logged a mental note at the lived-in nature of the vicinity. It didn’t feel unapproachable. This space and the rooms that flocked it were a true home. It wasn’t flaunting wealth or power, just a space to live and build the strange life they walked.

And it wasn’t what you had expected.

As someone without pomp and circumstance or a penny to spread far, you’d only seen the Fantastic Four as “heroes” and not “people.” That was a hard admission to swallow when the familiar heat met the side of your face again and the man of the hour landed softly on the balcony just outside of the tall living room windows.

When his flames extinguished, your breath caught in your throat.

Johnny Storm was handsome. He was the kind of handsome that the word seemed too light to apply—beautiful was more apt. His blond hair was perfectly molded in a suave, stylistic groom that left his face framed for viewing. Beneath the high swoop of his gelled bangs, his blue eyes shined brightly. The winter did nothing to dull them. The flames only ignited them to glow orange until he showed his true self and back to blue they went.

They seemed to go right through your skin and into your bones. Blue meeting the red blood inside of you only to make your heart jolt and pick up its pace.

As your eyes trailed his figure now landed and walking inside, his lips curled into a small, barely there smirk before attempting to play at professionalism. His tongue wet his lips; catching your eyes and pinpointing exactly what shape they took when pulled back and forming into soft curves again.

My. Your palms grew sweaty, back taut in sudden speechlessness. Johnny entered the living room and jogged up the small set of stairs to meet you. Jogged. He rushed up knowing his duty prevented you from doing your job.

“Hi,” his voice was out of breath.

Johnny held out his hand for you to shake. You glanced down at it, registering its purpose before wiping your palm on your coat discretely and filling the space between you.

A singe of heat lingered from his power.

“Hello,” you introduced yourself. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s not a problem,” he waved off but his eyes, God… his eyes… they seemed to keep your feet planted to the floor. They gleamed further, crinkling at the sides. “I wanted to apologize for… that,” he jabbed his thumb toward the window. “We never know what it is they need us for.”

“I see.”

“You’ve met H.E.R.B.I.E. I take it?”

Johnny motioned to the robot beside you and put his hands on his hips. H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head looked from Johnny, to you, and back to Johnny.

“I think he saw me freezing to death outside and felt a little bad about it,” you admitted and bristled at the thought of being left outside for so long. “Are any other members of the team around today?”

Johnny gave a click of his tongue and walked around you to the kitchen just off the living room. H.E.R.B.I.E. followed after him obediently with a whirl.

“Reed’s in his lab today and Sue and Ben are off… somewhere. I’m afraid it’s just you and me today, sweetheart.” He shrugged in normalcy.

He didn’t comment on leaving you outside for an hour in the cold. You didn’t want to make it a problem but your toes were icicles even inside and your coat still burrowed the chill.

And sweetheart. He didn’t even know you! You were there for work and only work. Even if addressing your question, sweetheart wasn’t going to cut it.

You repeated your name. “It’s not sweetheart.”

Johnny pulled a box of cereal from a shelf and turned back around. “Force of habit. Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” It wasn’t. But you wondered, unprofessionally, if you’d be alright with him saying that off the clock.

“What paper do you write for?”

“For the New York Chronicle,” you replied and putzed with the strap of your bag to keep your hands busy. “We own the Flaming Hearts magazine.”

“I was expecting…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

“An adoring fan?”

He nodded and pulled a bowl out from a top shelf. As he reached, his shirt pulled on the muscles of his arms and your eyes attached to them like magnets.

Get a grip, you thought.

Johnny was handsome, you knew it—you got it. You weren’t blind and your body registered it in the way that the world already knew, you were just catching up. It just took you until this very moment to admit that Johnny Storm was perhaps the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on.

That realization was distracting.

It didn’t stop you from thinking of your purpose here or the fact that superheroes weren’t really your trademark of writing, however.

“I’m here to write about you truthfully. My editor didn’t think a fan could write without bias.”

“That’s nice,” he said sarcastically while pouring himself a bowl. Did you sour it? By not admitting you’re a fan of his? “I guess you’ve got a list of questions for me then?”

“I do,” you joined him the counter with ease as he settled on the other side by the sink.

His eyes tracked you like a foreign object. A woman, a pretty woman, here for him with a very different intent than he was familiar with. You hadn’t even bothered to take off your coat as you sat on a stool and unearthed a pad of paper and a pen from your bag.

The muted colors of your clothes differed from the space around you. You looked like a journalist, he thought. Yet you were pretty and the way you straightened out your back and brushed at your forehead with a manicured nail captured his attention more than he was expecting.

Gorgeous. He wasn’t sure of any other word.

“My editor said that this is supposed to be a… informal, formal interview. I will ask you questions that are casual and people want to know, make you seem like an everyday guy, and then write it as a feature piece of the magazine.”

“I think I’m an everyday guy,” he quirked his head to the side.

You looked up from your paper and gazed at him seriously. Johnny was eating a bowl of cereal after igniting into flames and saving a small part of the city. That was not normal. It didn’t make him an “everyday guy” and maybe he, like you, also has some grappling to do.

“Yeah,” you lightly snickered. “I think we have different ideas of what makes someone normal.”

You didn’t mean to call him abnormal. But it came out and he took it that way.

Shit.

“What I meant was—“ you attempted to clarify yet his face already merged into one of abject offense. The interview hadn’t even started, you only met not five minutes ago, and you already know your name was at the bottom of the Do Not Let These Reporters In List.

“I know what you meant,” Johnny said chewing. “I’ve heard it before just not from someone cute.”

“Mr. Storm—“

“Johnny,” he clarified.

“Mr. Storm,” you insisted, “I didn’t mean offense. I think it’s clear that we lead two very different lives and I am just here to get a story.”

It didn’t even register to you that he called you cute.

His spoon clattered to the edge of the bowl. You wanted to do nothing more than climb into Sub-Terrania and hide forever. Why did you take this job? Why did Lucy have to offer that much money?

“You’d think a reporter from my own magazine would at least like me a little bit,” he said and you furrowed your brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you don’t exactly look like you want to be here right now.” He gestured to your coat and rigid body.

“I told you,” you reminded him, “I work for the Chronicle, not your magazine. And it’s not yours, per se. It’s just about you. And what does my dress have anything to do about wanting to be here? I am here, aren’t I? I waited outside in the cold for an hour just to do this job.”

“Take off your coat,” he ordered passively and walked back around the corner. From your sitting position, he leaned up against the chair beside you. He was so close now.

His body heat radiated. It was natural now, the warmth he gave off absentmindedly.

“I like my coat,” you answered as the frigidness melted away.

“You’re going to be here all day and I would rather you not snag it on any of our projects while we take a tour.”

“A tour?” He was being considerate—not something you considered about him at all.

“What better way to figure out who I am?” He looked down at you. He wasn’t towering as he stood beside you but he wasn’t short either.

Your eyes met. Both meeting a challenge of what this day was going to be like.

A girl who doesn’t like heroes or abnormal attractive guys with flirtatious banter battling a boy who doesn’t like being underestimated and thinks said girl is the most attractive reporter he’s ever seen.

“All the secrets that make Johnny Storm brilliant are hidden here,” his gave small smile and leaned in close. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how the magic happens?”

“I’m a bit afraid of what magic you’re implying.”

His mouth shifted into a truthful grin. It was the kind that pulled at the edges of a person and cracked them open wide for the world to see.

“And I thought I was the one with the dirty mind. I guess trait belongs to you, sweetheart.”

That name again. You sucked in a fast breath.

“That’s not my name.”

Johnny tapped the back of the stool he stood at in a melodic pattern. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up beside him like a dog beside its owner.

“I know.” He tilted his head toward the staircase to the left. “Come on. Leave the coat. I promise it’s warmer here.”

The only thing you knew for certain was the warmth didn’t spread from the outside in. It was felt in your cheeks and your face, burning at his comfortable commands that would certainly be replayed in a different manner once this interview was done.

You had to keep reminding yourself that Johnny Storm was not a man who you wanted to woo you. This was all work and no play. None.

You just had to promise yourself that this was it all it was going to be.

“Out of all of the rooms in the building, this one is my least favorite.”

Johnny paused before a door labeled “Do Not Enter” about an hour into the tour.

Every room that you had passed thus far had been accompanied by a lengthy description of what was beyond the door and if you were lucky, Johnny would open it for a tiny peak. You were informed that three weeks ago, the apartment had been deep cleaned for an interview that Reed and Sue had done which featured the home.

It seemed everyone and their mother wanted to know where the family ate, slept, and spent all their free time.

You’d asked how he felt about being at the center of the universe but he just smiled at you and neglected to answer—only leaving the door open for you to follow through to the gym on the seventh floor.

Reed’s office was closed off when you went by but you could hear the static going off behind the door.

“Any reason why?”

Johnny wiggled the handle. It didn’t budge.

“My brother-in-law loves to keep me out when the experiments get too… involved.”

“Aren’t you a scientist too?” You asked and he turned his head with a surprised amusement.

“Scientist?”

“Well you did go to space so I assumed.”

“Mechanic,” he clarified. “Or I guess an engineer of sorts. I shoot pretty good too. And I can fly a spacecraft, if asked.”

You wrote down his reply and he waited silently as you carefully worded the response. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolled up to his legs, knocking into him slightly with the loud beep.

“I swore I read you have a degree somewhere,” you mumbled.

“I do,” Johnny’s eyes widened in surprise. “A couple years back, before… you know, everything, I studied in California.”

“Stanford.”

“That’s the school,” he replied lightly. He was impressed to say the least. You knew something about him and remembered it enough to bring it up.

“Question,” H.E.R.B.I.E. output to Johnny.

H.E.R.B.I.E. was the most intelligent of robots but neglected to understand that this was an interview. H.E.R.B.I.E. nudged Johnny again expecting him to ask you questions in return.

“What about you?” Johnny asked uncertainly as he looked down at the robot and motioned in confusion at the question he posed.

“What about me?” You replied still writing.

“Are… you? A…” again, he looked down at H.E.R.B.I.E., “scientist?”

H.E.R.B.I.E. groaned and you laughed. You laughed. For the entirety of the interview he’d come to expect you to never give in to his jokes and while his question was worded poorly and he didn’t actually mean to say scientist, he felt his world relax at the sound.

The melody of your laughter laid softly inside of his mind like a lullaby. It was natural and free and completely you—something you’d yet to show him during the short time you’ve spent together.

You’d been professional and kept your kindness at an arms length. You were curt and serious, not playful nor buying into his comments that bordered on suggestive.

“If you consider writing a science, sure. Most people would consider it an art. So, I’m an artist.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat and patted H.E.R.B.I.E.’s head as he stepped past.

“But about the mechanic thing,” you looked up from your paper and Johnny forgot what he said before.

Every time you looked at him, he felt himself grow fonder of the way it made him feel. The silly feeling of love at first sight being marred as ridiculous in his perspective yet he swore that’s what it was.

He could listen to you talk all day.

“Do you have a shop or anything here? Or is it more isolated to here,” you motioned to the lab door. “Does he let you in to work?”

“I have a room,” Johnny said quickly. His excitement poured through his speech. “It’s not here. It’s a shop just off 4th and Wash Square—“

“I know of it.” Your eyes lit up in recognition. “I take the train from there to work everyday.”

Small world.

“Really?” He said honestly.

“That’s a far way from here,” you added. “Any reason why?”

“I guess because it’s my own little place.” He put his hand on the door handle again casually. His grip was strong.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand as it strained on the handle nervously, like he was admitting something for the first time. Had he never talked about this before? You knew he had talked about vehicles and that he’d love to race cars one day but that was Q & A session on the back of an entertainment rag at the grocery store.

“There’s nothing but me and the car and it’s kind of peaceful. It’s peaceful here but it’s a fishbowl, you know? Everyone feels like they know us when we are here but when I go there, it makes me feel like they don’t really know me. They just know The Human Torch, not Johnny. The shop makes me feel like me.”

“I’m not going to write that.”

His face dropped.

“Why? Didn’t you say you wanted this to be human? Or that you’re trying to make me sound more personable?” Johnny grew defensive.

“I’m not going to write that because once they,” you tipped your head to the windows, “know about that little shop, you won’t have one day of peace for the rest of your life.”

Oh. Oh. He hadn’t thought about that.

“That’s…” he tried to find the words.

The shop was his little slice of paradise. He could tinker away and no one would come looking because they knew that not only was he safe, he was alone.

Sue let him have his space there because it made him happy. It was the most happy she’d seen him since they were kids and while you might not have known that, it meant more to him that your integrity wasn’t going to jeopardize his peace.

He’d given you a part of his humanity and you’d shown him mercy. A trade off of the hour.

“That’s real nice of you.”

“It’s what a decent person would do,” you brushed it off casually and held the pad of paper to your chest.

“You’d be surprised by how few of those exist.”

You smiled at him softly. A blush bloomed on his cheeks and he looked off towards the city outside his home. H.E.R.B.I.E. whirled by toward the direction you were heading next.

Breathing in deep, you took the first step and barely brushed Johnny’s shoulder as you walked by.

“Can’t keep H.E.R.B.I.E. waiting, can we?”

Johnny shook his head and bit back his smile, peaking down at his shoes to hold it in. He played with the handle of Reed’s lab once more before turning on his heel and walking a step behind you.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?” He felt his confidence return in bounds.

You hummed. “Since I was a little kid.”

“Why the news and not books?”

“I’m not that creative,” you admitted. “And aren’t I supposed to be asking you these questions?”

“Just curious.” Johnny pulled his hands together behind his back. “Besides, this isn’t going to be fun if I don’t learn about you too.”

“But that’s not the purpose of this.”

“Are you always a rule follower or only when interviewing superheroes?”

You stopped walking and turned around. He caught himself before crashing into you.

“I’m not a rule follower,” you told him. Johnny wasn’t convinced. “I’m on the clock.”

“I’m always on the clock but I have a good time too,” he skirted around you and began his walk backwards.

You huffed and followed.

“It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s prudish,” he countered, hands still bound behind his back.

“It’s a boundary,” you challenged.

“It’s an imprisonment.”

“That’s a strong word.”

It was Johnny’s turn to shrug. “I don’t take it back, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“I didn’t ask you to take it back. That’s your opinion, not mine.”

“So you’re making this a challenge for me?”

“A challenge?” Your brows shot up and then came together.

“For you to admit you had a good time hanging out with the one and only Johnny Storm by the end of the today.” He referred to himself in third person and you weren’t sure if that was inducing a wince in response or a short track to the answer.

You already knew what your response would be.

Your heart hadn’t stopped thumping, hands still sweaty. Your stomach grew with butterflies every time he looked in your direction and no matter if you sat in silence the rest of the day, today would be the most entertaining experience you’d ever had.

But Johnny didn’t need an ego boost right now.

“We are already a couple hours in,” you checked the small golden watch at your wrist. “You have twelve hours to change my mind it appears.”

“I could have sworn I had gotten a smile out of you earlier.” Johnny’s teeth grazed over his bottom lip. “And maybe even a laugh too. Those are pretty good signs to me that I’m winning this.”

“I don’t recall—“

“Yes you do.” His voice grew louder in amusement. You peered away from him, not willing to gaze into those blue beacons because you knew that he’d see a liar.

You did smile and laugh with him. That was a sign of enjoyment if there ever was one.

“You smiled and laughed and you don’t want to admit it because it means you’ve already lost and I’ve won.”

“You didn’t win anything. I don’t even know what we’re playing for!”

“To prove that you—“

“No,” you let a breathless chuckle escape your lips as his misunderstanding and his eyes pinned you in the hallway laughing again.

Point: Johnny.

“I meant the prize. What’s the prize if you win or if I win?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I didn’t think that far out yet.”

“Oh,” you played disappointment. “So, I guess that means the smarts only extend to engineering then?”

Johnny’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Did you just make an attempt at a borderline offensive joke that he would totally love to hear?

You did.

“You’re going to wish you never said that,” he teased.

Were you really doing this?

“Well you didn’t name your price, Mr. Storm.”

“Mr. Storm,” he muttered like he’d never been called that before. “You’re obedient, you know that?”

“Like a dog.”

“Fine,” he put his hands on his hips. “You wanna know my price?”

“Name it.”

“If you enjoyed yourself by the end of today—really, truly enjoyed yourself—you gotta let me take you out on a date.”

“A date?” You confirmed.

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d have the gall to banter with Johnny. If Lucy could see you now she’d be asking to collect her winnings in the office betting pool. You were emotionally weak to Johnny’s charm and you hadn’t expected that.

“That’s all? Just a date?”

Both of your minds raced to that appetizing place. It stirred with from within, billowing into full blown fantasies of the dark. Imaginations painted a lustful affair; the tugging of lips and the grasping of skin. Polished nails digging into heated flesh and the sounds of two bodies combining rung deeply in echos of the hallway.

“I mean,” his face turned pink and his right hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Too late.

There was far more interest in the fantasy than either of you let on. You let the blushes fall apart and dared your minds to venture into that place again.

“Fine,” you agreed. “But if I have a terrible time… a really, horribly agonizing time, you have to… be my assistant for a day. Like come to the office and everything. Get my coffee, make my copies, all of it.”

Amused, Johnny dropped his hand. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“Your assistant? That’s the best you could come up with?”

“Well… yeah,” you replied. “I don’t have time to think of something worse.”

“Either way I think I win, though,” Johnny stepped forward again but this time with his hand extended similar to how he had greet you two hours before.

Yet his hand was offered with a renewed sense of enthusiasm. Every time he reached for it, the purpose was different.

“And why’s that?” You accepted his hand and relished the way it perfectly encapsulated your own. His hand was soft and cooler than it was prior.

You wondered if he could still feel the sweat the settled in your palm.

“Because no matter what I get to spend more time with you and I think that’s a win.”

You didn’t know what to say to that but your heart surely responded with a thump.

Johnny’s bedroom is not where you thought you’d end up after imagining what it would be like to fuck him.

He had lingered by the door at the end of the hall with his own curiosity threatening to change the atmosphere. It wasn’t like being in his bedroom was automatically leading you to a rumble in the sheets.

His room was the essence of him. If Johnny really wanted the world to see a normal guy, his bedroom is where he surely showed it.

It was clean and shared the same views overlooking the city as the rest of the apartment. Amidst the wooden paneling and the filled shelves, a round bed sat centered and an elevated seating area with the nicest record player you’d ever seen was placed adjacent.

It was well used based on Johnny’s collection of vinyls that bathed the room on either side.

He offered you the chair overlooking the city and made himself comfortable on the floor across from you. Having taken off his shoes, his socked white feet were constantly moving from side to side like he couldn’t sit still with every question you asked.

The clock ticked away.

“Sports team?”

“I’d say the Mets but I don’t want to make anyone mad, so Yankees.”

“If you could have any other job in the world, what would it be?”

“Race—“

“—car driver,” you finished his words for him. “I should have known that one.”

“Yes.” Johnny’s fingers traced the edges of his lips as he fought a grin. “You know me so well.”

His lips pulled and you thought about how nice they’d be to kiss. They appeared soft and pink, just plush enough to leave a lingering tingle in the spots he’d lay delicate memories to your skin.

Someone once said that the beauty marks on a person’s body were the remnants of places their lovers had once kissed.

Maybe in another lifetime the ones on your own were lives lived with Johnny. You shook away the thought when reality snapped back in. You were rushing and only fools did that.

You read through question after question to get a full extent of who Johnny was. These questions, the mediocre ones, were the kind that people wanted to read about.

“First love?”

“Oh.” His tone dropped an octave. “Look who’s trying to learn about my exes now.”

“It’s not me,” you reminded him, again. “It’s the readers, remember?”

“I don’t think they’re the ones coming up with them.”

“Then it’s my editor. She’s obsessed, move along. First love?” You asked again.

“Ramona Mitchell—second grade. She shared her animals crackers with me and broke up with me at the water fountain.”

“Tragic,” you fought the indulgence chuckle.

“Favorite food?”

“Anything Ben makes.”

“That’s not a food,” you countered.

“He makes a mean pasta,” he thought on it. “But I’m from Long Island and you can’t beat some restaurants there.”

“I’ve never been to Long Island.”

You said it passively. Solely focused on writing his response down, your face inclined toward the paper and not to him. Watching him sit there casually was making this feel more and more like a choice rather than a job.

He sat up straighter on the floor.

“What do you mean you’ve never been to Long Island? It’s like… right there!?”

You put the pad of paper down on the table beside you. Crossing your legs, Johnny’s eyes followed them as you settled into the new position.

“I’ve been to Brooklyn before.”

“That’s not Long Island,” he said as if he was a geography expert.

“It’s on Long Island so maybe it counts a little.”

You leaned back into the chair and folded your arms across your chest. This was comfortable. Johnny was surprisingly easy to talk to and you’d be remiss if you said you weren’t loose to the idea of someone to talk to. He listened, he asked, and he looked like he was interested in anything and everything you had to say.

“But you wouldn’t say that Manhattan is the same as Brooklyn as to Queens or as to the Bronx.”

“No,” you agreed. “I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“And I’m talkin’ deep Long Island,” he emphasized his words with an extension of his hand. “Like the kind where your favorite deli is owned by the cousin of the ex-boyfriend of your mother’s best friend and they know you by name kind of deep.”

“That sounds like it’s from experience, not a universal trait.”

“I guess we’ll have to go see and ask them then,” he smirked as though he knew he’d prove you right.

“Time isn’t on our side today.” You glanced down at the watch on your wrist. You’d been talking in his room for nearly five hours—seven hours to go.

“Another day then.” Johnny crossed his feet at his ankles. “I’ll show you our old stomping ground and take you to one of those delis.”

You laughed not out of amusement but out of nerves. It sounded a hell of a lot like a date.

“Is this the part where I ask you what you think is the perfect date? According to the survey, our readers really want to know how Johnny Storm would make them fall in love.”

“What’s your ideal perfect date?”

“I’m not the one being interviewed here.”

“Amuse me,” Johnny bartered. “And then I’ll ask H.E.R.B.I.E. to make us some lunch.”

You sighed, gazing out the window in thought at the question. What constituted the “perfect date?” You weren’t entirely sure there was one concrete answer because everyone had a different opinion.

However, if Johnny could be open and honest for the sake of a magazine, you could be honest for him.

“I guess it would be doing something that interested me.”

“Go on,” he urged. Those interested blue eyes bore into you.

“I don’t know… I would hope that before I am asked out on a date that a guy would listen to me. Ask me about my interests and discover things I like so that when we go, they choose a place that I would like to go to. Someone says they like art and they go to a museum; someone likes music, they go to a show—that kind of stuff.”

“But what about you? Not someone else, you.”

“I like going to the pictures. Museums and the city zoo is nice too. But sometimes I don’t want to make a big fuss about it all and a diner is nice. Just a little hole-in-the-wall place where the coffee is stale but the food is good and the company doesn’t care that it’s not a five star establishment.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he nodded his head in agreement.

“Dating doesn’t have to be flashy. I see the kinds of things that are written about your sister and her husband. I couldn’t imagine being under that microscope.”

“It’s a choice they made—to be open about everything. I’m not sure they like the constant guessing of what the baby is going to be, but they don’t mind the interest in their lives.”

“What about you?” You asked him. “The perfect date? Being in the public eye?”

“I don’t mind it,” Johnny said with little thought. “It’s just part of the job and people have been pretty nice about it all. It’s not everyday you have to trust someone like me to help out.”

“So you admit it,” a small, rewarding grin played at your lips. You saw his gaze flick to them and back to your eyes. “You’re not normal then?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Was that a trick question?”

“No. Just an honest one. Date?”

He sat with his response for a minute, falling back against the record player’s built-in. Johnny liked having you here. It felt normal and easy and not like anyone else he’d ever known.

“Mr. Storm?” You pressed.

“You don’t give a guy any time to think, do you, sweetheart? And it’s Johnny.”

“I don’t have forever,” you reminded him. He wished you did.

“What you said.”

“Excuse me?”

Johnny’s smug face was rewarded with your surprise. His head tilted up as he rephrased, “you described my perfect date.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes,” he dug in further, “you did.”

“But that’s my perfect date. We are two very different people.”

“Opposites attract and all,” he commented. “I want her to feel comfortable and safe. If I take her race car driving on the first date, she might never speak to me again or if she’s someone I really, really like, then I want her to feel like I’m making an effort to get to know her. Getting to know me can come later. Preferably here, in this room, with a record on and very little taking.”

You felt that warmth invade your body once more.

Your band of resistance was starting to snap.

“Mr. Storm,” you started.

“Johnny.”

“You know I can’t write that down.”

“It wasn’t for you to write down,” he said seriously. “It was for you to know.”

“Why would I need to know that?”

The space inside of his room shrunk. The only thing that existed was the small, elevated section you both sat upon: you in the chair, he on the floor.

Your comment sat heavy in the hair. Hanging there above your heads, it twirled into a storm of those savory thoughts from a few hours ago. Neither of you had forgotten about it—how your minds automatically raced to imagine what it would be like to sit just a little closer, inch your hands toward the other.

He knew what your palm felt like in his and it was perfect. Slotted to a perfect puzzle piece and he knew this feeling was the ultimate one that Sue told him about. It was the universe opening portals to emotions he didn’t know existed and stretching him in directions he didn’t anticipate going.

“I know we don’t know each other well,” Johnny started slowly as he broached the topic.

“We don’t know each other at all,” you clarified.

“People have done a lot more knowing a lot less.”

“I feel like I’ve had to remind you that I’m working several times,” you uncrossed your legs and moved to stand.

Johnny scrambled to his feet and that line had been crossed. He didn’t know how to return to the other side and wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

All that talk of a perfect date and he just wished someone would give him a real chance to show off. You listened and maybe right that second you didn’t feel like you knew him, but you did.

Johnny had given you more answers in seven entire hours than he’d allowed anyone else to hear in his life besides his family. You cracked a part of him open without waving the slightest finger in attempting to do so.

“I’m sorry if I gave you an impression that it wasn’t professional.” You gathered your paper and pen from the table and aimed for the door.

He rushed toward you frantically. Johnny cut off the path to the door by standing in front of it. The look on your face immediately sent him into orbit. He was spiraling.

“Sorry!” He said quickly. “I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I just… I just thought that, well, I don’t know! I felt something, okay?”

“Mr. Storm, please—“

“You gotta stop with that Mr. Storm shit.” He let out a stressed groan, a hand wiping over his face in duress. “You’re tellin’ me that you haven’t felt it too?”

God did you feel it. You felt the pull so strong that it was sending your own synapses into overdrive. You couldn’t be here any longer. He pushed open the flood gates and allowed those feelings to spur deeper, rising into that forbidden territory you couldn’t come back from.

This was what all those other reporters wanted and the one thing that you weren’t expecting. You were attracted to Johnny. Immensely. He was charming and sweet—far more interesting and curious than you realized. He was the one guy that was as engaged with your own answers as he was with his own and it was a drug. A highly addictive drug that wouldn’t last because he was a hero and you were a journalist.

Those two things didn’t mix.

They couldn’t mix.

It was wrong. It was inappropriate. But fuck, did it sound so, so good.

“It’s not appropriate. I don’t sleep with my clients.”

“Then end the interview,” he said like it was easy. “I’m not a client anymore.”

“Is this just for you to get your rocks off?” Your eyes narrowed and he held up his hands defensively.

“No! No!” He exclaimed. Maybe you were being too harsh. “If you want to leave, go ahead.” Johnny backed away from the door and settled at its side.

There was a pathway out now.

“I’m not trying to make you break any rules,” he said softly. “That wasn’t my intention. But tell me you don’t feel it too. It feels like you stuck dynamite in my chest and it’s ready to explode.”

You knew the sentiment well. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t be what Lucy and all the rest of them wanted to be.

“I can’t, Johnny.” He melted at the sound of his name falling from your lips. “I’m not trying to be like those other girls.”

“So you’re not like the rest of them, huh?” He joked.

“No,” you replied painfully. “Unfortunately I’m just like them it seems because I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you.”

You threw your hands up in defeat and paced around his room in circles. He just stood by the door and watched amused as you worked through what he already figured out.

“I guess that means you won, right? It’s not even the goddamn end of the day and I’m already throwing in the towel because I don’t have a little more self control.” You let out a rueful snicker. “And to think I was so certain that I could do this!? I mean, it’s not like you’re my type or anything.”

“And that is…?”

“Nice!” You answered loudly. “And not one to say crude things all the time.”

“They weren’t crude, they were suggestive. For a writer I would hope you would know the difference.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him with your mouth agape. “Why you—“

“Careful,” he held up a finger, “your name calling game isn’t that strong. Might I suggest ‘most handsome man on the planet’ or ‘hero of my heart’ instead?”

“Oh my god,” you wailed. “I can’t believe I am even the slightest bit attracted to you!”

“I think it’s a little more than slight, sweetheart. You were ready to burn this building to the ground at the mere thought of sleeping with me and I think that means you’ve at least thought about it before.”

“I have not!”

“You’ve thought about kissing me.”

“That’s different,” you emphasized. Of course you thought about fucking him too. He’s Johnny fucking Storm and he’s been giving you “fuck me” eyes for the last five hours.

“It all leads to somewhere else in the end.”

“So you were implying that. I’m not crazy.” Your eyes widened like you were.

“I didn’t say you were. And you’re not, by the way.”

Johnny just settled against the wall and crossed his arms against his chest. The muscles of his biceps strained at the short sleeves of his white tee and invited you in.

“Having a little bit of fun doesn’t make you less of a journalist,” he said your name for the first time. Not sweetheart or any other pet name.

Johnny. You. It was personal now.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not that kind of guy and I hope you didn’t get the idea that I would be that kind of guy. You’re nice, real nice, and I really enjoy talking to you. There aren’t many people who are willing to listen and take things with an open mind.”

God. He needed to stop talking.

“Plus I think H.E.R.B.I.E likes you. He felt real bad about leaving you out in the cold like that.”

Stop talking, Johnny.

“And I do too. Sorry about that, by the way,” he laughed slightly at the predicament. “I’m not used to putting people that aren’t my family first but I’m open to the idea…”

His blue eyes beat you down. Stop fucking talking.

“If we had more time I would have—“

You couldn’t take it anymore. Dropping your pad of paper and pen to the ground, you closed the distance between the two of you in a few long strides and grasped his face between your hands, planting your lips onto his in a heartbeat.

His words halted.

Fusing together like atoms, the electricity of your mouths falling into sync quieted both minds. It was tranquil. His face cupped between your hands tilted, angling to the side and opening up further. Johnny’s tongue begged for mercy between your lips, melding together with yours in tune to the beating of your hearts.

Something sprouted inside of you. Building from your toes to your mind, it tingled your limbs into numbness where nothing else but Johnny’s hands weaving around your waist and cradling the back of your head mattered.

This is what it felt like—attraction.

It was all consuming and all knowing. It recognized parts of you that had been sleeping and awoken to a giant tower ready to climb. His smooth face fell from your hands as they dropped to his neck; trailing the edges of the scoop of his shirt and feeling the molds of his chest before settling there. One hand turned into a fist to gather his shirt with a tug, drawing him closer and leaving no space between you.

His lips were as you imagined: soft and inviting. There were no words needed to accept the fact that you were holding everything back for nothing. This was as it should be. He was kind. He was considerate.

He was charming, funny, nervous, clumsy, confident, handsome, smart, entertaining, and didn’t force you into this.

It fell into place. As two objects in motion collided, the motions continued on.

Johnny’s hands groped you tightly, barely allowing you time to breathe as your lips parted. His hands paved a path down your body and tested the waters with bated breath. You didn’t stop him. You craved the feeling of his hands on your body.

You pulled back from his lips but he chased after them, drunk on the feeling. You knocked your nose gently into his as you breathed in deep breaths.

“You can touch me,” you reassured him. His eyes stayed focused on your mouth.

“As long as you’re sure.”

“More than sure.”

Johnny’s hands slid down to your ass and cupped you roughly. His grip pulled you flush against him and with a groan, your lips caught his chin and dotted kisses along the column of his neck.

He thought he was dreaming. Five minutes ago he was certain you were going to flee the apartment and speak his name into forbidden existence because of his brash assessment. Here you were, kissing him mad and he was imprinting a picture of your body forever in his mind. You were luxurious and finite. There was only ever going to be one of you and he was never going to forget what this moment caused.

The rapture within him was cemented.

“You know,” he murmured against your kisses when your lips returned to his. “I did really want to take you out on a date before all this.”

“I told you that I don’t follow the rules,” you nipped at his chin playfully.

“You surprise me.”

“Good,” you smiled. You backed away from him and his hands fell to his sides loosely. “And I’m not going to write an article about you anymore either.”

“No?”

You hummed and shook your head. “Can’t now. I’m too biased in my storytelling to be truthful.”

Johnny took a step forward and you took one back.

“And the honest truth is what, sweetheart?”

“That Johnny Storm isn’t the man everyone thinks he is.” Another step forward, another back. “He’s a good man with a good family and similar morals. He likes to have a fun time but within the bounds of his duty and he’s a romantic at heart—not a womanizer.”

“I would really like to womanize you, however.”

Johnny bit down on his bottom lip. You extended your hand and he gladly took it, leaping into your space again and tumbling with you onto his bed at the center of the room. You fell back with a thud and his body weighed heavy on top of yours.

“Johnny Storm defies the expectations we have of him,” you continued on.

The hand not entwined with his own came back to his face and brushed stray blond bangs from his forehead.

“And the lucky few who get to know the real Johnny will always know his true heroism lies within.”

Johnny’s smile widened. “That’s real cheesy—you know that, right?”

You grinned back and returned your hand to the back of his head where the shortened hairs weaved between your fingertips. Johnny pulled your intertwined hands up above your head.

“I think it’s a perfect story.”

His story or this one playing out now, he wasn’t sure which was better.

“Yeah,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips. “Me too.”

“You’d sacrifice the world for your family and I admire that.”

“Now you’re getting sappy on me,” he laughed. He laid a peck beside your ear. “You don’t need to butter me up to make something happen.”

“I’m not buttering you up.”

You titled your head to the side to give him access to the side of your face, neck, and when his hand tugged at the top of your dress, the bit of clavicle he was able to reach.

His touch set you ablaze. Burning from the sensations his gentle lips left behind, Johnny knew how to touch a woman and make her feel good. It was something he’d perfected in his thirty years on Earth.

“You remember what I said about my perfect date?” His voice was muffled by the wool of your dress.

“Oh,” you gave an awe inspired sigh. “Was that you buttering me up? How you got me here?”

“You did that all on your own.”

Johnny’s head turned back up to face you and he rested his chin at the curve of your breasts. You hadn’t realized he had moved down that far on your body. He slowly slipped his lean frame to the edge of the bed, kneeling at its base and letting his hands fall to the backs of your knees. They glided down your calves and to your ankles, playing with the straps of your shoes.

“Tell me that you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You sat up on your elbows. His hands grasped your right foot. Slowly pulling at the buckle of your heel and undoing the strap to where you shoe fell off your foot with a small clunk when it hit the floor.

Johnny’s gaze didn’t escape yours. He waited for you to change your mind. The anticipation of your soft rejection pounding at his ribcage.

His hands moved to your left leg and when the second shoe dropped, Johnny’s hands caressed the skin of your shin.

“I wouldn’t have let you do that if I didn’t,” you told him.

“When I said that your perfect date is how I see my perfect date, I also should have said that I want her to be satisfied when it’s all over.”

You swallowed a lump that had formed in your through from the promise. God. You couldn’t believe you ended up here.

“I’m not asking you to give out to me,” he nodded at you. Johnny asked you to give him the confirmation he needed. “So if it’s not today, it will be another time.”

The ghosting of his fingertips on the backs of your knees sent a chill up your body.

“Don’t you think that’s a little presumptuous?”

“I mean…” he smirked, lips placing peppered kissed along your kneecap. “I think I may have won the bet.”

He did. He knows he fucking did.

Johnny’s hands roamed to the end of your dress. His thumbs pushed the fabric that had grown far too warm on your body upwards, watching you in permission that every inch higher was not crossing the boundary of what you were willing to give to him.

His position between your legs prevented them from closing in bashfulness. His tongue wet his lips as the curve of your hips forced his hands harder to give him access. Johnny paused again.

“You’re sure?” He asked quietly.

You nodded, running a hand through his short hair. The hesitancy you had yesterday seemed like a distant memory. Johnny enraptured you and while you were breaking every rule in the book, you couldn’t stop here. Not when he was kneeling for you. Not when he wanted to taste you.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Putting your free hand atop his, you guided it to the top of your panties in invitation.

“Lay down,” he ordered and you complied. Obedient. “Relax.” Came next and in a mere whisper as the fabric slipped from your body and the cool air now exposed to your body made you aware of how wet you were.

“I’m gonna take care of you.”

Kissing the inside of your thigh, you stared at the ceiling in disbelief. You felt his piercing gaze upon you; he measured your body in the way it folded and it heaved.

And he kept a promise of taking care of you—not himself. As much as the sight of you, bare and wanting before him made his soul burn, he knew this wouldn’t be your last meeting.

His kisses drew closer. Johnny’s hot breath met the crux between your legs before any other part of him did. His lips barely grazed you and your thighs trembled with his head stuck between them.

Johnny didn’t miss the sharp intake of your breath when he finally lowered his mouth to you. And my, he had never tasted someone as sweet as you. His tongue glided along the wetness that had already gathered and focused his attention to your clit. He gave in to a merciless pace; circling and sucking—your toes curled to hold you back.

Your hand wrapped into his hair and tugged at the strands. His arms held onto your sides and tracked the curve of your body as he pulled you closer. The response he was receiving was Pavlovian. Forever he’d bend at the sounds of your sighs, of the feel of your nails raking against the base of his skull. He’d dream of the flesh he devoured and sing songs of the pleasures he took.

Johnny Storm hadn’t believed in love at first sight until today.

And you hadn’t imagined giving him a chance until he had greeted you that morning.

His tongue increased its pressure on your bud. Pressing down as he lapped the wetness of his saliva and your arousal into his method and used it to lower himself smoothly.

A whine escaped your lips when his fingers left your side and helped open you up to him. Splitting you open and allowing his tongue to pin you to the bed. Your knees shook, legs coming to bend beside his head as his shoulders lurched to catch them. Johnny’s opposite hand held you down, settling at the base of your stomach.

“Holy mother of—“

He hummed and it sent a vibration through you.

As he had kissed you before, his tongue flicked inside of you in a passionate rhythm. His eyes closed to relish in the sounds of your neediness. Johnny didn’t tell you to be quiet because he didn’t want you to be. You could shout, scream, or cry out and he’d ask you for more. Give him everything, he wanted to imply, but he couldn’t ask for everything at that very moment.

You were taking everything he was giving like it was made for you. Hell, maybe he was.

The fingers he had used to help open you up remained rubbing up and down the sides of your pussy while his tongue explored the horizons beyond it. You felt one move, his middle finger, and it joined his tongue, curling into you gently.

“Oh god,” you groaned. His mouth curved into a smirk, backing away centimeters.

“Johnny is fine,” his voice had turned gravely. “But I’ll take being a god any day.”

And that laughter. It filled him so deeply that not even the strain in his jeans could distract him from the innate pleasure of hearing you respond to him. He continued on, letting his finger work against your plush walls and master the craft of you.

His mouth refocused to your clit which he did not abandon on purpose. Johnny quickened his pace, unrelenting and fixed on assisting you to the end. It built, like a flame kindling from a spark and tingling every cell in your body.

Your shoulders tensed, anticipating a release but infatuated with the way his ministrations only pulled back when he knew you were getting too close. He was keeping you on your toes. Johnny let you feel and experience the pleasure outside of simply working toward an orgasm.

Earn it. You had to earn it.

“You gonna keep teasing me like that or what?” You whined.

“I’m just not done with you yet.” His finger left you empty before coming back with its neighbor. “We’ve got time.”

“I don’t think we have time today,” you seemed to always remind him that you had a deadline. “Maybe another day.”

“Now who’s asking for a second date?”

“This isn’t a date.” His fingers reached lengths you were unable to do yourself. Your back arched in his grasp and his grasp tightened.

“Then our first date will be amazing.” Cocky son-of-a-bitch.

“Jesus,” you couldn’t help the spattering of words that flew from your lips as the precipice gained on you again.

“Johnny,” he repeated.

“Johnny,” you cried back. “I—“

“I can feel you, sweetheart.”

The familiarity of your orgasm climbed the mountain of your thrill rapidly approached. Recalling the minutes he spent prior being agonizingly slow, then picking up his pace, your ears captured the most bawdy sounds of excitement. His fingers were coated in your slick, chin glistening in the slightest with remnants of what he’d take as a prize.

You turned your head to watch his fingers disappear inside of you and your chest nearly caved.

“Come here,” you breathed in heavy. Johnny’s brow furrowed.

“Wha—“

“Just kiss me.”

With his fingers still pumping frantically inside of you, Johnny pushed up from the ground and let your hands pull his face toward yours. You had never tasted yourself on the lips of a lover before and you cherished the intimacy of the notion.

He felt your shoulders stutter, your body shaking in need. His mouth opened to allow you in.

One. Two. Three additional thrusts of his fingers and he felt you tighten around him. A wave of immense pleasure washed over your body in bliss. Arching into him, Johnny held onto you tightly, never once letting you fall apart without him.

You could hear him whisper words of praise in your ear except nothing but a kaleidoscope of colors seemed to match the tremors of your lower body. Legs shaking, toes curled as one leg wrapped around his own waist and laid lax once the shaking subsided.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. He retracted the two fingers. Resting them on your thigh, he patted the skin there. “You’re fine, sweetheart.”

Johnny laid his forehead against yours and let you breathe before his mouth couldn’t help but run again.

“I would have called you a good girl but I think sweetheart is the only nickname you can take right now.”

You opened your eyes and met his glinting with amusement. Did you want to take back everything u out said? Pretend this never happened and go find someone who can keep a moment serious for longer than a minute?

“You are—“ the words couldn’t form. There were too many words to describe Johnny Storm and even a journalist as great as yourself couldn’t come up with one.

The next morning you were at the office bright and early. No article had been prepared, no pictures of Johnny in his space, and nothing to report to Lucy.

Your mind was racing, however.

When you unlocked the door to your apartment later that night, you did so with a smile plastered to your face. You felt like a school girl with her first crush. Johnny enamored you and left you feeling like jell-o and your limbs acting on their own accord was proof of it.

But you had to keep a lid on it. So, when you sat down at your desk and flipped on the light to wait for the inevitable, you pretended you weren’t hopelessly crushing on the hot-headed hero.

An hour after you settled in, Lucy rushed to your desk to gossip. Her eyes were wide, expectant for you to spill all of the details of what makes Johnny tick. Every secret you gathered from the contents of his bathroom cabinet to the food he liked to eat, she wanted to know.

“So?” She said incredibly fast. “How was it? Where is it?” The draft.

“I don’t have it.” You preoccupied yourself by typing out a different article. The keys on your typewriter filled the space of her mouth hanging wide open in confusion.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“I didn’t it write it,” you clarified. “It’s not happening.”

“We—“ she started and stopped in a stutter. “What, well… what happened? Did you even go??”

“Of course I went.” The page reached its end with a ring and you shot it back to the opposite side. “I just don’t have the story for you. I’m not going to write it so ask someone else.”

Lucy watched you carefully. “Please tell me you didn’t make our paper look bad.”

“Oh just awful,” you drawled. “I think we’re banned from ever covering them.”

She didn’t catch the tone. Lucy had been so preoccupied with wanting a big, newsworthy feature that she didn’t think of anything else. She joked about you falling into bed with him but figured you were too much of a straightened arrow to try it.

You didn’t have a hickey, you weren’t sweating at the temple, or drinking the largest coffee. In fact, you didn’t even have a coffee.

“Did you…” she trailed off, neck jutting out in curiosity.

Before you could look her in the eyes and lie, a delivery man with a bouquet of flowers was making a b-line to your desk caught your eye.

Shit. So much for discreet.

He said your name aloud and held up the flowers as if you didn’t see them. They were magnificent. A collection of winter favorites perfectly curated in a massive bouquet.

“I have a delivery.”

“From?” Lucy asked bewildered.

“There’s a card,” he informed. The man set the flowers on your desk and you stood, straightening out your blouse as you plucked the card from the small spokes elevating it above the petals.

“Who’s it from?” Lucy pressed.

“Geez,” you mumbled. “Care to give me a minute or would you rather just read it yourself?”

“Go ahead,” she motioned.

You slipped the card from the envelope and slid it out. In personal handwriting, a short message relayed a simple message without a signature.

You couldn’t fight the grin this time. It filled your face with a joyous, girlish glow and Lucy smacked her hand on the surface of the desk.

“Holy shit!”

And holy, flaming fucking shit indeed.

Saturday, 9 AM. My shop. Wear something nice, it’s a date.

And you knew right where to go.

A/N: a Joe Quinn character breaking me out of a writing slump? 2022 me is not surprised. His Johnny is *chef’s kiss* and I love him, your honor.

P.S. all writers love to hear from readers and it’s the one thing I love more than anything. Thank you for taking the time to read this!

Liked this one? Here’s another Johnny fic!

[nezuscribe]

being married to gojo is probably such a weird limbo to be in. he doesn’t talk much, but he watches you a lot. the way you move, the way your head tilts back as you laugh unapologetically, the little way your nose scrunches up when you’re confused.

he’s aware of your past, the way you were raised. he knows how much of a black sheep you are, and the more he spends time with you the more he realizes how much you try to hide that.

the way you joke through awkward moments, or the way you tried to hide your expression when somebody doesn’t laugh at something you hoped to be funny are all things gojo has noticed about you.

he knows how you sometimes come down to the training yard, hiding behind a pillar as if a group of men who are trained to be aware of their surroundings wouldn’t spot you from a mile away.

but a part of him likes having you there, puffs his chest out a little more when he disarms someone, his grin a little cheekier when the men praise him of his talent.

though you never really seem to be there for him, despite gojo being your husband. it almost seems like you don’t even want him to know you’re there, making sure to duck your head if he sees you.

until one night, when the men file out and into their quarters, gojo stays behind, in one of the rooms that lead out into the yard, still cleaning up.

his ears prick up when he hears the sound of footsteps, leaving the sword room, expecting to see on of his men, when instead he sees you, looking at the bows littered on the ground.

gojo watches as you pick one up, looking around to see if anybody were there, missing the way gojo was hidden in the shadows, and sees you look around for an arrow.

he wonders what that feeling in his chest it, the one that contracts and loosens whenever you’re near.

he goes back into the shed, picking out some arrows for you and walks to where you were.

“here,” he calls out, and you whip your head around, a look of surprise and embarrassment on your face.

your lips slightly part, shocked that it’s your husband who caught you, and you duck your head a little bit as you quickly go to set the bow back down on the ground.

“sorry,” you quickly say, your eyes trialing at the arrows in his hand in a curious sort of way, “i just wanted to, um, hold one.”

gojo snorts, rolling his eyes at your lie as he picks the bow back up from the ground, wiping some of the dirt from earlier from his hands on his pants as you slowly accept it.

“do you know how to shoot?” he asks, his sturdy figure towering over yours as you stare at him, squinting your eyes a little, and finally shake your head no.

he nods, expecting this as he picks up a bow that was resting on the wall, cocking one of the arrows in the as he shows you what he’s doing.

you’ve spoken to him a bit more as of recently, but never enough for you to think he’d be willing to show you how to use a bow.

“line up your arrow with the bowstring,” he demonstrates, “use your non dominant hand to hold it,” you watch silently as he grips it with his left hand.

you do the same thing, the arrow clumsily sliding around until your able to cock it, holding it loosely with your non dominant hand like he said.

“your dominant hand should hold the string between three fingers,” his slender fingers take it in between and he stretches it, “but make sure your wrist is aligned with your fingers.”

you do the same thing, feeling the resistance from the bowstring as you pull it back.

gojo looks over at your legs and clicks his tongue, clearly not liking what he’s seeing. he sets his own bow on the ground as he comes up from behind you.

“your legs should be like this,” his voice is deep, breath hiting the back of your neck as he nudges your legs apart, separating them until one is in front of the other.

your heart is pounding so loudly against your chest your sure the bow is about to vibrate along with it.

his hand cups your elbow, carefully pulling it back as the string groans under the pressure. you feel like you’re sweating your entire body weight in water off right now.

his eyes are focused on your wrist, holding it gently as he lowers it slightly, and you feel his nose slightly brush against the side of your head.

“don’t focus on the tip of your arrow but the target,” his voice comes out barely audible, but you swallow thickly, nodding.

you try your best to focus on the target that’s in front of you, trying to center the bow with the middle.

“let go when you’re ready,” gojo says, his lips near your ears.

you give it a couple seconds, trying to aim as best as you can, before your hand lets go of the string.

you both straighten your backs up, watching as it flies into the target.

the arrow nearly hits the wood around it, so far away from the target itself that it’s almost comical, and you laugh, tilting your head back as shake your head in embarrassment.

“it’s your first time,” he says, trying to help but you shake it off, missing his warmth from behind you as you set the bow back on the wall.

“and my last,” you promise, missing the way he seemed to deflate.

you turn back to gojo, only to see his eyes it filled with the mirth they had only moments ago, this time focused on your left hand.

you look down, trying to figure out what was wrong.

suddenly, you remember that you had taken off you ring a couple days ago, not finding any use in wearing it.

gojo swallows thickly, a strange lump in his chest as he stares at the arrow you had shot and then back to your face.

“i just figured…” you trailed off, biting your lips as you tried to find the words, “you know…” you motioned to his own left hand, void of any ring.

his eyes are a different hue, as if a storm was brewing inside them.

you watched as he dug his hand inside his tunic, tugging something out. your eyes fall to a delicate gold chain, his wedding ring hanging off of it.

“i don’t want it to fall off during training,” he bites out and suddenly your mouth feels dry.

you nod once, eyes fleeting away from his as you nod again, at nothing and everything, and silently leave.

[firingstars]

preciously mine

bucky barnes x medic!reader

summary: based on this request — recruited by the falcon himself and dragged out of your early retirement, you've started to work for the avengers as their one and only medic to keep them functioning and working after each and every mission. after a mission gone wrong, bucky barnes is forced to acknowledge your presence and finally seek out your assistance. after that? it's like the man can't leave you alone.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, unprotected sex, creampie, handjob, oral (f receiving), makeout sesh, slight body worship, light choking, no use of y/n, language, fluff, brief angst, descriptions of injury, flashbacks of ptsd/trauma for reader, bucky's flirting in strange ways, reader is lowk horny, pet names (sweetheart, doll, soldier, sarge)

word count: 16k

a/n: i said i would post this yesterday...... i thought it was in the queue.......... my bad everyone. here it is now. also this was much longer than i intended it to be whoops

masterlist | bonus headcanon

Sterile antiseptic and latex is all you can smell right now as you work on sewing shut the body in front of you. You’d already followed out the previous steps– things that were automatic to your process. The bleeding had already been taken care of, and you were fine to continue on with the rest of your procedure. The wound was cleaned, the site was numbed, and you had the proper tools in hand to start your suturing. 

Your hands were smooth, your movements were precise– there’s no sweat coming off your brow. There’s nothing to be worried about.

“You know,” Sam murmured beneath you, “it would’ve been real nice if you were this calm back when we were on the field in Afghanistan.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “I was a rookie back then. So were you. Now shut up before I ‘accidentally’ stab you with this needle the wrong way, just like the old days.”

“That’s cold,” he whispered, but there’s a smile playing on his lips despite the pain that he’s in– a good sign. There’s some color that’s returned to his face now, and his breathing had finally evened out from how it was when he was first brought to your table. 

You finished out your work on his torso, and bandaged him up. You could go into a long winded spiel on infection, and how he needs to keep the wound area clean to make sure that he doesn’t get sick otherwise he’ll have to come see you, but one look at Sam’s face tells you that you don’t even need to say it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushed off, carefully rolling over to his side to push himself off the table. You cringed slightly at the way he sat up– he’ll pop his stitches at this rate. “I know. You talked my ear off for years.”

“And here I thought, you never listened,” you scoffed, beginning to clean up the area around you.

“Oh, I don’t. I just let you think I do.”

You fight back the desire to roll your eyes at him, and he laughed– or at least he attempted to. Sam’s hand flies to his side, and he groans in pain. Instant karma. The numbing injection could only do so much for the pain, after all.

“Want me to prescribe you some painkillers?” you offered, a hum on your lips.

“Fuck you.”

You grinned, already pulling out a bottle from the medication cabinet to toss over to him. He catches it, obviously, but if he was who he was a few years ago? His reflexes wouldn’t have been this sharp. Sam had come a long way since the Air Force, and you’d be lying if you said that you weren’t proud of him.

Hell, you had come a long way from the Air Force.

You still remembered when he knocked on your door, and asked you if you wanted to join the Avengers initiative. You laughed in his fucking face, thinking that it was a joke– that it was just some funny opener that he was hitting you with after not seeing you for a while to make you smile after your shared grief of losing Riley. But Sam didn’t laugh. 

He said they needed someone reliable, a good medic on the team to patch them up after their missions— told you it was too much work and money to keep flying doctors into the country from other parts of the world. 

You had the same experience that Sam did, which was what he used to argue with you that you were more than qualified to join this team. You couldn’t really say anything against him when he brought up your history together. The two of you had been hand chosen straight out of basic training for the Falcon initiative, which was covered up to be known as the pararescue team that served two tours. 

Sam spent two weeks knocking on your door daily— sometimes multiple times a day. He wasn’t asking anymore. He was begging you to join him, to come back and fight beside him like you once did.  

You told him that you didn’t know if you were worthy of being an Avenger– not after what happened all those years ago. You couldn’t even save the people that you were supposed to protect during the war overseas. How were you supposed to protect the entire world?

So, you compromised. You would be their medic, just like he was asking you to do– but you didn’t want to necessarily join the Avengers in the way that he was doing it. You would keep up with the training to keep your body in shape if they really needed you– but you told Sam that you couldn’t live with yourself again if you lost someone right in front of you on the field. 

He understood. So, saving the world became his thing, while saving the Avengers’ lives became yours.

More times than not, you still ended up joining the Avengers on their longer missions away from the base. You wouldn’t necessarily join them on the ground, but you would stay back on the jet. You would keep an eye on the monitors that tracked each and every single one of their vitals, making sure that none of them entered dangerous territories of stress levels or suddenly passed out somewhere without anyone knowing. 

You were also there as their emergency evac if it was ever needed. You had military experience on the field, but Natasha helped train you to move more stealthily so that you could get across a battlefield without anyone noticing. 

When things were said and done, and if everything went miraculously well, all you had to do at the end of missions was just check up on everyone. Do quick, fine tune-ups, to make sure that everyone was alright– that they were cleared for the next mission without any concussions or any other traumatic brain injuries that would put them out of work for a couple of weeks. 

You’d treated almost every single one of the Avengers at one point. 

Shit– you’d become somewhat of a mechanic and a scientist overnight for what you had to do for these guys. After all– they weren’t fully human.

Steve was the first one to trust you with a more interesting question based on his genetic code. You should’ve expected it, honestly– Steve was the closest to Sam, and Sam constantly sang your praises to anyone that would listen.

“The serum that I was given– I don’t know if you know too much about it,” Steve said with a sigh as you patched up a gash on his arm.

“I’m kinda aware of it,” you hummed. “What’s going on?”

“Well, it’s supposed to accelerate my healing,” he said slowly, “but I feel like my muscles are still too tense these days? Like knots are forming all over my back– I think it’s affecting how I move on missions.”

You paused at his words, nodding slowly. You finished up on his arm before going around behind him, slowly running your hands around his back before sucking in a deep breath. 

“You do have some muscle tension,” you murmured softly. “Do you ever get massages? I think it might help.”

“I didn’t think super soldiers need massages.”

Your hands stopped their examination, and you stared at the back of his head, blinking at him. You let out a slow, deep breath before closing your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself down. 

“Steve… You’re still human. You know that right? Your body will still hold tension and trauma whether you like it or not,” you said slowly.

“... Ah.”

You made Steve come back to your lab once a week so you could bully the knots out of his back, digging your elbows into his muscles until there was nothing left that could cause him discomfort. Then, you made him go see a massage therapist once a month. 

After that, you studied more of his mannerisms. You took note of how long his body healed compared to a regular human, and how fast he could run a mile– how much food he ate compared to Sam. You were studying everything about this enhanced human’s biology in case he came to you with something else.

Except the next person that came to you was Rhodey. Asking if you could help him out with his prosthetic because it wasn’t working properly and he wasn’t able to walk like he usually was.

“I’m not a mechanic,” you said slowly.

“Weren’t you in the Air Force?”

“Yes, but–”

“With Sam?”

“I mean–”

“Then you should have some basic understanding, right?”

“Rhodey–”

“Tony’s not here. You’re the closest help I can get, please.”

You prayed to every God out there that you didn’t fuck up the delicate technology of his metal braces. Honestly– this was more stressful than any other life saving technique that you had to do on the field. 

That night, you studied Stark’s machinery. You opened up his manuscripts and went through his lab. You made his stupid A.I. walk you through everything to help you out with the things that you couldn’t wrap your head around– and when Tony came back from wherever he went? You slammed his blueprints in front of him and made him explain.

That man was a little too excited to talk your ear off. 

Just when you thought that you had finally gotten a break, you had another visitor. One that made your blood run cold when you saw her waiting for you outside your med bay. Still, you invited her inside and asked her what you could do to help her. 

“Sometimes I feel a burning sensation under my skin," Wanda told you as she sat on your examination table. “Do you know what causes that?”

You could only stare at her blankly, a million different thoughts racing through your head. 

NO! you want to scream at her. I DON’T KNOW!!

Instead, you give her a smile and nod in understanding. “Does it feel like that right now?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Is it okay if I take a sample of your blood?” you asked, already moving towards your supplies. “And the next time you feel that burning sensation, come to me immediately so I can take another sample. I want to compare the two different blood samples to see if there’s a difference.”

Wanda nodded like you had somehow made a dent in cracking the code towards her existence as an enhanced individual– but you had no idea what you were doing past rubbing an alcohol wipe on the inside of her elbow and wrapping the tourniquet around her bicep.

Strangely enough– there was a difference in her blood. 

“Overuse,” you told her, exhaustion thick in your voice. “Your powers are burning into your blood, and mixing into your bloodstream. You’re basically ripping your blood cells apart. You need to be more careful, or just get a better grasp on your powers. Try to train more and increase your endurance.”

The only person that you have not had the pleasure of helping?

Sergeant James Barnes.

Part of you believed that he didn’t even know you existed. In fact, if it wasn’t for his curt nods of dismissal when you tried to check him over after missions, then you would’ve completely assumed that he didn’t even know that you were around. 

Bucky had been injured. More than once. You’d seen him walk onto the jet before, limping, holding onto his side, and closing his eyes while trying to pretend that everything was alright. Each time– he denied your help. Well, he didn’t even deny it. He didn’t even talk to you. He actively avoided your gaze, and only nodded at you if it was unavoidable.

You would’ve thought that you had done something to offend him, to bother him– but you had never even had a conversation with this man. No– you’d never even spoken one word to this man. Your interactions with him were limited to a nod, a head shake, and one second eye contact from across the jet. When you were in the compound? He walked straight by you in the hall like you were part of the air in the room.

You wondered if it had anything to do with his former Winter Soldier status, even though he wasn’t that guy anymore Right now, he was just another one of the Avengers to you. Albeit, he was a little grumpy, a tad bit mysterious, and very easy on the eyes.

You weren’t bothered by his lack of visits to your med bay. You figured that he just didn’t want strangers to touch him. You didn’t blame him for that. Besides, it’s not like he was required to use your services whenever he was hurt. You were there to help out if any of them needed you, and that’s all. 

After all— if none of them needed your help ever again, then that was the best gift they could ever bestow upon you.

The supply drawer slid shut with a satisfying click, and a smile fit over your face. 

Finally, you were done organizing the med bay. You’d gotten a new round of supplies a month back while you were out on a week-long mission with half the team, and returned to find that some of the recruits had just… haphazardly restocked your place. You wanted to scream when you saw everything. 

The rational part of you made you realize that you didn’t label any of your drawers or cabinets. Then again, you didn’t ever think that you needed to. It was only you that went through the items, only you that restocked the med bay, and only you that distributed everything. You had your system in your own head, and you didn’t need to explain it to anyone.

Except, it seemed that you needed to now.

You didn’t even have the time to organize everything for a while. The back to back missions, the influx of injuries that rolled through your doors– you had to make do with what you had, and fix everything as you went along, grumbling under your breath.

Now? Everything was right where it should be, even though it was nearing three in the morning. Still, sacrificing your sleep for this was worth it. You would wake up to find your workplace fully functional and prepared for another work week, and you would send out an order for the next restock to be simply left in its box if you’re not around to take care of it yourself. 

“Visitor outside Med Door One,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice suddenly rang through your lab, alerting you.

You paused, sitting up straighter on your stool as you turned towards the door– Med Door One was near where the hangar was. It was where the team would filter in after they came back from missions. You weren’t aware of anyone being dispatched. 

“Unfrost the glass, please,” you muttered, eyebrows still furrowed.

“Right away,” the A.I. replied immediately.

The entire glass wall turned clear, and you startled. Bucky was standing on the other side of the glass, a trickle of blood coming down from his temple along with a bruise on his cheek. He was nursing his vibranium arm, clutching it towards his torso, and leaning against the glass slightly. His eyes met yours without the obstruction in the way, and you immediately shifted out of your seat, breath catching in your throat.

“Unlock the doors,” you ordered, already moving towards him.

The glass slid open, and Bucky pushed off the walls. The man gave you a brief nod of acknowledgment as he attempted to appear undeterred by the injuries all over his body. 

“Didn’t think you’d be awake,” he forced out.

“I didn’t think you were gone,” you breathed, hands shooting out on either side of him in case he stumbled forth. “What happened to you?”

“Solo op,” he grunted, a low hiss escaping through his teeth as he took a few steps forth. “Left early this mornin’.”

“Jesus, Barnes,” you whispered, backing up slowly as he continued to step forward. Your eyes raced all over him, trying to take in his physical state. It was hard to decipher how badly he was injured with all his tactical gear still on his body, but from the way he was limping? “Why didn’t you radio back to base?”

“I made it back in one piece, didn’t I?” 

You don’t know whether to feel relieved or to shoot him where he stands. 

For now, you choose to lead him to the examination table instead, and you’re grateful that the soldier doesn’t dismiss you like he usually does when he’s injured. There’s a soft noise of pain that exits his lips when he manages to sit down, and you’re already reaching for your gloves.

“Is it okay if I take a look at you?”

“My arm is what’s killin’ me the most,” he muttered. “If you can do anything for that, then shit– go ahead. I think there’s a wire out of place in the bicep.”

Your hands freeze mid-pull of the latex glove, and your eyes drop down to the glistening vibranium arm. You can see it– the slight tremor of the metal, the involuntary twitching against his body as Bucky attempts to keep the prosthetic under his control. You suck in a tight breath, and remove the gloves on your hand, and go for a different drawer in your office– a toolbox that you had for when Rhodey came to bother you. 

Bucky looked briefly surprised when you turned back towards him, dragging your stool with you to sit in front of him, but there was no protest. His flesh hand dropped back down to his lap, and he let out a small sigh.

“Do the plates just pop out?” you asked softly, swallowing thickly. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t nervous about this. Now that you were sitting right in front of him, you could hear the faint buzzing coming from within his arm, almost mocking you about your lack of experience with this kind of thing.  

“Yeah– just… be gentle,” he murmured, his voice tight. 

Your eyes flitted back up to his face, meeting his gaze. He didn’t look nervous per se, but he didn’t look relaxed either. His body was wound up tightly– and you had always known Bucky to already be a pretty tense guy. Even for him, this was pretty bad. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders were squared off– even his thigh muscles were flexed like he was waiting for the impact of something to hit him.

You could chalk it up to the fact that he had other injuries that were bothering him, but that wouldn’t be right either. You weren’t sure where his solo mission took him, but if Bucky didn’t even try to patch himself up on the way back to the base, then you were certain that he wasn’t even able to take care of himself with the amount of stress that his arm was putting him in. 

Shit– you weren’t even sure that Bucky ever had an issue with his arm in the past before, let alone let anyone touch it before. You didn’t even think Tony was allowed to make tweaks with it after Wakanda gifted it to him. If there had been any issues with his arm, then there weren't any incident reports logged in that you were ever made away of. 

“Can you take your arm off for me?” 

“With how it’s shocking my every nerve right now? I really wish I could.”

A shaky breath exited your lips as you looked back down at his arm– the vibranium seemingly shining back into your eyes under the sterile lighting of your lab. It really was pretty. You enjoyed looking at his arm– to steal a glance at it on the jet whenever you had the chance. 

Slowly, you reached out to touch him. You wondered briefly if he could feel the weight of your hands underneath the metal– if there were some sensors that were built into the new prosthetic that was gifted to him. You wondered how badly his arm was hurting him right now, and if your touch only added to the pain he was feeling.

You gently traced over the vibranium, your eyes studying the onyx and gold design as you felt each groove and plat beneath your fingertips. You were searching for the point of impact– where he had sustained the most damage for him to be complaining of some kind of pain. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you the entire time, watching you with an intensity that made your heart race.

It could be from the fact that you’d never treated him before. He’d never been under your care– he’d never been one of your patients. Out of the lengthy time that you had worked with him, this was the closest that you had ever been to the man, and this was the first and longest conversation that you had with him. You could laugh, honestly. You wanted to, if it weren’t for the fact that you had to deal with Wakandan technology and the highest level of technology you were ever formally trained to deal with was U.S. military.

You reached for your toolbox, and released a breath. You steadied your hands. This would be like any other procedure– you didn’t have to be nervous. If anything, the stakes were lower. There was no blood. Just some open fucking nerve endings that were directly connected to his arm, shooting pain directly into the rest of his body.

No pressure at all.

Gently, the plates on his arm came open. A soft puff of air escaped your lips– one that you didn’t even know you were holding. Your heart still hammered in your chest regardless, and you were certain that Bucky could hear it from how close you were to him. Maybe he could even sense the anxiety rolling off of you. If he did, he didn’t say anything– didn’t even make it known that he noticed. 

You were careful as you placed each of the vibranium pieces on the bedside table next to you, memorizing exactly which piece went where, and not taking out more than what needed to come out. You studied the hinges inside his arm, making sure that there wasn’t anything that you were missing as you took him apart.

Then, you saw it. 

The soft, electrical shock in his arm– a wire connected inside. 

“Fuck– what happened?” you murmured, eyes narrowing at the inside of his arm before you reached for the next appropriate tools.

“Asshole jammed this thing in between the plates– pumped me with several thousand watts of electricity. I think I’m lucky only one wire came loose,” he murmured back to you.

“Thing, huh?” you repeated with a laugh. “Can’t even tell me what it was?”

“I was a little busy trying not to die, sweetheart.” Despite the amount of pain he was feeling, he was well enough to hit you with a sarcastic remark— a great sign of his physical and mental wellbeing.

“Well, you did good on that front,” you told him, and looked up to meet his gaze before giving him a grin. “I’ll put you back into one piece, soldier.”

There was a soft chuckle of a response from him— gentle and light. Your hands paused, allowing the moment to pass before you went back into his arm to start poking and prodding once again. (This was an excuse. You wanted to listen to the soft rumble of his laughter.)

You tore your gaze away from his face, and looked back down to his arm, trying to focus once more at the task at hand. 

“I’ll contact Wakanda tomorrow morning… Talk to Princess Shuri, make sure that there isn’t anything else I need to do for you,” you said softly as you began to connect the wire back into its rightful socket. You took a mental note of the positioning, the color of the wiring, and everything else that you could think of. “Make sure that there’s nothing that we need to replace or fix so that it doesn’t become some sort of chronic pain for you.”

“You don’t have to do all of that,” Bucky sighed, shaking his head in dismissal. “It’s fine– I’ll figure it out if it happens again.”

“Are you gonna be able to pry apart the plates yourself if your arm goes to shit— You wanna scratch Wakandan vibranium?” you asked, glancing up at his face briefly.

Bucky met your eyes, and closed his mouth. He just stared back at you, and didn’t respond. You gave him a small smile, then turned back to the metal in front of you. You let out a small gasp as the wire finally connected, and the small buzzing noise in his arm stopped. 

“Flex your hand– be careful. Your arm is open. Think of it as if your arm is skinned,” you quickly warned him, almost frantic with your words.

“You’re kinda dramatic, Doc.”

“I’m being cautious, Sarge. Have you ever tried that?” you shot back.

A small scoff fell from his lips, and Bucky rolled his eyes– but there was a twitch of his lips, like he was mildly amused. It was there, just ever so slightly there, before it was gone– replaced by the perpetual stoic and generally irritated look he usually wore. 

Bucky’s fingers twitched first, almost as if he was afraid to move. The movement was slight and slow, but he eventually created a full fist with a slow breath exiting his lips. Soon, his palm opened back up, and he felt brave enough to lift his arm halfway up, and your own sigh of relief escaped your body. 

“You fixed me,” he reported, his entire body relaxing with his words.

“Told you I would. Now try not to die from things out in the field,” you hummed. 

“Alright—“

“I’ll get some replacement parts for wires and plates sent over from Wakanda,” you cut him off, humming to yourself. You reached for the loose plates that were at your side table, ready to put him back together. “I think you got lucky that nothing was fully damaged– just dislodged– but you’re not leaving my med bay without stitches on your flesh wounds though.”

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t argue with you. After you carefully put back together his metal arm, you were able to move onto his actual body– which was a hell of a lot easier on your nerves than the vibranium Wakandan tech on him. 

You breathed easier when your mind wasn’t racing a thousand miles an hour, and you didn’t have to force your hands to stop shaking under the constant pressure of fearing that something would go wrong. Bucky, of course, was as still as a statute the entire time. You were just glad that he didn’t complain when you told him to take off his gear so you could inspect his body. 

The sun was coming up over the horizon by the time you were done with your full examination on the soldier. You’d gone through several syringes of lidocaine in stronger doses– something that you learned that needed to be done when you had to patch up Steve– and had laced even more stitches through Bucky’s skin, but the man was finally in one whole piece before you. 

“If you take those stitches out yourself, I’ll kill you,” you threatened under your breath as you watched him slide off the table. “Come back here in three days.”

“Only three?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“You and Steve heal faster than the others,” you dismissed, clearing off the last of your workspace. “I’ll come look for you in two days and check your progress, but I think three should be more than enough. How’s the arm?”

Bucky’s arm rotated from the shoulder in a quick circular motion, and you could hear the gears whirring as he moved. His hand opened and closed experimentally, then he extended his arm outwards. All the while– the light shined upon the vibranium plates, the golden detailing gleaming against the black like starlight. It really was like artwork attached directly towards his body. 

You had to remind yourself to not openly stare at him.

“Good as new. I’ll let you know if it bothers me again,” he told you, grabbing his gear that you had stripped off of his body so you could have examined him properly. 

He was barely halfway out the door when you spoke again.

“I’m putting you on bed rest until those stitches come out, soldier.”

Bucky froze in his place, and turned back to look at you– to see if you were being serious about what you had just said. You could only give him an innocent smile before you sent off the report on your tablet. Moments later, a matching buzz resounded on his own phone– everyone on the team was now aware that he wasn’t allowed to be on missions or in training.

“You fuckin’ traitor,” he whispered, betrayal and a hint of respect written all over his face.

Strange things began to happen around you.

You sent out the order to make sure that no one would restock your lab on their own, only to find out that someone else had already done it for you.

Except, there was no log of it.

There wasn’t an incident report, and none of the recruits would tell you. In fact, they all looked like they were about to shit their pants whenever you brought it up. Last time you pressed one of the recruits, they ended up scrambling to check the security cameras because they mistakenly believed that you were asking because someone else had restocked your med bay without your permission and they needed to find out who to rat out. 

You had no idea what was going on. You didn’t even get a chance to tell them that no one had restocked– that you were just trying to get answers on who gave the order out before you could. In the end, it benefitted you, so you weren’t too upset about it. 

If this was all that happened, then maybe you would’ve left everything alone. Maybe the coincidences wouldn’t have bothered you as much.

You mentioned to Natasha that you were running out of your preferred bullet rounds– but it wasn’t urgent for Tony to order since it wasn’t often that you actually ended up going out into the field. You just wanted to let her know for whenever she did a bulk order of her own rounds so she could add your casings to it.

Two days later, you had a whole box on your bed, along with two extra handguns. It was the exact same brand and type that you specifically used– one that Natasha normally told you had you waitlisted for a few months when she ordered it directly from the supplier from how difficult it was to make. Naturally, you brought it up with the assassin the next time you saw her.

“I didn’t order anything yet,” she said, shaking her head. “I order everything at the end of the month, remember?”

“But on my bed…” you trailed off, gesturing down the hall towards your room. “Who got me the casings?”

Natasha only tilted her head at you, eyebrows furrowing as she stared at you. “I didn’t order anything,” she repeated to you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine,” you said slowly then shook your head. “Never mind. I must’ve– uh. Sorry. I thought I was running out of ammo. I’m good. You don’t have to order me anything.”

Her confusion only deepened with your words, but you were spiraling. You managed to dismiss yourself from the conversation before you made things even more awkward. 

It wasn’t even limited to supplies or work-related items. 

After sending out a text in the shared group chat asking to borrow a phone charger for a couple hours because yours was acting up, you found yourself with a new phone charger in your room that same night– in the box with the plastic wrap untouched and everything. 

Later, you found a gift box on your work desk. Upon further inspection, you found that someone had mysteriously gifted you an assortment of your favorite time of the month snacks along with a fresh bottle of Tylenol. You were briefly disturbed, only until a brief memory came to mind of you asking Clint to pick up some feminine products from the store for you when he went out into the city.

“I only got you those pads and tampons you asked me for,” he said, holding his hands up in defense when you cornered him in the hall. “Besides, how would I know that you liked Ferrero Rocher chocolate? Or dried mangoes? You do your own grocery shopping unlike the rest of us– we make Tony have our shit delivered to the compound every other week since we’re too fuckin’ lazy to go out into the city. I only went out because I was getting some shit for my kids, and stopping at the store was just on the way–”

“You’re the only one I mentioned to that my period was coming up,” you hissed at him, frowning. “Are you the one that got me those guns, too?”

“Shit, someone got you guns and chocolate? You have a secret admirer, doc?” he asked, a teasing grin matching the light in his eyes. “I’m not gonna lie, that sounds like one hell of a way to flirt. Has your suitor tried getting you a new scalpel yet? Maybe some latex gloves?”

You’ve never wanted to strangle the archer so bad in your life. Unfortunately you took the Hippocratic Oath, and you had to let him free.

Your breaking point came when you said you wanted to start reading again in your free time, but had no idea what to read. An assortment of different books were waiting for you— science fiction, self help, and fantasy. All different things you enjoyed, but had never once spoken out loud. 

You searched the security cameras. You set up your own cameras in discrete corners, and didn’t tell a single soul. Whoever was leaving you these little gifts either didn’t exist, or had some sort of power that allowed them to be undetected by modern technology because you could never catch them. 

F.R.I.D.A.Y. was specifically ordered not to allow anyone into your room or med lab without your permission— only for you to find a pair of brand new combat boots waiting for you at the edge of your bed. 

The stupid fucking A.I. wouldn’t even tell you who managed to break through her security protocols. Tony couldn’t even figure it out, much to his dismay. Part of you felt bad for giving him something else to work on, on top of upgrading the entire team’s gear— but shit someone managed to bypass a Level One order and there wasn’t a trace. 

“I thought you were my friend,” you said into the void. 

“I apologize, doctor,” the A.I. replied to you. 

“I’m not a doctor,” you scoffed, shaking your head as you organized your notes on your most recent findings on Steve— the man purposely didn’t sleep as much as he should, but when he didn’t have anything to do? He slept like a man who had more than twenty four hours in one day. 

“The others refer to you as a doctor,” a new voice chimed in as the doors to your med bay slid open. 

“Didn’t go to med school, Barnes,” you said, pushing back from your desk to take a look at him.

Bucky was dressed in a compression shirt that left little to imagination, and you wondered if there was really no other size left for him to take when he joined the team. Then again, he also could’ve just gained all that muscle. Still, he could’ve worn another fucking shirt before coming to your lab. You could see every single line and ridge of his muscles with each movement and breath. 

“How can I help?” you asked, deciding to play off your blatant staring as a medical check.

“I have a contusion,” Bucky said.

“What?” you barked out before you could stop yourself. 

“You know, internal bleeding caused by—“

“I know what a bruise is,” you cut him off, holding a hand up to stop him from speaking further. “I— what do you want me to do about that?”

“Don’t you check out our injuries?” he asked, as if he was speaking the obvious. Which— yes. Obviously. You did check out their injuries. But none of them came to you for a fucking bruise. 

You could only stare at him, briefly wondering if the man was bullshitting you. Was this his attempt for conversation after fixing his arm, after ignoring your presence for who knows how long?

He wasn’t backing down from this. 

Bucky held your gaze, expectant and waiting for you to do something about his playground injury. You quickly realized that you would be fighting a losing battle if you didn’t just give in to his request. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Show me your… contusion.”

He took off his fucking shirt.

Your mouth went dry– and if you weren’t blatantly ogling him before? You definitely were now. You thought the compression shirt left little to your imagination? You were wrong. There was plenty hiding underneath the thin piece of fabric that he uncovered for you, now fully showcased. 

A thin layer of sweat clung onto his body, and you guessed that he had come straight from the gym— which would explain why his body looked so fucking massive right now. You watched as his chest rose and fell with each breath, how his abdomen muscles rippled as he shifted to the side to drape his shirt over a free table. 

Last time he was in your med bay, there was no need for him to strip down to his skin. He didn’t complain of any torso injuries, just some lacerations on his face, arm, and another cut to his leg that you took care of. 

Honestly, the human body shouldn’t affect you like this, not when you’ve studied it like your life depended on it, but this was different. This was a walking statue of pheromones and all things unholy and filled with temptation. 

“Doc?” Bucky called out to you, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Where’s the bruise, Sarge?” you asked, snapping out of it as fast as you could. 

The soldier turned his back to you, and you felt the final nail plunge into your coffin. He straightened his spine, his back muscles shifting along in the process as he did. You couldn’t help but lock your gaze onto him, the broad shoulders, the large wingspan of him—  Jesus Christ. 

Yeah. You were going to hell.

You forced yourself to collect your thoughts, clearing your throat lightly as you looked down his back. You saw it. The light purplish blue spot. Gently, you reached out, fingers resting upon his warm skin. Bucky didn’t flinch, but you didn’t press against him to elicit such a reaction either. You simply just grazed upon the hurt, feeling for any swelling or lump.

“Doesn’t feel like a hematoma, doesn’t appear to be large enough to be one either,” you muttered, a frown settling upon your face. “You’ll be fine, Barnes. Why did you come to me for this?”

Bucky shrugged, already reaching for his shirt. “Just making sure that it wasn’t anything serious.”

“I’m watching the discoloring fade back into your regular skin color in real time,” you pointed out, still zoned in on the injury. It was a fascinating scene– being able to watch as his body healed itself before your very eyes.

“Then write it down in your notes,” he said, tugging the black fabric of his shirt back over his head. “Better yet– start a file for me with all the other freaks on the team that you take care of. James Buchnanan Barnes, in case you forgot my full name.”

You almost missed it. The hint of jealousy in his voice– the way he didn’t turn back to meet your gaze. Your eyebrow twitched slightly as you stared at the back of his head, assessing him in a way that you had never seen him before.

You cleared your throat, and reached to push a couple files to the side. Bucky couldn’t help but let his curiosity get the better of him as he heard you shuffle some papers around.

A smile fit over his face as he saw it on your desk– clear as day. A folder with his name written on it, with your handwritten notes already tucked away neatly inside of them. When his pretty blue eyes met yours, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile.

“I’ll add your little boo-boo to your incident report log, soldier.”

“You fuckin’ suck, sweetheart.”

Despite his words, Bucky still kept coming to you. In fact, you began to see more of him than you had ever seen before. It’s as if the barrier between the two of you had somehow got torn apart like it was never there.  

The next time he came to you, you almost ripped your brain apart. You were completely, extremely, and utterly distraught, as if you had somehow managed to miss something in the few years of research that you had been doing on Steve.

“You… have a headache?” you asked him slowly.

“Yeah. A horrible migraine,” he replied, nodding to you.

“Rate it on a scale of one to ten,” you told him, already reaching for your computer to pull up Steve’s archived notes. “Ten being: Please sedate me bad.”

“Uh– six.”

Your fingers paused over your keyboard. That wasn’t a horrible number, but not the best either– especially not for a super soldier. Six usually meant that the pain deterred a person from being able to do their tasks without thinking about the symptoms they were under, and he described his headache as a migraine. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you took in a sharp breath, looking back at him.

“Yeah, fine– sorry,” you muttered quickly, quickly browsing through Steve’s medical history. You didn’t find a single thing that could help you, and a soft curse exited your lips. You reached for your gloves, and quickly crossed the room towards him, already herding him towards where you wanted him to go. “Can you get on the examination table for me?”

“It’s– it’s a headache,” he stuttered, bewildered at your sudden hovering.

“Steve said that he doesn’t get headaches, and the serum that you got was developed after him which means that technically– you should be developmentally better than him biologically speaking,” you told him.

From the look in your eye, Bucky couldn’t help but listen to your orders, and got on the table. You kept him in your med bay for a while, trying to figure out why the hell his head was hurting– but he stuck to the same script. Said he woke up wrong, and the pain just kept increasing throughout the day.

There was an abnormal amount of muscle tension across his neck and back when you ran your hands across his body, but there weren't any of the same muscle knots that Steve had. 

“I stretch before and after training,” he muttered when you brought it up. His voice was a bit lower, slightly thicker. You figured it was from the pain he was feeling in his head. 

“You and Steve might just be carrying tension in your muscles differently,” you said with a frown, smoothing your hands over his shoulders. “He has back pain. You get headaches– makes sense though– are the headaches left side dominated since the metal weighs you down? I see you compensate for the weight, but when you’re tired you sometimes lean.”

Bucky paused for a second, then looked over his shoulder at you. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything, Barnes.”

His eyes stayed fixed onto your face for a bit, something unreadable in his gaze. You watched as he wet his lips slowly, and turned to face forward again. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the actions under your hands.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Left side dominant migraine.”

“I’m prescribing you 2000mg of ibuprofen.”

Bucky spun around to face you once more, and you could read the expression on his face this time– fucking shock and doubt. “Sweetheart, are you trying to kill my liver? What the hell are you going to do when it shuts down from shock?”

“Did you forget who you are, soldier?” you asked, staring at him with equal amounts of disbelief. “Your liver will chew through a regular dose of 200mg of ibuprofen and shit it out like it’s a tic tac– take 2000mg or you’ll spend the rest of the week with your own personal drummer using your head as its instrument.”

He grumbled, but you watched him swallow down the cup of pills you poured out from your stash in the medicine cabinet along with the water from your own personal water bottle. You quietly realized you would need to get a water dispenser in the med lab. Even so, you weren't in any rush to do so as you drank out of the same water bottle when he left.

Bucky continued to come to you for more… superficial wounds that didn’t require you to do a full body examination on him. You never meant to downplay the injury or the pain that he may or may not be feeling, but the super soldier came to you for you to blow on his scrapes. You were wondering what the hell his thought process was in his head, but you also couldn’t just turn away a patient. 

He had the leg of his sweatpants tugged up past his knee, but the fabric was strained against the thick muscle of his thigh. You had to force yourself to ignore the fact the stitches were basically ripping at the seams.

“This will heal in like, an hour, Bucky,” you told him. “You barely fell on your knee– this was definitely through the clothes.”

“You stopped calling me by my last name,” he said, ignoring your words of examination. His voice was soft– softer than you had ever heard it before. “When did that happen?” 

Suddenly, you were keenly aware of the fact that you were kneeling in front of him– the position you had so naturally assumed when he had exposed his leg to you, and he was just staring down at you. You could feel the warmth creeping up your neck, and you knew that he could see it. 

“Focus, soldier,” you replied, snapping your fingers in front of his face. You pointed your index finger between his face and yours, connecting a line between his eyes to yours. “Back to the scrape.” 

You didn’t know if you were telling him or yourself, honestly. There was a smile on his face that you would later categorize in your notes as devastating. You could barely tear your eyes away from his, looking back down at the already healing injury.

That day, you sent Bucky away with a saline wash and a bandaid slapped onto the joint, knowing full well that he would be fine. You hoped that he wouldn’t come back with something stupidly bad for your heart, but no. 

He just came back with something stupid period. 

“Back in my day, people used to die from papercuts. Did the Aerospace Medical Training not teach you that, Doc?” he mocked you.

“Did you Google which training I got?” you rolled your eyes at him. “Didn’t know that you knew how to use search engines, Sarge.”

“I asked Sam, actually,” he grunted, almost like he didn’t even want to admit it to you. 

“You spoke to him. Good for you,” you said, pretending to look impressed. “Did you guys argue before he told you who trained me? Did he tell you that I graduated top of my class, too? While we’re on the topic, let me tell you that I also retired from the military with the highest of honors–”

“Can you shut the hell up and look at my injury before I die from some unknown disease?” he cut you off.

You held his pointer finger in your hand, glaring at the tip of it like the pad of it owed you something. “There’s nothing here, Buck.”

“Do you need glasses? Goggles, maybe? I’m sure Sam can hook you up with that,” he chuckled, clearly happy with himself for the jab.

You really tried to fight back the smile that threatened to creep up onto your face, but failed miserably. You couldn’t help it. You also made fun of Sam the first time you saw him in his hero uniform– sent the picture straight to his sister and the two of you spent a good two hours on the phone cackling in front of him.

“There’s no papercut,” you told him again, releasing his finger. “And even if there was– people don’t die from papercuts anymore. Of course, unless you’re not fully vaccinated. And at that point… I don’t know what to tell you. Are you not vaccinated, soldier?”

“I’m vaccinated against everything that exists,” he informed you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What’s the vaccine called? H.Y.D.R.A. serum?” you shot back.

His reply came just as quick. “Yes, actually.”

“Sounds like some good stuff– how many times did you have to get it for it to be this effective? Do I gotta get it once a year like a flu shot?” you joked. 

“Just once, but there were all these different side effects, doll. Like, frying my brain, my personal agency ripped from me for several decades, and insane amounts of trauma– crazy shit. Don’t recommend it. I’d stick to what the CDC pushes out to the regular civilians,” he said, and waved a dismissive hand in the air. 

You had to bite back a laugh, covering your mouth with a hand as you looked to the side. You weren’t even sure if you were allowed to laugh at his trauma laced up with a pretty bow. 

“It was funny, you gotta admit,” Bucky said, nodding to himself more than to you. When you looked back at him, there was a charming smile on his face, one that you couldn’t even believe that he had on at that moment.

“You are awful.”

“And I’m still at risk of dying from an infection. Sweetheart, you gotta get me right,” he told you, a hint of a Brooklyn accent peeking from under his words. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a slight tingle than ran through your entire being at the sound of his voice.

You cleared your throat, attempting to steel your mind and soul once more since your body clearly wasn't listening to you. “Didn’t you just tell me that you were immune to every disease possible?”

Bucky’s lips parted, and he cocked his head to the side as if he was trying hard to formulate an excuse. You waited patiently as you watched him shut his mouth, and look over to the side as if your closed medicine cabinets would give him some answers.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he settled with.

“Do you just come here for me to lick your wounds?” you asked, moving to go sit down at your desk. You couldn’t help but tease him a little. “Because I’m starting to think all you do is come here to waste my time.”

He shrugged, a little noncommittally. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to a friend.”

“A friend,” you echoed, a chuckle leaving you. 

“Yes, a friend,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow at you suspiciously. “Why do you say it like that?”

“I just– I didn’t realize that’s what we were,” you admitted.

Once more, the man in front of you paused. This time, there was a crease between his eyebrows as he looked at you, and his hands fell to his sides. Confusion was evident on his face. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, the start of a frown beginning to settle over his face.

The change in the air was clear. Colder, and even though he was right in front of you, he had felt farther away than he had ever been before. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you looked away from him, down at your desk in front of you. “We’ve worked together for years. You didn’t bother with me until three weeks ago, Bucky. Coworkers, yes. But friends? I didn’t think we were close enough for that.”

“You take care of the entire team as it is– was it wrong for me to try and take care of myself?” he defended himself.

Your gaze flitted over to him quickly, finding that he was leaning over one of your worktables, arms crossed in front of him. He was genuinely upset, you realized. You couldn’t figure out why. 

“No, Bucky– I’m just saying. You never even talked to me before,” you sighed, shaking your head. “At some point, I just gave up on communicating with you all together. If it weren’t for the fact you nodded at me during missions, then I would’ve fully believed that you just didn’t think I was there.”

“Of course I knew you were there,” he replied back instantly. “But you were busy. With everyone and everything else. Me and Steve heal faster than the rest of them, but you always seem to try and check up on us first.”

“Because you two never seem to take care of yourselves— it’s my job to take care of you,” you stressed to him. 

“I never asked you to do that for me!” he shouted at you.

You blinked at him, taken aback. Did he just yell at you?

 It took you a second to collect yourself, to be able to even look him in the eye without the last bit of your patience snapping. 

“It’s in my job description, just like it’s in yours to take care of me if I have to go out in the field for an evac, Barnes.”

“We’re going back to last names?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you. The edge in his voice was sharp, thick. It made you want to smack the attitude out his mouth. “So we really aren’t friends after all?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat. You brought your hands up to cover your face. “What the fuck is your issue with how I address you? Barnes is your name isn’t it?”

“Well, excuse me– I thought we were closer than that,” he said, spitting your words right back at you. 

You sucked in a deep breath before dragging your hands down your face to look at him without any obstruction.

“Okay, sure– then why did you ignore my existence for so fucking long despite us being on the same team? Even if you don’t need my help, it doesn’t explain you pretending I’m nothing but air around you up until recently,” you demanded from him. 

“I just– I didn’t want to add to your workload,” he told you, shaking his head.

“And you think that coming into my med bay with a fucking papercut isn’t increasing my workload? I have other shit to take care of,” you scoffed at him, voice laced with sarcasm. Your body felt the regret before your mind caught up with you– and you wanted to scream. The words had come out faster than you could stop it. 

Bucky’s body tensed, and his eyes dropped down to the metal table before him. His fingers tapped along it, a soft beat resounding against the silence as he nodded slowly, processing your words. Then, there was a wave of calm that rushed through him. His body loosened. Accepted your words as if they were scripture. 

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice softer, and his fingers stopped moving. He stood up tall, and didn’t look at you again. “I got the message. I won’t add to your busy plate. I know you have a lot going on.”

Bucky moved towards the doors. Something told you that he wouldn’t come back if you let him leave– even if he had some sort of grave injury. He would definitely try to take care of it himself.

There was a tightness in your chest that you wouldn’t be able to explain in medical terms. There were no heart palpitations or anxiety attacks. No, this was just you being a fucking asshole to him. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., lock the doors and frost the glass,” you ordered as fast as you could.

Bucky had to step back quickly, otherwise his foot would’ve gotten caught with how the doors came sliding shut. Finally, the soldier turned to look at you where you sat at your desk, frowning at him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. unlock the doors,” Bucky said, holding your gaze.

“I can’t do that, Sergeant,” she replied, making a sigh of relief exit your lips. 

“You stupid fucking A.I. —“

“We’re in my lab,” you interjected his words, running your hand through your hair. “Within these walls, she listens to me. Well, usually she does. I still need Tony to fuckin’ fix her and tell me who’s been sneaking past my shut down protocols to sneak presents into my rooms when I’m not around.”

Bucky tongued at his cheek as his eyes narrowed at you. “Thought we weren’t close. Why are you holding me hostage in your lab, sweetheart?”

You released a breath, and gave him a small, weak smile. One that you hoped looked sincere. You watched as Bucky’s exterior slowly melted away as he stared at you, and you let out a shaky breath.

“You’re not adding to my workload– I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” you whispered, still keeping your eyes locked onto his. “I like it when you come to visit me, even if it's for some stupid shit that I have to log into your file, but if you just wanted to be my friend– you don’t have to make up excuses to come and see me. You can just… come visit me.”

The silence was loud. You didn’t dare look away from him, afraid he would take it the wrong way if he did. Then, you saw it. A slight shake of his shoulders. 

The smallest of laughs escaped his lips, and he shook his head, chin tilting downwards to his chest until he was looking at his feet. You could see the slight tug of his lips, curling upwards into a smile.

“Activate Override: Protocol Doc authorized by White Wolf, F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” Bucky spoke.

You pushed out of your seat quickly, lips parting. You felt betrayal deep in your bones as you watched as the doors slid right open, and the glass turned clear once more– and there was a disastrous smile on Bucky’s face that stole the air from your lungs as he met your eyes.

“It was you–”

“We’re not gonna be friends, sweetheart,” he told you, a chuckle on his lips as he turned towards the door. “I don’t leave flowers and chocolate for my friends on their beds.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Flowers? I haven't gotten flowers!”

Bucky didn’t respond to you. The man just walked right out of the med bay, forgetting about the papercut injury that threatened his health, and left you with that fat piece of information to sit on. 

When you regained your senses, you rushed out towards the door, but it was useless. He was already gone. You couldn’t find him on either side of the hall. Your next stop was your bedroom, and just like Bucky said– there was a bouquet of fresh flowers waiting for you on the edge of your bed.

You could feel your blood pressure rising with each passing moment. 

The monitors mounted on the walls of the jet were blaring at you with different warning lights on each of the Avengers– showing you where each of them had sustained critical injury. Every few moments, an explosion went off, causing the aircraft to tremble with you inside of it.

“Can I get a status report?” you asked, eyes glued onto the screens.

Static crackled right back to you through your earpiece before it connected– you could hear the sounds of battle and gunfire. The sounds of the team shouting over each other to take cover, to watch each other’s six– it was too much. 

“Someone talk to me!” you shouted. “Do you need an evac?!”

“Stay put!” Steve barked on the other end. “It’s too dangerous for you to–”

The ground shook beneath the jet, toppling you over. The comms cut off into a buzzing silence as you hit the metal floors, your heart racing in your chest– that wasn’t just a mini explosion set off by Tony or Rhodey. That was something bigger. More lethal and heavy.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. get them back online!” you ordered as you scrambled to your feet, slamming your hands on the sides of the monitors to force them to reconnect with everyone’s suits. 

Slowly, the screens came back to life– and your stomach dropped through your body. Critical warnings were showing onto the screen before you. A gaping hole in the side of his torso that ripped through his gear. Foreign bodies were detected to have entered his skin– and the scans could barely show it but you were certain there were broken bones.

“Evac– Am I evacuating Bucky?” you demanded, trying to will your voice to stay even as you connected through the comms. 

Radio silence. The only noise that greeted you back was the sound of your own heart pumping wildly through your ears. 

You moved quickly, grabbing the keys to the motorbike that was docked at the end of the jet. There wasn’t any time to wait– not when the entire team was injured badly, and Bucky was potentially dying out in the middle of the field. You swung your leg over the seat, and removed the hooks that kept the bike in place–

You froze.

You had no information.

If you went out onto the field, you would be going into a warzone without any eyes or ears to let you know where to go. You’d be going in blind, creating more of a liability for the rest of the team to try and take care of while you pulled Bucky out of there. 

You had a failsafe. If they needed you to come out, and couldn’t reach you through the earpiece, then Tony would’ve contacted you through F.R.I.D.A.Y.. You had been instructed by Steve to stay put. Disobeying direct orders would put the entire mission, the team, and you at risk.

Your hands trembled as you rehooked the bike into place, and slowly unmounted the seat. All you could do was prep the examination table in the jet, pulling it from the middle of the floor, and grabbing out all the supplies that you could possibly need. 

All you could do was wait for the dust to settle, to watch the monitors for any more injuries that inevitably came– and pray to every higher being out there that Bucky’s heart didn’t give out before they brought him back to you.

Your earpiece crackled to life after what had seemed like an eternity. 

“Incoming!” Sam yelled, and you immediately moved to open the rear ramp. 

The shape that Sam was in– it made you want to throw up. His goggles were cracked, suit ripped in several different areas. This mission went sideways and been thrown upside down more times than you could’ve counted. 

But Bucky– he made your heart stop. His skin was nearly devoid of color, and blood fell down his body with each passing second in thick droplets. His lips were pale, dry, and cracked. Soot and ash caked onto his face, his hair sticking onto his forehead with a mixture of sweat and dirt. You didn’t even know where to start when you looked at him.

Sam dropped him onto the table, and you immediately took to his side, fingers pressing against the pulse point on his neck. It was faint, but there– but still wasn’t good enough for what you needed. 

“What happened?” you breathed out.

“Cap lost his shield– fucking RPG came out of nowhere. Bucky threw himself in front of it– blocked Steve from getting the blast, but he took the brunt of it,” Sam said, watching as you ripped open Bucky’s vest. 

Your eyes immediately fell on Bucky’s torso, your lips parting in shock. Shrapnel was buried deep into his side– but his body was already rapidly healing around it. You’d never seen this before– not with Bucky or Steve. This was different. Bucky’s body healed faster the more it was damaged.

“An RPG?” you whispered, meeting Sam’s eyes. 

Your hands were shaking. You didn’t see what happened, sure, but just from the looks of it– from what you were seeing in front of you? Bucky unconscious, the labored breaths, the blood seeping out from his side– the weapon that took him down– it was too much.

The flashbacks of everything were coming back to you. The failure, the fear–

“He’s still alive,” Sam cut through your thoughts, grabbing your wrist. “Don’t freak out on me now. We’re not back in the trenches. I need you to focus because Buck’s not the only one injured right now.”

As if on queue, everyone else started piling into the jet. A shaky breath exited your lips as you watched them limp on board, leaning onto each other and groaning in pain. For the most part– they were alive. They were doing much better than Bucky.

“How is he?” Steve asked, setting Natasha down onto the benches.

“He’s lost a lot of blood– Tony, we need to get back to base quick,” you told him, and watched as the man got out of his suit and assumed control over the front console. “I gotta get this shit out of his body before we get there– he’s healing around the metal.”

“How the hell are you gonna do that?” Sam asked, frowning at you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes darting around your supplies. “You guys are gonna need to hold him down… I don’t have any anesthetics on board.”

Both men froze in front of you, but they shifted to assume positions. Steve rested his hands on Bucky’s arms, pressing down firmly, while Sam held onto Bucky’s legs. You released a breath before you brought the scalpel to his torso– you needed to reinjure him. You needed to open him back up quickly to pull out every single foreign body within him otherwise it would only cause him some more issues.

“Starting,” you muttered out your warning.

Then, you cut into him.

Bucky’s body tensed immediately, eyes flying open as he jolted– Sam and Steve fighting to push him back down. His left arm immediately tried grabbing for you, only for Steve to readjust his grip to force Bucky back down.

“Shit– Buck! It’s just us!” Sam shouted at him, trying to get his attention. “You’re gonna fuckin’ hurt her if you don’t calm down!”

You could feel Bucky’s eyes land on you, the breaths coming out of his chest fast and uneven. Soon, he managed to fall limp under Steve and Sam’s hands, though his body still twitched as you dug into him, retrieving each and every single broken piece of metal within him.

“I’m sorry– I’m so sorry,” you kept repeating to him, wincing as your tweezers dug deeper into the tissue– as you had to reach for the scalpel again to cut back into him. His body kept healing before your eyes. You hadn’t had to deal with this before. 

You could barely keep your hands from trembling. Every ounce of your concentration was going towards the task at hand, trying to pull out the smallest pieces of metal while also trying to make sure his wound didn’t heal too fast, but also trying to stop him from actively bleeding out on you– you were panicking.

It was too similar. Too close to home. It reminded you too much of what had happened back on the war field all those years ago when you lost Riley. There was nothing that you could have done to stop his pain after he went down. You were ill equipt– you didn’t have the right tools with you to help him. Your team was too far away from your headquarters, and it didn’t even matter how fast you got there. He was already gone.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Bucky’s hand cradled your face, the metal thumb brushing away a stray tear that fell.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he muttered to you, forcing his eyes open to look up at you. He offered you a small, weak smile. “I got that crazy vaccine, remember? I can’t just roll over and die so easily.”

“You’re going to die by my hands if you don’t shut the fuck up and save your energy,” you whispered back to him.

Despite the pain, he laughed on the table. He regretted the action a second later, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he struggled to catch his breath again, but you appreciated him all the same. He was attempting to make you feel better. And it worked.

Bucky’s hand dropped from your face, but it lingered on you. He rested it on your hip, squeezing you lightly whenever you had to cut back into him– a quiet move to let you know that he was okay and to keep doing what you were doing for him. 

With Bucky’s comfort, his touch– the light tap of his fingers against you– you managed to calm down your nerves well enough to get everything out of his body before the jet touched back down onto base. The second the doors opened, Steve and Sam were carrying him onto a stretcher for you to do your full assessment on him.

With how fast his body was healing, you needed to move rapidly– faster than you had ever done before. You didn’t have time to give him any numbing agents, despite how badly you wanted to. The fractures that the monitors had detected must be already attempting to set into place during the time that you were focused on his torso, and you really didn’t want to have to rebreak bone in order for him to heal properly. 

Even after Bucky was finished up, fully patched and stitched, you didn’t even allow him to leave. You managed to get him transferred from your table to a more comfortable hospital bed, then you drugged him to really make sure the man wouldn’t be able to walk out of your med bay. 

He was pumped with sedatives that you knew knocked out Steve, and you felt some sort of comfort when you watched Bucky fall asleep without pain etching into his features. While he slept, you had fluids pushing through his body, replenishing him while you moved on to take care of the rest of the team. 

Thankfully, they weren’t as bad as Bucky was.

You needed to push a collarbone back into place, reset a broken nose, stitch some wounds together– but nothing like pulling foreign bodies out of a torso. You could breathe easier. 

“You okay?” Sam asked you as you tugged the needle through his arm. 

“I think we should invest in a medical team,” you replied. “I think just having only one of me around isn’t cutting it anymore.”

Sam let out a small chuckle, and shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.”

Your hands paused over his arm, and you looked up at him. You met his gaze– he looked just as exhausted as you felt. Your eyes dropped back down to his injury, and you kept working.

“The hell are you talking about?” you murmured, even though you knew exactly what he was about to start on. 

“I haven’t seen you act like that since Riley got shot out of the sky,” he said softly. “Damn near thought you were gonna pass out on the jet.”

Your jaw clenched as you released a breath. “Sam…”

“It scared me, too– don’t get me wrong. It was… I’m glad you weren’t there to see how it all unfolded on the field.”

The words died down between you. You could only hear the light sound of the sutures being pulled through his skin as you punctured him repeatedly, gently closing the wound back into place. 

“On another note,” Sam spoke, breaking the silence, “Don’t think I missed the way that Robo-Cop held you on the jet–”

“We’re not talking about this right now–”

“And he called you sweetheart,” he whistled lowly, and you could hear the grin on his face without even looking at him. “Is there something you wanna tell me–”

A sharp cry exited his lips, cutting off his words as you dug the needle through him. Your eyebrows furrowed in feigned concern as your eyes flitted up to meet his gaze in mock apology.

“Haven’t heard you scream like that since Riley was around,” you mused, tilting your head at him. “You gonna pass out on the floor of my lab?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

This time around, Bucky wasn’t discharged back into regular duties for over two weeks. You put him on strict bedrest, even though he hated every single moment of it. Thankfully, the other members of the team snitched on him every time they found him roaming the halls near the training grounds, and you would immediately herd Bucky back into his room.

He told you that it was overkill. Subconsciously, you agreed. He didn’t need to be out of commission for that long, and he was honestly fine after a week and a half. You had already taken the stitches out of his body. X-Rays showed that his bones had healed the right way, and he had made a full recovery. 

You were still worried. You couldn’t shake the memory— having to continuously cut into him, him bleeding in front of you… It really did mess you up, more than you wanted to admit. 

One look from you made Bucky concede, and follow your wellness plan without another complaint. 

However, it didn’t stop Bucky from bringing you gifts. Except he hand delivered it to you now, rather than leaving it in your room like some sort of off season Santa Claus. 

Bucky sat on the bench beside you, watching you open up the little package. He wasn’t even around you the other day when you said you’d been having a hard time sleeping recently, and now? You had lavender incense and some candles– peach scented. Along with the aromas, he also presented you with a small plush toy.

“How the hell did you know that I like Miffy?” you asked, raising your eyebrow at him. “Scratch that– how do you even know what Miffy is?”

Bucky shrugged beside you. “You’re not the only one that notices everything.”

“So you just… never talked to me, but you remembered everything I ever said? Even when you weren’t in the same room as me?” you mused. You took out the small bunny toy and placed it on your desk like a little guardian watching over your med lab. You tapped on its head, a smile coming onto your face. 

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while, doll,” he said, as if it was old news. “I just didn’t really know how to approach.”

“So you thought depositing a gun in my room was the best way to approach me?” you questioned, turning to look at him. 

Bucky paused, the words going over his mind and filtering through. The man took a slow, deep breath before meeting your gaze. Then, he smiled. That same smile that made you go weak and dizzy in the head. “Kinda romantic, right?”

The sheer audacity of him made you roll your eyes, a scoff falling from your lips not too long afterwards. Even so, you couldn’t help but mirror his smile. You did have to admit it– fine. It was a little romantic. 

“And here I thought, we were gonna be friends,” you teased lightly.

“I told you, sweetheart– we’re not gonna be friends,” he shook his head.

“Oh? Then what are we going to be?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Lovers,” he said, like it was the most obvious answer. “Do you think I just take my shirt off and tell you to look at a contusion without any ulterior motives?”

“You keep saying it was a contusion to make it sound worse than it actually was, but it was literally a bruise, Bucky,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You’re sick in the head for that.”

“And you’re a pervert,” he accused. “I could feel you staring at me. Don’t tell me that you weren’t.”

“I’m the pervert?” you repeated, eyebrows up to your hairline.

Bucky hesitated for just a second as he looked at you. His eyes roamed over your face for a few moments, then he shrugged. “Well, I don’t think I can really say much. I really liked seeing you on your knees that one day.”

You slapped his arm, the smack resounding off the walls of your lab, quickly followed by the rumble of his laughter. You stood up, needing to take a second to get away from him as heat crawled back up your neck and threatened to appear on your face. 

“And I thought you were a gentleman,” you huffed, moving to turn towards your workbench.

Bucky’s hands caught your wrist, pulling you back towards him. The action was so smooth– so quick, but so gentle all at the same time. You found yourself standing between his knees, barely any space between your bodies as he looked up at you. His hands slid down from your wrists to rest into your hands, lacing your fingers together.

“I can be a gentleman, sweetheart,” he told you, the softness of his voice matching the look in his eyes. “Is that what you want from me?” 

“You… are on bedrest, soldier,” you warned.

“What do you mean?” The corners of Bucky’s lips curled upwards slightly. “I’m not doing anything– is there something that you want me to be doing?”

Maybe you were the pervert after all.

All Bucky was doing was sitting there before you, looking up at you with those blue eyes that seemed to hold the world, and a soft smile on his face like you had given him that world– and you were coming undone. 

Was there something that you wanted him to be doing to you? Absolutely. You.

“Something about the way you’re looking at me right now tells me you don’t want me to be a gentleman right now,” he murmured to you, releasing one of your hands in favor of reaching up for your face.

“You spend too much time watching me if you can tell what my thoughts are just from looking at me,” you whispered back. You leaned into his touch, allowing him to pull you down into him until your forehead rested against his.

“You were mine before you even realized it, doll.” 

“Could’ve just hit on me sooner, y’know. Didn’t have to come here asking me to look at papercuts—”

“Shut up,” he sighed, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to close the remainder of the distance between you two. 

You could feel the smile on his lips against your own as he kissed you, tugging you impossibly closer to him. Your hands flattened against his chest for stability, a soft hum escaping your throat. 

Bucky’s teeth caught at your bottom lip, dragging down lightly until you willingly granted him the entry he was asking for. His tongue glided over yours, the hand at the back of your head pressing you deeper into him. 

He tasted sweet— like plums with a hint of syrup. You wanted more of it, wanted to consume him and his entire being into you. Thankfully, it seemed like he felt the same way. 

You found yourself fully situated on his lap, legs framing his hips. One of his arms looped around your waist, hand pressed onto your upper back to hold you against him as he kissed you harder. A sigh fell from your lips, one that he greedily swallowed up for himself. 

He pulled away, but didn’t stray too far. 

Bucky peppered kisses down your jawline and neck. You could only tilt your head to the side, giving him the space to play with whatever he wanted. 

“You’re so soft, sweetheart,” he murmured against your neck— right before he sucked a bruise right onto your skin. 

You forced back a gasp, your body tingling and screaming under his touch. He pressed his lips against the wound, tongue gently lapping over to soothe. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.—“ you called out, cut off by another nip of his teeth on your neck. You swallowed thickly, trying to get your bearings as you buried your hands into his hair, tugging him away from you to give you some space to think. 

“Yes, doctor?” the A.I. spoke, waiting for your instruction. 

You were breathless, just from one kiss and two hickeys. Bucky stared up at you, eyes filled with innocence, lips slightly swollen from the kiss you shared with him. From where your other hand rested, you could feel his heartbeat thrumming against his neck. 

“Block the glass, lock the doors, and turn the lights down. If anyone asks for me, I’m not here,” you ordered. 

“Understood.”

The room dimmed around you, and all doors slid shut. The glass and windows in your med bay turned to frost, while the blinds and curtains quickly got drawn shut. On the outside— it looked like you weren’t in. 

“Turning the lights down, doll?” Bucky whispered to you, a hint of tease in his voice. “Creating a mood for us?”

“Be quiet,” you muttered, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Bedrest. Now.” 

“Something tells me that this isn’t the same bedrest you prescribed,” he whispered.

“You don’t want me, soldier?” you asked, tugging on his hair again. 

A low groan escaped his lips, and his eyes shut for a second. You watched how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Don’t put words in my mouth, sweetheart.”

Bucky stood, carrying you with him as he crossed the room. He laid you down onto one of the recovery beds in your lab— the same beds that you would nap on if you ever spent too much time working. You were certain that Bucky knew that about you, too. 

His weight gently blanketed you as his lips caught yours again. Bucky slotted himself between your legs as if he’d always belonged there, like there was no place that he should’ve ever been. You wrapped your arms around his neck, a soft moan pulled from your lips as his hands dipped under the hem of your shirt, seeking skin. 

The contrast of the cool, smooth metal against the warm, calloused texture of his organic hand was enough to make your head spin. His hands continued their journey, fingers stopping just at the edge of your bra. 

“Is this okay?” he muttered against your lips. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “It’s okay, Buck.”

He exhaled slowly, breath mingling with yours as his hands ventured beneath the last piece of clothing. He cupped the mounds, feeling the weight of you, and cursed under his breath.

“Fuck– I might die,” he whispered, massaging your breasts slowly.

“What?” you breathed out, trying to focus on his words as his fingers caught the hardening peaks of your nipples. 

“I might die, sweetheart,” he repeated to you, eyes glued to your chest even though he couldn’t see anything from the layers of fabric over his hands.

“You’re not allowed to. I want you inside me.”

Bucky’s eyes shot up to you, brain malfunctioning for a second. Then, he dropped his head down to your neck. He was trying to catch his breath– and you hadn’t even done anything to him. This reaction was purely from your words, from just touching one part of you.

“I’m trying real hard to be a gentleman here,” he murmured against your skin.

You huffed, reaching between the two of you. Bucky’s body twitched as you undid the tie of his sweatpants, loosening the fabric around his waist. Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of the fabric, feeling him waiting for you. 

“You can be a gentleman while you fuck me,” you murmured, taking him in your hand. A low moan filled your ears as you began to stroke him– the hard, heavy length of him. 

You could feel his resolve breaking apart with every single slow pump of your hand. Bucky groaned into your neck with each of your movements, his hips pressing deeper into your hand as if to assist you. 

You could feel him throb in your hand, a thick vein coming to life against your palm. You took him from the very tip, thumb brushing over the head of him and smearing over the bead of precum that leaked over, and ran it all the way down to the base of him. 

Part of you thought it was a waste. You wanted to lick it up– swallow whatever leaked out of him. You wondered if you would be able to convince him to let you get down on your knees again for him.

Bucky didn’t even give you a chance to entertain the idea any farther. His hand gripped at your wrist, pulling your hand out of his pants as he sat up. His chest was rising and falling in slow, barely even breaths as he stared down at you.

The softness you saw earlier was gone. It was replaced with hunger, desire– you were about to be consumed by him. A tingle ran throughout your body, going straight down into your core as he reached for the buttons of your pants.

He moved slowly, peeling the fabric off of you like you were a present to unbox. Bucky even unlaced your boots, gently removing them and resting them onto the floor neatly before he was able to remove the rest of your pants. You could only watch with bated breath as he folded it, and put it on the bedside table, then turned back to you.

“Look at you,” he whispered, already shifting downwards onto the bed. “So pretty.”

He parted your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders before pressing a featherlight kiss to the inside of your thigh. He continued forth, more kisses trailing upwards towards where you need him most, but you couldn’t dare breathe a word to rush him– not when he was holding you like you were something precious, not when he was pressing kisses against your skin that felt more sincere than anything you’d ever heard before. 

“Do you like these panties?” he asked you, glancing up to your face.

“They’re comfortable,” you answered, resting up onto your elbows to look at him.

“You have more?”

“Yeah–”

The sound of fabric ripping filled your ears, then you watched as he chucked the ruined article to the side like it meant nothing. You didn’t even have a chance to say a word before his mouth closed around your heat, taking you in. Your head dropped back against the pillows, a shaky moan escaping your lips as his tongue flatted against you, then parted your folds. 

Bucky groaned at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut like you were the best thing he had ever had. His hands tightened around your hips, tugging you closer to his face– trying to drown himself in you as his tongue nudged at your entrance, just barely dipping in and out. His nose brushed against your swollen clit, and your legs trembled around his head.

“Bucky–” you moaned, hands reaching for his.

His fingers laced with yours, and he hummed in acknowledgement. The vibrations only made your hips twitch against him, lifting off the bed and up into his face. You couldn’t help it– you were chasing the pleasure that he was giving you just with his tongue alone. 

Bucky’s thumbs brushed against the back of your hand in quiet encouragement– as if to tell you to let go whenever you wanted to. You wouldn’t be the one to deny him, not when he was giving it to you so deliciously. 

You came apart with his name on your lips, his head between your legs, and his fingers intertwined with yours. Bucky kept lapping up your arousal, desperate to not let a single drop go to waste. 

“Buck– shit– too much,” you gasped out, trying to wiggle yourself away from him.

A soft grunt came from him, but he relented. He came up for fresh air, licking his lips as he did. You caught the way your own slick glistened against his chin, how he looked so satisfied with himself– Jesus. It was a sight to behold. 

“Need you,” you whispered. 

“I’m all yours,” he replied. 

Bucky lowered himself back onto you without another second to waste. You could taste yourself on his tongue– the saltiness mixed with sweet. You craved more of him– all of him. You nearly cried out in relief when you felt him tug down the fabric of his sweats, pooling them around his knees.

You both moaned into each other's mouths as his cock pressed against your folds. Slowly, his hips moved, covering himself in your juices, the tip of his length nudging and catching on your clit every few moments. A shaky breath fell from his lips as you angled your hips just slightly, and his length caught slightly on your entrance. 

Very slowly, he stretched you out. Neither of you could say a word– you could hardly breathe as you took him in. You felt every single ridge and vein of his dick entering you, splitting you open and forcing you to learn the shape of him. 

“Fuck,” Bucky moaned above you, hips fully flushed against yours.

You could only nod in silent agreement, barely meeting his eyes. His breathing was labored as he looked down at you, eyes roaming all over your body before landing back onto your face. Bucky reached for you, and pulled your shirt up over your chest, taking your bra with it.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, grinding his hips against yours before he started at a slow pace. His hands ran up and down your torso, as if he was trying to memorize every part of you, catching every single contour of your shape. 

“You– you’re pretty, too,” you barely managed to force out as his thrusts naturally picked up speed, his cock dragging in and out of you in deep, hard strokes. 

Something mixed with a chuckle and a low moan ripped from this throat as he smiled down at you. Again– absolutely catastrophic. You couldn’t help but clamp down around him at the sight, and felt as his hips stuttered against yours. 

“You think I’m pretty, sweetheart?” he whispered, falling back into rhythm quickly. He found purchase at your waist, pulling you into him with each thrust, meeting you halfway– the pressure he was building was making you go insane.

“Mm– mmhm,” you nodded frantically, reaching to grab onto his wrists– his biceps– something to hang onto as he picked up the pace. “Your arms– fuck your arms are so pretty, Buck.”

“Knew you liked ‘em,” he chuckled, hips snapping into yours harder than before. A sharp cry ripped from you, as you dug your nails into him. “I always feel you staring, especially the left one. You really like this one, huh?”

Excitement shot through your body as you felt his vibranium hand trail up and close around your neck. Even against the dimmed lights of the med bay, the onyx and gold detailing still shimmered like stars against your eyes. You couldn’t help it– your walls clenched around him, fluttering madly.

You didn’t even need to warn him. Bucky’s efforts doubled in an instant, his cock hitting you deeper with renewed fervor. His other hand slipped between the two of you, fingers beginning to rub tight circles into your swollen clit. His metal hand tightened, just ever so slightly around your neck– and you were done for.

Bucky groaned out your name as you came on his cock, legs twitching on either side of his hips as he continued to fuck you through your high. It was too much, yet still not enough at the same time.

“Gonna– god, I’m close,” he grunted, his hands migrating towards your hips as he chased his own climax, using your body. “You’re so– fuck, you’re so warm, doll. So warm and wet and so fuckin pretty–”

His own words were cut off, your name falling from his lips once more in a choked out moan as his hips faltered against yours. You could feel his cock inside of you, trembling and pulsating as he emptied himself within you, painting you with a warmth that made you shiver beneath him. 

Bucky caught himself before he collapsed over you, forearms caging you on either side of your head. His breath fanned against your face as his forehead rested against yours. You tilted your head upwards, pressing a kiss to his lips– one that he returned right away. He kissed you slowly, moving against you with unhurried passion, just reverence and affection.

Slowly, his cock softened within you. The two of you sighed against each other as you felt him slip out. You could feel the remnants of him leaking out of you and onto the bed, but you would deal with it later. For now, all you could focus on was Bucky’s lips and the kisses he pressed all over your face.

Before long, Bucky carried you onto another bed– one that wasn’t soiled by your sinful activities. The two of you naturally shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, you tucked into Bucky’s chest with his arms thrown around you. 

“You still think we’re friends?” he whispered into your hair. You could hear the smile in his voice, and you nudged yourself deeper into his warmth.

“I’m gonna put you on bedrest for another two weeks,” you warned, though there was no edge to your voice. In fact, it came out a little sleepy. “You’re obligated to report to me daily in the med bay.”

“You’re threatening me with a good time, sweetheart,” he chuckled, squeezing you tighter against him. 

“That’s the point,” you muttered, settling into him. “You like my version of bedrest.”

Bucky didn’t argue with you, but you already knew that he wouldn’t. The soldier pressed another kiss to your hairline, then shifted to cradle your face, angling your head upwards towards him. His lips met yours once more in a brief peck– just to let you know that he agreed with your treatment plan. 

masterlist | bonus headcanon

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian @overwintering-soldier @kjmonster111 @okaytrashpanda @wandanatissuperior @bbyanarchist

[dollfacefantasy]

caleb x fem!reader

you and caleb used to play fight a lot, but things are different now that you're older

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fauxcest, dry humping

a/n: um hehe just a small drabble cause i've been thinking... also i like the pipsqueak thing idgaf kiss me about it. imagine this takes place when she’s staying with him.

"isn't this around the time you'd usually cry mercy, pipsqueak?" he breathes, his smooth voice warming the air next to your ear.

a small grunt escapes you as you try to lift your arm to shove him off. your effort is pointless though. his grip tightens around your wrist, and he brings your limb back down to the floor without much effort.

“caleb, quit it!” you whine.

he just laughs at you. his body doesn’t move away an inch. he stays right where he his, hovering over your smaller frame.

the two of you used to play fight all the time as kids. you’d squabble over the remote or your toys. whiny arguments would morph into a small scuffle, a test of wills. so it felt natural today to lunge at him when he held the book you wanted to read just out of reach. getting physical made sense. you’d been so agitated with him keeping you here, you needed to blow off some steam. it just didn’t feel so good when reality set in as he wrestled you down to the floor like always.

“it’s not funny,” you say and try to jam your knee up into his abs.

he dodges the move and continues to smirk at you. “maybe not to you. but it’s pretty funny from up here. pretty cute too,” he teases.

you scowl, squirming some more. in your younger years, you’d always been able to fight back a little. you’d lose in the end, sure, but victory had been in reach a few times. now, caleb is stronger. he’s bigger, and he doesn’t fight like a scrappy high school kid but rather someone with training. you’re starting to realize you have no chance now, and part of you wonders if you ever did. or maybe he’d been going easy on you.

as if to taunt you, he slides your arms up above your head and grabs both your wrists with one hand. even with his other one free, he keeps you pinned with the same amount of force. it’s fucking humiliating. you feel your cheeks starting to heat up as he drags the back of his fingers along your jaw, cooing at you.

“you always used to get so angry like this too. so frustrated. you’d think you would’ve learned not to start fights you can’t win,” he mocks.

his thumb comes to sweep along your cheekbone, back in forth in slow strokes. he stares into your eyes while he does, almost studying you. it gets you heated for a whole other reason you don’t even want to acknowledge.

“get off of me,” you squeak, your voice much less aggressive now.

“maybe i will if you beg enough,” he taunts, “if you use your manners and say please like a good girl, i’ll consider it.”

“shut up!” you say. you kick a few more times and buck your hips to try and get loose.

in response, he grabs your hip with his free hand and slams it back to the ground. you let out a little growl, assuming you’ll have to restrategize. but then he pushes his pelvis down on top of yours.

you gasp. all the fight leaves you in a harsh blow because now, unlike any of the other times you play fought with him, you feel a solid bulge pressing between your legs.

your eyes widen, and you sputter. you’re sure you look totally stupid right now. but you don’t know what else to do. there’s no question about it. he’s got a boner, and he’s rubbing it right up against you.

“i told you. you’re not gonna win. might as well surrender,” he says. he speaks in a completely even tone, as if nothing is different.

“c-caleb. what are you doing?” you start, “don’t be weird.”

“i’m not being weird,” he defends with feigned innocence, “we always used to mess around like this. what’s got you all shy now?”

you know why he’s asking. because he knows you won’t say it. the answer is so easy, yet you can’t bring the words to leave your lips.

“you know what,” you whine softly.

he chuckles and leans in even closer to your face. “maybe i do. but i don’t think that it’s weird. we’re not kids anymore. you can’t whine and wriggle around like that and expect me not to react,” he murmurs.

your heart beats harder in your chest. you can feel every thump. before you can say anything in return, he grinds his hips again, rolling his hardened length right up against you. and this time, it feels good.

“i- caleb- we can’t,” you whimper, biting your lip.

“we can’t? we can’t what? we’re not doing anything,” he says before grinning at you, “it doesn’t count if it’s over the clothes.”

you want to smack him, but both your arms are still immobile.

“it’s still weird. we’ve never- i don’t see you like this,” you insist, though the last statement is a complete lie.

he tsks and shakes his head before pushing his erection between your legs for another time. this one draws a whine out of you. his hips jump forward at the sound, but he doesn’t let his face show that burst of desire.

“what do you see me like then?” he whispers.

silence fills the air between the two of you as you fail to answer. you know what you see him as. you know your crush on him goes back years. you know what fantasies fill your head at night when you’re alone.

but you also know how you want to see him. what you’re supposed to see him as. what you’ve tried to limit his role to for so long.

“it’s ok,” he finally says, “i won’t make you say it if it’s that hard. but i know you like this. i know you, remember?”

he grinds against you again, but this time it’s not only once. now he sets himself into a rhythm, consistent swings of his hips against your center.

“i know when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re ashamed,” he says, “i know when you want something, but you’re too scared to ask.”

ducking in, he kisses your neck. you moan in response, putting no effort into suppressing the noise now.

“that’s right, princess. your big brother knows you better than anyone, doesn’t he?” he coos mockingly.

“caleb!” you whine. you internally cringe at both titles, but outwardly, your face still contorts with pleasure.

“what?” he laughs, “that’s what you were gonna say before, wasn’t it?”

“but i didn’t,” you whimper.

“but you thought it, and it’s all the same to me,” he teases.

he refocuses his mouth on your neck again. his lips move over the column of your throat while his cock continues pressing right on your pussy. it feels better by the second. maybe it’s because he’s kissing your neck too, you’re not really sure. all you know is the hot, sparkling feeling in your stomach is building.

nipping at your pulse point, he then sucks on the skin like he wants to leave a mark. his tongue laves at it for a few moments before he pulls off.

“i’m gonna let go of your arms. you’re gonna behave, ok?” he mumbles against your skin.

“mhm,” you whimper and nod. the overt submission feels pathetic, but losing the feeling of him would be even worse.

“good girl,” he praises.

he keeps his word and releases his hold on your wrists. the air feels cool on your skin that’s all warmed up from his hands. now with his other arm in use, he can snake one around your ass and boost your hips. the new angle allows him to thrust against you harder.

“fuck, baby,” he grunts. you feel his lashes brush your neck as his eyes flutter.

your arms loop over his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. more little mewls spill from your lips. you can feel his stiff length sliding right up against your folds through your clothes. every swipe brings a blissful burst of friction to your poor throbbing clit.

“there you go. i got you. big brother’s got you,” he mumbles mindlessly. he chokes out a moan into your shoulder as his hips move like they have a mind of their own.

your body starts to squirm more. that hot feeling inside is reaching a boiling point. you clutch at his shirt, your nails digging in so hard they threaten to tear the fabric. the constant push and pull of his lower half is nearly hypnotic. it seems like you’ll be under him forever while also on the brink of letting go.

after a few moments more, he pulls back to look at you. his eyelids hang low, heavy with his desire for you.

“god, you’re so pretty. so fuckin’ beautiful now,” he says and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes shut while your breaths mingle. “i knew you wanted this too. just look at you. almost falling apart, and i haven’t even really touched you. i knew no one else could do this better.”

all you can do is whimper softly and cling to him harder. you pull on him as if trying to pull him into your body, to meld your two beings into one. the pressure down below feels dull and muted, but it’s blooming nonetheless.

“yeah… you’re gonna cum all over your pretty panties,” he mutters, “get ‘em all nice and wet so i can have some fun with ‘em later.”

“caleb…” you whine, useful words falling out of your grasp in this moment. one of your hands flies up and laces in his hair. your fingers clench into a fist, giving the strands a sharp tug.

he groans and bucks his hips extra hard. “c’mon. cum for me, baby. let me make my sweet little angel cum,” he murmurs.

it really doesn’t take much to get you there. the friction burn he’s rutting you both into works, and you feel yourself hit the high. euphoria rushes through you. a little breathy whine erupts from your lips. your back arches off the floor, but he keeps you cradled against him securely.

the whole time you’re cumming, he’s still humping you like his life depends on it. it’s when you start to come down, that he finally explodes. he buries his face in your neck, letting out the loudest moan you’ve heard so far. his arms tighten up around your frame as his fingers dig into your malleable flesh.

his hips jolt forward in random twitches now, chasing the last remnants of release while he spills inside his pants.

when he’s done, his breaths are harsh and labored. he nuzzles the crook of your neck before kissing your cheek and receding off your body. his palm runs over his face lazily.

“fuck, i gotta change now,” he says, not bothering to look down at the dark patch at the front of his pants.

without even really thinking about it, you reach forward for the waistline. you’re already craving more of him. but before your hand can get there, he takes your wrist.

“not so fast, pipsqueak. i think you should actually beat me before i let you have the real thing,” he smirks.

[cherienymphe]

Camera Shy

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Your brother comes up with a way to make fast money when you've found yourself deep in debt.

warnings: stepcest, loss of virginity, breeding kink, kook!reader, non canon ages

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

⭑

You took deep breaths through your nose as Rafe instructed, lashes fluttering at the foreign and indescribable feel of his cock sliding between your wet folds. Your knees touched your chest, the soles of your feet pressed against Rafe’s own chest, and when you looked up at him, you found his gaze focused on where he disappeared into you.

When your brother came up from Kildare County to visit you for the first time this semester…

This was not what you had in mind.

Blood related or not, Rafe had never been anything but the older brother you were blessed with when your mom married his dad all those years ago. He was a little rough around the edges—always had been—and you knew that his behavior with you was the exception, not the norm, but it never occurred to you that his reasoning behind that went beyond familial affection. Why would it?

He treated you like any normal brother would.

He scared off boys who were a little too bold with their interest in you, he sometimes let you sleep in his bed when the thunder outside got to be too much, and he didn’t think twice about picking you up from some party you weren’t supposed to be at. You knew he’d do the same for Wheezie if she asked. Sarah was the only exception for less than enviable reasons.

…maybe Ward’s favoritism of Sarah contributed to your own soft spot for Rafe.

Anyone with eyes could see it no matter how much Sarah liked to pretend otherwise, and there’d been so many times you felt sorry for the oldest Cameron. No, he wasn’t perfect by any means, and yes, sometimes he absolutely deserved the verbal lashing from Ward, but you’d be a fool to deny the absolute disregard Ward gave Rafe even when he did try.

Rafe just wasn’t anyone’s favorite.

…so he became yours.

“You’re doing good,” he murmured, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You blinked up at him, and his gaze lifted from your breasts to meet your gaze.

“Like this?” you breathlessly wondered, a hand on your chest, massaging a hardened bud between your fingers.

“Don’t ask me,” Rafe purred, his free hand joining yours. “Does it feel good?”

The nod you gave him was shaky, and you watched Rafe’s tongue dart between his lips. He dipped his hips a tad when he thrust into you, making you gasp at the feel of his cock hitting something inside of you that you didn’t know was there. When he shined the camera light in your face briefly, you turned your head.

“Sorry,” he choked out, but he didn’t sound all that sorry. “I’ll blur that out.”

His thrusts had your toes curling, and you pushed your feet against his chest.

“I don’t…I don’t want Ward or someone else to find this and know it was me,” you struggled to say, breath hitching when Rafe slammed into you.

Rafe replied after some time.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he whispered. “They won’t.”

Angel.

It was funny how a normal nickname that you were used to hearing all the time sounded so different, now. Of course, all the other times, Rafe had never been inside of you. He’d been dropping you off somewhere or convincing you to do the dishes instead or looking for you the minute he woke up at twelve in the afternoon. Now, with Rafe plunging his cock into you, the sound of it made you shudder.

“It’s kind of crazy how fitting that nickname is,” Sarah said one day. “…because I swear you’re the only one that can actually get Rafe to behave.”

You both chuckled at the comment, but now you were doing anything but laughing.

Your free hand trailed down to touch yourself, and Rafe made a noise of approval at the action.

His hand left your breast to cover yours between your legs, guiding your fingers and rubbing them over your bundle of nerves. The feeling—when combined with his thrusts—made you flutter around him, and Rafe let out a deep moan. It went straight to your stomach, loving the sound, and you looked up at him.

His gaze wasn’t on you anymore, and as you stared at him, you were surprised how weird you didn’t feel about this.

Going off to UNC had sparked varying reactions in your household. Rose was only happy for you, Wheezie too, but both Sarah and Ward held some concerns you never even knew they had. Something about your sheltered upbringing and wondering if you were ready. You’d been offended, of course. After all, going off to college had always been the plan and Ward knew that, so being treated like some child baffled you.

However, you were even more baffled when Rafe didn’t back you up.

“What do you mean?” you’d asked him the day you got your acceptance letter. “You don’t want me to go…?”

Even though Rafe was silent for a long time, you could see it on his face.

He didn’t want you to go.

“It’s so far-.”

“It’s four hours,” you’d interrupted, in disbelief that Rafe of all people was not on your side.

“It’s far enough.”

You remembered thinking how much he resembled a child—pouting—and you’d huffed. You hadn’t been able to stop the tears from kissing your eyes, and you’d folded your arms over your chest.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?” you’d asked in a small voice.

That had Rafe looking up, and you didn’t miss the way his face fell with one look at your own.

“I am,” he’d assured you. “I’m so happy for you, but… What if something goes wrong? What if some asshole gets too aggressive with you? I’m not going to be there to pick you up from parties and hold your hand when a hurricane comes through.”

You’d looked down, shifting on your feet.

“I know that, Rafe…but I’m an adult, now. I have to figure things out for myself.”

You could tell he hadn’t liked that answer, but despite how much Rafe made it clear that he didn’t want you to go, he did help you pack before the semester started. He’d also helped you move in with Ward and Rose’s help, surprising them both.

“Don’t think I won’t be dropping in unannounced.”

Rose had scolded him that day, but you’d only rolled your eyes. You were used to Rafe’s protectiveness, and as much as you desired independence, you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed the thought of Rafe visiting you on campus.

…and visit you, he did.

It was almost admirable, really, the way he managed to swoop in at some of the most inconvenient times. The night you were considering going to some party or the night you’d gotten locked out of your house or the time your roommate had guys over. The memory of that evening still weighed on your chest, recalling the way Rafe hovered and the way the guy you were supposed to be set up with was forced to keep his distance.

“You were scaring him,” you’d whined later that night.

“…and you want a guy that jumpy?” he’d snorted, taking off his shirt and relaxing on your bed.

Rafe had overstayed his welcome and had no choice but to stay the night. Granted, a hotel was always an option, but you would’ve felt shitty making him book a hotel when you had a perfectly fine queen-sized bed.

“If some chump is that intimidated by your big brother, then he isn’t the one for you,” he’d whispered in the dark as you faced him. “You’re the kind of girl who needs looking after.”

The words had soured in your mind, and you hadn’t responded.

You hated that Rafe saw you that way—that almost everyone did—but it was only some months later when you were forced to admit that maybe Rafe was right. Being so far away from home for an extended period of time for the first time in your life clearly got to your head. You found yourself confronted with so much temptation and opportunities.

Before you knew it, you’d maxed out two credit cards and was struggling to make ends meet with the extra money Ward and Rose were sending you. The day your payment was declined while in some fancy store was burned into your brain, and you hadn’t even realized how much debt you’d collected until you were on the phone with a representative from the company.

The whole situation sucked, but more than anything, it sucked that you proved everyone right.

Especially Rafe.

So, when he unexpectedly showed up on your doorstep this morning, you wanted to be sick.

“Rafe,” you’d breathed. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

The blond had silently stood at your door, expression unreadable, and it had taken him a minute to finally reply.

“You never know I’m coming,” he’d drawled, brushing by you. “What makes this time so different?”

“No reason,” you’d hurried to say.

You suspected then that he caught onto something being wrong, but you’d forced yourself to write it off. Despite engaging in conversation with you, you hadn’t missed the way Rafe strode about your place, those blue eyes of his taking everything in with an attention to detail you weren’t used to.

“So, why are you here?” you’d wondered.

Your question gave him pause, and you hadn’t missed the glint in his eyes then.

“What…?” he’d asked, nearing you. “I can’t drop in on my baby sister and see how she’s doing?”

He’d held your gaze with an intensity you weren’t used to, and you’d looked away.

“No, of course, you can. I was just…curious.”

You should’ve known that Rafe knew more than he let on when he opened your fridge and merely hummed at the lack of food in it. For obvious reasons, you didn’t protest when he suggested ordering food, and it was when you found yourself leaning against the counter with a handful of pizza did he finally drop the bomb.

“You’re lucky I pay more attention to the mail than they do.”

His biting words were accompanied with the slam of a few envelopes on the counter, and your heart dropped when you realized what they were—credit card statements. His hands on the counter caged you in, but you could hardly move anyway with how much shock you were in, flipping through them all with parted lips.

It didn’t take him long to start tearing into you.

“I knew this was a bad idea. I knew that at the very least, I should’ve moved up here with you,” he’d sneered.

“Are you going to tell Ward?” you’d tearfully asked him. “If he knew how much I messed up he’d cut me off so fast.”

“He probably should,” Rafe had told you with a frown, making your tears spill over.

He’d softened some at the sight of them, and you’d collapsed on the couch.

“I didn’t even realize I’d been spending so much,” you cried to him. “…and I keep trying to get a job to fix this but I just can’t get hired anywhere.”

At your rambling, Rafe had knelt before you, his hands on your knees as he shushed you. You’d struggled to hold his gaze as he wiped your face, trying to calm you down. When your breathing settled some, Rafe took your hand.

“I can’t imagine you behind somebody’s counter, anyway,” he’d softly said, thumb grazing your skin. “Breaking your back and coming home exhausted. You need to be focused on school.”

“…but Rafe-.”

His hand gently landing on your mouth had you swallowing your words, and you’d blinked at him as he traced patterns into your skin.

“Look, I know how to get you money—plenty of it and fast.”

His words had given you pause, making you perk up some.

“…but you’ll have to trust me,” he’d murmured.

You did trust Rafe, with your whole heart, but his next words still made your heart drop.

“Rafe…I don’t think I can do this,” you found yourself whispering an hour or so later, swallowing at his gentle grip on your throat. “

…besides, we… I mean…”

You didn’t have to finish voicing your thoughts, troubled gaze meeting his.

“It’s just a little way to make you fast money. It’s not like anyone will know it’s us…” he’d murmured, lips brushing yours. “…and it’s not like we’ll be running the risk of accidentally having questionable children or something.”

You knew what he meant, understood what he was getting at, but it still felt…wrong to you. Or at least, like it should be. Rafe had never been anything other than the brother you met years ago, and here he was, kissing you and convincing you to let your first time be with him…and on camera, no less.

“People love that amateur porn shit,” were his oh so eloquent words.

Despite how you initially felt about it, you still found yourself on your back and bent at the edge of your bed while Rafe stood before you, phone in hand. His words of encouragement filled your ears as he circled your clit with his thumb, the head of his cock slowly pushing into you. He’d had his face between your thighs for some time before that, telling you he needed to get you nice and ready for him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he’d hissed as he continued to push his way into you.

When he was flush with you, both of your chests heaving, he finally acknowledged the elephant in the room.

“You okay, angel?”

It wasn’t as painful as you always expected it to be—you surmised that had more to do with Rafe than anything—but there was still a dull painful ache accompanied by the burn of being stretched out. At your shaky nod, Rafe merely gave you a half smile, leaning over to kiss you before straightening and starting a torturously slow pace.

“Do you hear how wet you are? Hmm?”

You could, and you might’ve been embarrassed if it weren’t for the look on Rafe’s face.

“So wet…and tight…and all mine,” he breathed, the phone light bright as it shone on where you greedily sucked him in with every thrust. “She’s dripping for me.”

You felt like you were in a blissful daze, lying there and taking his thrusts. Rafe had a way with words and making you squirm from more than just the feel of him stuffing you full.

“They’d pay big money to see me fill you up, angel.”

You slowly blinked at him, frowning slightly and not understanding him at first. However, when his free hand left your clit alone and instead reached for himself, realization hit you.

“Rafe…”

Your tone held warning, but Rafe pulled out anyway, a hand on his cock as he leaned in to press his lips to yours again. What a strange way for you to realize that not only did you like kissing, but you liked kissing Rafe.

“It’s going to look so good on camera,” he purred. “Just thinking about my cock twitching as I come inside of you…pulling out and watching it all drip out of that virgin pussy…”

The thought did have you clenching down on air.

“It’s your first time… You should know what that feels like—to get fucked raw.”

Your lack of protest boldened Rafe, and you felt out of control when the tip of him touched you again, only without latex between you this time. He was slow to slide into you, a groan escaping him the same time you moaned as you both basked in the feel of his bare cock fitting snugly inside of you. You threw your head back, and Rafe told you to keep touching your breasts.

You couldn’t deny the difference as he slowly rutted into you. The camera shined light on your stomach and chest and back down again as he moved the phone. His now powerful thrusts turned you into a wanton mess, absentmindedly massaging your nipples in time with his hips. Rafe’s free hand was on you again, rubbing your mound and folds and clit, occasionally spreading you further to really get a good look at the way his cock pushed into you.

The squelch of your core was loud, and you could feel the way you were dripping around him.

Your bed squeaked under the weight of his thrusts, and the feel of skin against skin was sending you both spiraling.

“I’m gonna come,” Rafe gasped, his thrusts sloppy and rough as he fucked himself into you.

You felt the same, but you couldn’t really voice it, too focused on trying to breathe despite the fast pace of your heart. When Rafe pressed a hand into your stomach, it sent you over the edge, and the feel of you tightening around him and clenching down on him had him coming too, spilling into you with a loud moan.

Rafe’s thrusts were lazy now as he fucked you both through your orgasms, hips slow as he pushed into you. He only stopped when he softened completely, slow to pull his cock out and drop to his knees. His free hand reached for you, a thumb and index finger on your lips as he spread them.

“Look at that,” you heard him murmur while you fought to catch your breath. “You took me so well, angel.”

One of your feet relaxed on the floor, now while the other rested on his shoulder.

“Push it out for me. Show them how well you milked my cock…”

You didn’t quite understand him, but you did what you thought he wanted you to do. To your surprise, you could feel him leaking out of you, and the noise Rafe made told you he was satisfied.

“Good girl,” he purred, pushing two fingers into you. “You take me so well, you know that?”

He leaned in and kissed your sore lips then, a hum escaping him as he straightened. The camera was now off, and the phone was tossed to the side, but Rafe’s lips still found yours with a moan. Your confusion must have been evident when he pulled away, because he reached up to drag his thumb over your mouth.

“We’ll need to make time to practice if we want the next one to be even better.”

[pucksandpower]

Thicker Than Blood

Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc’s Ex!Reader

Summary: you didn’t think things could get worse after your long-time (ex) boyfriend chose his team over you … until you see those two pink lines, but little do you know that his rival will soon prove that a found family can be thicker than blood

Warnings: includes depictions of labor complications and Jos Verstappen

Based on this request

“Charles, this isn’t funny.”

You’re half-smiling, half-laughing, like you’re expecting him to crack any second and say something ridiculous, something that would make you roll your eyes and shake your head at his poor attempt at a joke.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there, his eyes fixed on you with a seriousness that makes your stomach twist.

“Charles,” you repeat, the laugh in your voice now entirely gone. “What are you talking about?”

He runs a hand through his hair, the way he does when he’s trying to find the right words, but they’re all jumbled up in his head. You know this Charles. This is the Charles who struggles when things aren’t easy, when he has to explain something he doesn’t want to. But this … this is different.

“We need to break up.” The words come out so softly, so carefully, like he’s afraid of them. But they hit you hard, a punch in the gut that leaves you breathless.

You blink, trying to process what he’s just said, but it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit. You and Charles are solid. You’ve been through everything together — the highs, the lows, the uncertain days before he was anything more than just another young driver trying to make it in the big leagues. And now, after all this time, after everything, he’s telling you this?

You shake your head. “No. No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do,” he says, his voice firmer now, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“Charles, no,” you say, your voice rising, a mixture of panic and disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”

He sighs, a long, weary sound, and looks away from you, his gaze falling to the floor as if he can’t bear to meet your eyes. “It’s not what I want,” he says quietly.

“Then why?” You demand, stepping closer to him, trying to catch his eye, to pull him back to you. “Why are you saying this? We’re fine, Charles. We’re good. What’s going on?”

He finally looks at you, and the pain in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat. “It’s not about us,” he says, his voice almost breaking. “It’s … it’s the team. Ferrari.”

“What?” You say, blinking in confusion. “What does Ferrari have to do with us?”

“They … they think it’s better if I’m single,” he says, each word forced out like it’s costing him something. “For my image. For the brand.”

You stare at him, your mouth open, but no words come out. You’re frozen, your mind struggling to catch up to the words he’s just said, to the reality he’s trying to force on you. “You’re breaking up with me … because of Ferrari?”

He nods slowly, miserably, like he hates himself for it. “It’s complicated,” he says, trying to make it sound like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“No, it’s not,” you shoot back, the anger finally starting to break through the shock. “This isn’t complicated, Charles. This is insane. You can’t seriously be telling me that you’re ending things because some PR team thinks it’ll be better for your career.”

“They’re not just some PR team,” he says, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “They know what they’re doing. They’ve seen the numbers and the trends. They know what’s best for the brand … for me.”

“And what about us?” You ask, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “What about everything we’ve been through? Everything we’ve built together? You’re just going to throw that away because someone told you to?”

He winces, like your words are physically hurting him, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re choosing your career over me.”

His silence is deafening. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he’s struggling with what he’s saying, but he’s not fighting it. He’s not fighting for you, and that realization hits you harder than anything else.

“Why now?” You ask, your voice softer now, the fight starting to drain out of you. “Why are you doing this now?”

“It’s just … it’s the timing,” he says, fumbling for an explanation that makes sense. “The season’s starting, there’s so much pressure. They think it’ll be easier if I’m not-”

“If you’re not what? Tied down?” You snap, the words laced with bitterness. “Is that what they told you? That you’ll be better off without me weighing you down?”

“That’s not how they put it,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.

You feel tears pricking at your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let them fall. You won’t cry. Not now. Not here. “Charles, we’ve been together for years,” you say, your voice trembling. “We’ve been through everything together. And now you’re telling me that none of that matters? That all of that gets erased because it doesn’t fit with Ferrari’s brand?”

“I don’t want to do this,” he says, his voice breaking, his eyes pleading with you to understand.

“Then don’t,” you plead back, stepping closer to him, reaching out to take his hand, but he pulls away, and the rejection stings.

“I have to,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head, trying to make sense of the senseless. “How can you say that? How can you just … give up on us like this?”

“I’m not giving up,” he insists, but it sounds hollow, even to him. “It’s just … it’s not forever. It’s just for now, just to get through the season. Then we can figure things out, we can-”

“You can’t be serious,” you interrupt, the tears finally spilling over despite your best efforts. “You think I’m just going to wait around for you to decide when it’s convenient for you to be with me again? You think that’s how this works?”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at you with that same pained expression, and it’s enough to break your heart all over again.

“Charles, please,” you whisper, one last attempt to reach him, to get him to see reason, to see you. “Don’t do this. We can figure something out. We always do.”

But he’s already shaking his head, and you know, deep down, that he’s already made up his mind. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you can hear the finality in his voice, the way he’s closing the door on this, on you.

You stare at him, the boy you’ve known for so long, the man you’ve loved for years, and it feels like he’s slipping away from you, like he’s already gone. “You really think this is what’s best for you?” You ask, your voice hollow, defeated.

“It’s not about what’s best for me,” he says, and you almost laugh at the irony of it.

“Then what is it about, Charles?” you ask, but you’re not sure you even want to know the answer.

“It’s about … what’s best for everyone,” he says, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

You take a step back, the distance between you growing, and it feels like a chasm opening up, one you can’t cross. “I never thought you’d be someone who’d let other people decide what’s best for you,” you say quietly.

He flinches at that, and for a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him, that he’ll take it back, that he’ll realize how ridiculous this all is. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, looking at you with those sad eyes, and you know it’s over.

“Goodbye, Charles,” you say, your voice breaking on the last syllable.

“Goodbye,” he whispers back, but it’s lost in the sound of your footsteps as you turn and walk away, leaving him — and everything you’ve built together — behind.

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a soft, golden light over the room, but it does nothing to warm the cold knot in your stomach. You’ve been feeling off for days now — nauseous, tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep doesn’t seem to touch.

And the vomiting. It started a few days ago, just once or twice, but now it’s every morning, like clockwork.

You sit up slowly, careful not to move too fast, but it’s too late. The wave of nausea hits, and you barely make it to the bathroom before you’re hunched over the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left. You stay there for a moment, gripping the edge of the sink, trying to steady your breathing, trying to make sense of what’s happening to you.

It’s just stress, you tell yourself. The breakup, the uncertainty of everything, it’s all finally catching up to you. But even as you think it, you know it’s not true. This is different. This is something else.

You rinse your mouth, the taste of bile lingering, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look pale, drawn, like you haven’t slept in days. Your eyes are dull, shadows lurking beneath them, and there’s a tightness around your mouth that wasn’t there before. You almost don’t recognize the person staring back at you.

As you leave the bathroom, your mind races through the possibilities, trying to find some logical explanation. Maybe it’s a bug, something you ate. Maybe it’s …

You stop in your tracks, the thought slamming into you with all the subtlety of a freight train. No. It can’t be. It’s impossible. But as you think back, counting the days in your head, you realize it’s not impossible. In fact, it’s very possible.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, your heart pounding in your chest. It’s been weeks since … since Charles broke up with you. Since you last … Oh God.

The realization leaves you cold, your skin prickling with fear. There’s only one way to know for sure, but the very thought of it makes your throat tighten, your heart race even faster.

You can’t. You can’t be.

But there’s a part of you — a small, terrified part — that knows you need to find out. You can’t just ignore this, hope it goes away. You need to know. Now.

The walk to the pharmacy is a blur. You barely register the people around you, the sun beating down on your back as you make your way through the streets. It feels like everyone is looking at you, like they know what you’re about to do, but you push the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Inside, the air is cool, the fluorescent lights harsh as you make your way to the back, where the pregnancy tests are lined up in neat rows. You stand there for what feels like forever, your eyes scanning the shelves, your hand hovering over the different options, but you can’t bring yourself to reach out and grab one.

“Can I help you with something?”

The voice startles you, and you turn to see a woman in a white pharmacy coat standing beside you, her expression polite but curious.

You force a smile, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine. Just … looking.”

She nods, but doesn’t move away, and you feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You need to do this, and you need to do it now.

Taking a deep breath, you grab the first box you see, then another, then a third, just to be sure. You avoid the woman’s gaze as you make your way to the register, your heart hammering in your chest as you hand over the boxes, praying she doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t. She just rings you up, sliding the tests into a small paper bag before handing it to you with a neutral smile. “Good luck,” she says, and you can’t tell if she means it or if it’s just something she says to everyone.

“Thanks,” you mumble, grabbing the bag and hurrying out of the store, the door chiming as you leave.

Back in your apartment, the silence is deafening. The tests sit on the counter, staring up at you, and you can’t bring yourself to move, to do what needs to be done. But you know you have to. You can’t put this off any longer.

Finally, you reach for the bag, pulling out one of the boxes, your hands trembling as you tear it open. The instructions are simple enough — pee on the stick, wait three minutes, then check the result. But as you hold the test in your hand, you realize those three minutes are going to be the longest of your life.

You follow the instructions, then set the test on the counter, stepping back like it’s something dangerous, something that could hurt you if you get too close. You glance at the clock, the seconds ticking by at an excruciatingly slow pace, and you force yourself to breathe, to stay calm.

But calm is impossible. Your mind is racing, a thousand thoughts and fears tumbling over each other in a chaotic mess. What if it’s positive? What if it’s not? What will you do? How will you handle this? You’re alone now — Charles is gone, and he’s not coming back. You’re on your own.

The minutes crawl by, and finally, you can’t wait any longer. You step forward, your heart in your throat, and pick up the test, your eyes locking onto the small window where the result will appear.

Two lines.

Positive.

You stare at it, uncomprehending, your mind struggling to process what you’re seeing. You pick up the second test, the third, repeating the process with shaking hands, hoping against hope that the first was a mistake, a fluke. But the results are the same. Two lines. Positive.

You’re pregnant.

The realization crashes over you like a wave, and you sink to the floor, the tests clattering out of your hands as you press your palms to your stomach, feeling the beginnings of a life growing inside you. A baby. Charles’ baby.

Tears blur your vision, and you don’t know if they’re from fear, from shock, or from something else entirely. You never thought you’d be here — sitting on your bathroom floor, alone, pregnant, and terrified of what comes next.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to have Charles by your side, holding your hand, telling you everything would be okay.

But he’s not here. And now, you have to figure out what to do next. You have to figure out how to take care of yourself, how to take care of this baby.

You drag yourself to your feet, your legs weak, and stumble into the living room, collapsing onto the couch as the weight of it all presses down on you. How did this happen? How did you end up here, in this mess, with no one to turn to?

Your mind drifts back to the day Charles convinced you to quit your job. He’d said it was for the best, that you didn’t need to work, that he’d take care of you. He wanted you with him at the races, wanted you by his side, supporting him, and you’d agreed, because of course you did. You loved him. You trusted him.

And now … now you have nothing. No job, no income, no safety net. Just a positive pregnancy test and a future that feels terrifyingly uncertain.

You wipe at your eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. You can’t afford to fall apart. Not now. You have to be strong, for yourself, for the baby. You need to figure out what to do next.

You reach for your phone, your fingers trembling as you pull up a job search website. There has to be something — anything — that can get you back on your feet. But as you scroll through the listings, your heart sinks. You’re overqualified for some, underqualified for others. You haven’t worked in years, and the gaps in your resume feel like gaping wounds that no employer would overlook.

Finally, something catches your eye—an ad for a cleaning agency. It’s not glamorous, it’s not what you imagined for yourself, but it’s work. It’s a start. And right now, that’s all you need.

You tap the number on the screen, your heart racing as you bring the phone to your ear. It rings once, twice, three times, and you start to think no one will pick up. But then, a voice crackles through the line.

“Hello, CleanSweep Agency. How can I help you?”

You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you reply. “Hi, I … I’m calling about the job listing. The cleaning position.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and you hold your breath, waiting.

“Yes, of course. Are you available for an interview tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” you repeat, your mind racing. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

“Great. We’ll see you at 10 AM. Our office is on Rue de la Paix. Just bring your resume and any references you might have.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as the call ends.

You stare at the phone in your hand, the reality of what you’ve just done settling over you. You’ve taken the first step. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a start.

But as you sit there, the weight of everything presses down on you again. You’re pregnant. You’re alone. And the path ahead feels impossibly daunting.

You place your phone on the coffee table, staring at it like it might offer you some kind of solution, some way out of this mess. But it’s just a phone, and the reality of your situation doesn’t change.

The room is too quiet, the kind of quiet that seeps into your bones and amplifies every fear, every doubt. You wish you could call someone, talk to someone, but who? Your friends? They’d be supportive, sure, but they wouldn’t really understand. Your parents? The thought of telling them is too overwhelming to even consider right now.

Charles? The name echoes in your mind, but you shake your head. He’s the last person you should be calling. He made his choice, and you need to respect that. Besides, what would you even say? That you’re pregnant? That his decision to break up with you for the sake of his image has left you in a situation neither of you ever expected?

No. You can’t go there. Not now.

You push yourself off the couch, pacing the small living room, trying to clear your mind. You have a job interview tomorrow. It’s not much, but it’s something. You can’t afford to think beyond that right now. You need to focus on getting through the next day, the next hour.

The baby. The thought is like a knife in your chest, sharp and painful. You press a hand to your stomach, trying to imagine what comes next, how you’ll navigate this new, terrifying reality. But the truth is, you have no idea. You’re scared, more scared than you’ve ever been, and the future feels like a black hole, pulling you in with no clear way out.

But you have to keep going. For yourself. For the baby.

You head to the bedroom, opening the closet to find something suitable for the interview. Your clothes feel foreign, relics from a past life that doesn’t quite fit anymore. You settle on something simple, professional, trying to ignore the gnawing fear that none of this will be enough.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the clothes laid out beside you, and take a deep breath. Tomorrow is a new day. A new start. You don’t know what’s coming, but you do know one thing: you’re not going to give up. Not now, not ever.

And as the night settles in around you, you cling to that thought like a lifeline, hoping it will be enough to carry you through whatever comes next.

***

Max pushes open the door to his Monaco apartment, dropping his keys on the console table with a tired sigh. The morning training session has left his muscles aching, and all he can think about is a long, hot shower and maybe a quick nap before the next round of meetings and commitments.

As he steps inside, he’s greeted by the familiar scent of cleaning supplies — a smell that’s become synonymous with Tuesdays, the day his cleaner comes to tidy up.

He doesn’t usually pay much attention to her, exchanging only a few polite words if their paths cross. She’s efficient, quiet, never in the way. But today, something feels different the moment he steps into the living room. The sound of soft scrubbing reaches his ears, and he glances toward the source — his gaze falling on a figure kneeling by the coffee table, wiping down the glass surface.

It takes him a second to register what he’s seeing, but when he does, he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. It’s not just any cleaner — it’s you. And you’re pregnant. Very pregnant.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath, the shock rolling over him in waves. For a moment, he wonders if he’s seeing things, if the exhaustion has finally caught up with him and he’s imagining things. But no — there’s no mistaking it. It’s you, and you’re here, in his apartment, on your hands and knees, cleaning.

You look up at the sound of his voice, your eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, neither of you says anything, both too stunned to speak. Then, slowly, you rise to your feet, one hand resting protectively on your rounded belly as you try to compose yourself.

“Max,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, like you can’t quite believe he’s standing there.

“What … what the hell are you doing here?” He asks, his voice rough with confusion and something else — something darker, angrier, that he can’t quite put into words yet.

You blink, looking down at the rag in your hand as if seeing it for the first time. “I … I work here,” you say quietly, your tone laced with embarrassment.

“Work here?” Max repeats, his mind racing to catch up. “What do you mean, work here? You’re … you’re pregnant! Why the hell are you cleaning my apartment?”

You flinch at his words, and he immediately regrets the sharpness in his tone, but the sight of you — pregnant, exhausted, and clearly struggling — ignites a fury in him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. “What the fuck is Charles doing, making you work like this?”

At the mention of Charles, something in you seems to break. Your face crumples, and before Max can process what’s happening, you’re crying — really crying, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Max says quickly, closing the distance between you and reaching out to steady you. “I didn’t mean to — look, just sit down, okay? You shouldn’t be on your feet like this.”

You let him guide you to the couch, your tears falling freely now, and Max feels a pang of guilt deep in his chest. He’s never been good with tears, but seeing you like this, so vulnerable and hurt, stirs something protective in him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out between sobs, your hands covering your face as if trying to hide your pain. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

Max sits beside you, his mind spinning as he tries to make sense of what’s happening. This is all wrong. You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be working some labor-intensive job, not in your condition. And where the hell is Charles in all of this? How could he let you get to this point?

“What’s going on?” Max asks gently, reaching for a box of tissues and handing it to you. “Why are you working here? What happened with Charles?”

You take a tissue, dabbing at your eyes, but the tears keep coming, and Max’s concern deepens. He’s never seen you like this before — so defeated, so broken.

“It’s … it’s over,” you manage to say, your voice trembling. “Charles and I… we broke up. Seven months ago.”

Max’s heart drops at your words, and a sick feeling churns in his stomach. He’d heard rumors, of course — whispers in the paddock, speculation in the media — but he’d never imagined it was true. He’d seen how much Charles loved you, how much you meant to him. But now, seeing you like this, the reality of it hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Why?” He asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “He said … he said it was for the best. That the team thought he’d be more marketable if he was single. That it would be better for his image.”

Max feels a surge of anger flare up inside him, hot and fierce. “He broke up with you because of PR? Are you kidding me?”

You nod, and Max can see the pain in your eyes, the betrayal that still lingers there. “I didn’t know what to do. I … I didn’t have a job. I quit when we started traveling together, and now … now I’m on my own. I have to take care of myself, and …” You glance down at your belly, your voice breaking again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Max runs a hand through his hair, trying to process everything you’ve just told him. Charles left you — pregnant and alone — all because of some bullshit advice from his team? The thought makes his blood boil. He’s known Charles for years, seen him under pressure, seen him at his best and his worst, but this … this is something else entirely.

“Does he even know?” Max asks, his voice low, trying to keep his temper in check. “Does he know you’re pregnant?”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over. “I haven’t told him. I couldn’t … I couldn’t face him. And I don’t want to force him into something he doesn’t want. He made his choice.”

Max sits back, stunned. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. You’ve been going through this all on your own, with no support, no help. And now you’re cleaning apartments just to make ends meet? It’s too much. He can’t let this go on.

“Listen,” Max says, his voice firm, though he softens it when he sees the way you’re looking at him, like you’re about to fall apart. “You’re not doing this alone, okay? You shouldn’t have to.”

You look at him, eyes wide, searching his face as if trying to figure out if he means it. “Max, I don’t want to be a burden-”

“You’re not,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re not a burden. You’re my friend. And you’re … you’re carrying a child. That’s not something you should be dealing with on your own.”

“But what about Charles?” You ask, your voice small, uncertain.

“Fuck Charles,” Max snaps, then immediately regrets it when he sees the look on your face. “I mean … look, I know this is complicated. But right now, you need to take care of yourself and the baby. That’s the priority. And if Charles isn’t going to step up, then I will. Whatever you need, I’m here, okay?”

You’re silent for a moment, and Max can see the conflict in your eyes — the fear, the doubt, the overwhelming sense of helplessness. He wishes he could do more, that he could take away the pain, the uncertainty, but all he can do is be there for you, in whatever way you’ll let him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I … I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Max says gently. “Just … promise me you won’t try to do this on your own anymore. You’re not alone, okay? Not as long as I’m around.”

You nod, but Max can see the hesitation still lingering in your eyes. He knows this isn’t going to be easy for you — to accept help, to let someone else in — but he’s determined to be there for you, to make sure you don’t have to face this alone.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and holding out a hand to you. “Let’s get you something to eat. You need to take care of yourself, and that means no more scrubbing floors, okay?”

You take his hand, allowing him to help you to your feet, and for the first time since he walked through the door, Max sees a faint glimmer of hope in your eyes. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

As he leads you to the kitchen, Max’s mind races with everything he needs to do, everything he needs to figure out. But one thing is clear — he’s not going to let you go through this alone.

***

Max sets a plate in front of you — a simple sandwich, some fruit on the side. He’s not exactly a chef, but it’s something, and he watches as you take a bite, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. You look exhausted, and Max wonders how long you’ve been running on empty like this.

He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down, his eyes never leaving your face. “So,” he begins, trying to keep his tone light, “tell me everything. What’s been going on since … since Charles, you know …”

You pause, swallowing the bite of sandwich, and Max can see the flicker of pain in your eyes at the mention of Charles. It’s like you’re bracing yourself to tell the story, and Max hates that it’s something you even have to relive.

“It’s been … hard,” you admit, setting the sandwich down. “After we broke up, I didn’t know what to do. I had some savings, but it wasn’t enough to keep living in Monaco. So I had to move.”

“Move?” Max echoes, his brows furrowing. He hadn’t heard anything about this, hadn’t realized things had gotten so bad for you. “Where did you go?”

You hesitate, as if ashamed to tell him, but then you sigh, the words spilling out in a rush. “I found a small place in France. It’s about an hour away. A tiny village. I couldn’t afford to stay here, not without a steady income.”

Max feels a pang of guilt, like he should have known, should have done something sooner. “You’re commuting to Monaco every day for work? That’s crazy.”

You shrug, a faint, humorless smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not ideal, but it’s what I had to do. I tried looking for jobs closer to home, but nothing paid enough. And I didn’t have many options, not with the baby coming.”

Max leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The thought of you struggling like this, traveling back and forth every day, working a physically demanding job while pregnant — it’s almost too much to bear.

He wishes he could just write you a check, cover all your expenses, but he knows you too well. You’d never accept it, not without a fight. You’re proud, stubborn, and fiercely independent — qualities Max admires but wishes you’d set aside just this once.

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Max says softly, his voice filled with concern. “I know you’re strong, but you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Especially not now.”

You meet his gaze, your eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. “I know, but … I need to be able to take care of myself, Max. I need to know I can do this, for me and the baby.”

Max nods, understanding even though it frustrates him. You’ve always been this way — determined to stand on your own two feet, no matter what. But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to stand by and watch you struggle. There has to be a way to help you without making you feel like a charity case.

Then, an idea starts to form in his mind, something he remembers from the past, from the days when you were always by Charles’ side, supporting him in ways most people never even saw. “You know,” Max starts, leaning forward, “I remember how you used to help Charles with his social media. His accounts were always engaging, relatable … fans loved it. That was you, wasn’t it?”

A small smile flickers across your face, the first genuine one he’s seen since he got home. “Yeah, that was me. Charles never really cared about social media, so I took it over. It was fun, in a way, creating content that connected with people.”

Max’s heart lifts at your smile, at the spark of something familiar in your eyes. This could work. This could be exactly what you need.

“Well, I’ve got an idea,” Max says, trying to sound casual even though his heart is pounding in his chest. “Right now, Red Bull’s PR team handles all of my social media. I’ve never really been into it, you know? But honestly, they’re pretty … corporate. The posts are fine, but they don’t really have that personal touch. Not like what you did for Charles.”

You’re watching him now, curiosity piqued, and Max takes that as a good sign.

“What if,” Max continues, “you took over my social media? I mean, I’ve seen what you can do. The fans love that kind of content. You could work from home, set your own hours … it wouldn’t be physically demanding, and I’d pay you well. I mean, really well.”

Your eyes widen at his offer, and for a moment, you just stare at him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious. “I don’t know … I’ve never done that professionally. It was just something I did to help Charles.”

“And you did it better than most professionals,” Max insists. “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything crazy. Just … think about it. You’d be helping me out too, you know? I could really use someone who gets what the fans want, who can make my social media feel more … real.”

You bite your lip, clearly torn. “I don’t know, Max. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I get that,” Max says quickly, not wanting to push too hard but also not wanting to let this go. “Just … think about it, okay? You’d be great at it. And it would mean you don’t have to keep doing jobs that are hard on your body. You could focus on the baby, on yourself. It’s just an idea, but I think it could work.”

You’re silent for a long moment, your gaze dropping to the plate in front of you as you consider his offer. Max waits, his heart pounding in his chest, hoping he hasn’t overstepped, hoping you’ll see this for what it is — a chance, an opportunity to take some of the weight off your shoulders.

Finally, you look up, and Max can see the conflict in your eyes. “I appreciate it, Max. Really, I do. It’s just … it’s a big change, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it.”

“I get that,” Max says, his voice gentle. “But you don’t have to decide right now. Take some time, think it over. I just want you to know that the offer’s there. No pressure, no strings attached. Just … a way to make things a little easier for you.”

You nod slowly, your fingers toying with the edge of the napkin on the table. “I’ll think about it,” you finally say, your voice soft but sincere. “I really will.”

Max feels a rush of relief at your words, and he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. “That’s all I ask. And, in the meantime, you can stay here tonight. No more commuting back and forth, okay?”

You start to protest, but Max cuts you off before you can even get the words out. “No arguments. You’re staying here. I’ve got plenty of room, and you shouldn’t be traveling so much. Just … stay, and we’ll figure things out together.”

You open your mouth to argue, but something in Max’s expression must convince you otherwise, because you close it again and nod. “Okay,” you agree, though you still look a little uncertain.

Max stands up, picking up the empty plates from the table. “Good. Now, you get some rest, and we’ll talk more in the morning.”

As he carries the plates to the sink, he feels a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Anger at Charles for putting you in this situation, frustration that you’re too proud to accept help, and something else — something deeper, a fierce determination to make sure you and the baby are taken care of, no matter what.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, doesn’t know how things will play out between you and Charles, but one thing is certain: he’s not going to let you go through this alone. You’ve been there for him in the past, supporting Charles, cheering Max on from the sidelines, and now it’s his turn to be there for you.

As he turns off the kitchen light and heads to his room, he makes a silent vow to himself. Whatever it takes, he’s going to make sure you’re okay. He’s going to be the friend you need, the support you deserve, and he’s not going to let you down. Not now, not ever.

***

Max enters his apartment, the familiar sounds of his footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood floor. He’s looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe some time with his cats before bed. But when he steps into the living room, he stops in his tracks.

There you are, stretched out on his couch, resting. Jimmy and Sassy have claimed spots on either side of you. Jimmy’s large frame is draped over your legs, purring softly, while Sassy is curled up protectively near your stomach, her eyes half-closed but alert. The sight is so domestic, so peaceful, that it makes something tighten in Max’s chest. It’s a scene he’s never imagined but now, seeing it, it feels … right.

He’s struck by how well you fit here, in his home, in his life. The way you’ve naturally fallen into this space, as if you’ve always belonged. There’s something about the way you’re lying there, with Jimmy and Sassy close by, that tugs at his heart. He wonders if they sense the life growing inside you, if they somehow understand the significance of the new presence in the apartment.

Max approaches quietly, not wanting to disturb the serene moment. He can see now that you’ve fallen asleep, your breathing slow and steady, a slight smile playing on your lips. You look peaceful, more so than you have since you arrived. It’s a relief to see you like this, to know you’re finally resting.

He stands there for a moment, just watching. He’s not sure how long he’s been standing there, time seems to stretch as he takes in the scene. There’s something intimate about it, something that makes him feel protective, like he’s responsible for making sure you and the baby are safe, comfortable. He’s not sure when that shift happened, when he started to care so deeply, but it’s undeniable now.

Carefully, Max leans down and gently scoops you into his arms, trying not to wake you. You stir slightly, mumbling something in your sleep, but then settle back down, your head resting against his chest. Max holds his breath, half-expecting you to wake up and question what he’s doing, but you remain blissfully unaware, lost in whatever dream you’re having.

He’s careful as he carries you down the hallway to the guest room, taking slow, measured steps so he doesn’t jostle you too much. It’s strange, carrying you like this. Not that you’re heavy — far from it — but the weight of responsibility he feels is almost overwhelming. You’re so vulnerable right now, so trusting, and it makes Max even more determined to make sure you’re okay.

When he reaches the guest room, Max pushes the door open with his foot, grateful that it’s already ajar. He steps inside, the soft light from the hallway spilling into the room. The bed is already made, and Max lowers you onto it gently, careful not to disturb your sleep.

He takes a moment to tuck the blanket around you, making sure you’re comfortable. You murmur something again, shifting slightly, and Max freezes, worried he might have woken you. But you just settle deeper into the bed, sighing contentedly, still fast asleep.

Max lingers for a moment, his hand hovering near your face. He’s not sure what compels him to do it, but he finds himself leaning down, pressing a soft, hesitant kiss to your forehead. It’s a simple gesture, one filled with a mix of affection, protectiveness, and something else he can’t quite put into words. He pulls back quickly, almost embarrassed by the tenderness of it, but you don’t wake.

He steps back, watching you for a moment longer. You look so peaceful, and Max feels a strange sense of contentment, like he’s done something right for once. The day’s exhaustion is starting to catch up with him, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave the room just yet.

There’s something about the way you’re sleeping, surrounded by warmth and comfort, that makes him feel … happy. It’s a feeling he’s not used to, but one he finds himself embracing more and more as time goes on.

Finally, Max turns and quietly leaves the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He heads back to the living room, where Jimmy and Sassy are still curled up on the couch, seemingly unbothered by the absence of their human pillow. Max sinks into the armchair across from them, running a hand through his hair as he tries to process everything that’s happened today.

He thinks back to the offer he made you earlier, wondering if you’ll actually take him up on it. Part of him worries that you’ll say no, that you’ll insist on doing everything yourself, but he hopes that maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that accepting help doesn’t make you weak.

Max has never been good with words, but he meant everything he said. He wants to help you, to make things easier for you, and not just because he feels responsible. There’s something deeper at play here, something he can’t quite put his finger on, but it’s there all the same.

He’s never been in a situation like this before, never had someone depend on him in this way, and it’s both terrifying and exhilarating. Max isn’t sure what the future holds, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like he’s on the right path, like he’s doing something that actually matters.

As he sits there, the sounds of the city outside muted by the thick walls of the apartment, Max lets himself imagine what it would be like if this became a regular thing — if you stayed, if you became a part of his life, more than just a guest in his home. The thought sends a wave of warmth through him, a sense of belonging that he’s not sure he’s ever felt before.

But he pushes the thought aside, not wanting to get ahead of himself. One step at a time. First, he needs to make sure you’re okay, make sure you’re taken care of. Everything else can come later.

Max finally gets up from the armchair, heading to his own bedroom. The day’s events have left him drained, both physically and emotionally, and he knows he needs rest if he’s going to be any good to you tomorrow.

As he climbs into bed, pulling the covers over himself, Max’s thoughts drift back to you, sleeping soundly in the guest room just down the hall. He hopes you’re dreaming of something peaceful, something that takes your mind off all the worries you’ve been carrying.

And as he closes his eyes, the last image that flits through his mind is of you, smiling softly in your sleep, with Jimmy and Sassy curled up protectively around you. It’s a good image, one that brings a small, contented smile to his own lips as he finally drifts off to sleep.

Tonight, for the first time in a long time, Max feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

***

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, mingling with the soft morning light that streams through the windows. Max is already at the table, scrolling through his phone, but he looks up as you enter, offering a small, warm smile. He’s still not quite used to this — having someone else here in his space, sharing these quiet moments — but it feels right in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a little rough from sleep. “How’d you sleep?”

“Better,” you admit, reaching for the kettle to make your own cup of tea. “Thanks for … everything yesterday.”

Max waves it off, trying to seem nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — concern, maybe, or something deeper. “You needed it,” he says simply. “And it’s not over yet. We still need to talk about that job offer.”

You nod, pouring hot water over the tea bag and watching as the steam rises. “I’ve been thinking about it,” you start, your voice hesitant. “And … I think I want to accept it.”

Max feels a surge of relief, though he tries not to show it. “You sure? No pressure, if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, I’m sure.” You take a seat across from him, your hands wrapped around the warm mug. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. I need something … something to focus on that doesn’t involve cleaning floors or worrying about everything all the time. Plus, it’s something I know I can do. And I’ll be able to take care of myself, of the baby, without pushing myself too hard.”

Max nods, his relief turning into something warmer, almost like pride. “Good,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m glad you’re taking it. I think you’ll be great at it.”

There’s a pause, the two of you just sipping your drinks in comfortable silence. But Max can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this, that there’s something else you need but aren’t asking for.

“So,” he begins carefully, “where are you planning on staying? I mean, if you’re going to be working for me … you’re going to need somewhere closer than … wherever you’ve been staying.”

You look up, caught off guard. “I … I hadn’t thought about that yet. I was planning on going back to France and just-”

“Stay here,” Max interrupts, surprising even himself with how quickly the words come out. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You wouldn’t have to travel so far every day. Plus, it’s safer for you and the baby. You’ll have everything you need, and I’ll be around to help if you need anything.”

You hesitate, clearly torn. “I don’t want to be a burden, Max. You’ve already done so much-”

“You’re not a burden,” Max says firmly. “You’re my friend, and you need help. It’s that simple.”

There’s a long pause as you consider his words, weighing your options. Finally, you sigh, nodding slowly. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only until I figure things out.”

Max grins, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. “Deal.”

There’s a moment of shared relief before Max’s mind drifts to a more practical matter. “Right, so … there’s one more thing,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t really have much in the fridge besides, like, trainer-approved meals and protein shakes. We’re gonna need to do some shopping.”

You laugh softly, the first genuine laugh he’s heard from you in what feels like forever. “Okay, I guess we should take care of that then.”

Max stands, grabbing his keys from the counter. “Let’s go before it gets too busy.”

***

The grocery store is bustling with the mid-morning crowd, but there’s something oddly comforting about the normalcy of it all. Max pushes the cart as you walk beside him, selecting fruits and vegetables, adding them to the growing pile.

Max watches you closely, noting the way your shoulders relax a little as you focus on the mundane task of picking out produce. He’s glad to see you like this — calm, in control. You seem to know exactly what you need, even as you pause occasionally to consider an item before adding it to the cart.

“Max,” you ask after a moment, turning to him with a slight frown, “do you even like any of this stuff, or am I just buying what I want?”

Max chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll eat whatever, really. Just make sure there’s enough for you and the baby.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “You know more about this stuff than I do, anyway.”

You give him a small smile, but it’s clear that the reality of your situation is still weighing heavily on you. Max wants to say something reassuring, but before he can find the right words, someone else does it for him.

“Y/N?”

The voice comes from behind you, and you both turn to see Pascale Leclerc standing a few feet away, her eyes wide with shock. She looks between you and Max, her gaze lingering on your rounded belly before returning to your face. “I …I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. “Pascale,” you manage to say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hi.”

Pascale takes a step closer, her expression shifting from surprise to concern. “You’re … pregnant?” she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief. “What happened? Charles said you broke up with him-”

You shake your head, your throat tightening. “No, Pascale. I didn’t break up with him. He … he broke up with me. Said it was because of the PR team at Ferrari. They thought he’d be more marketable if he was single.”

Pascale’s eyes widen in horror. “What? He told me … he told me it was mutual, that you both agreed it was for the best.”

Tears prick at your eyes as you shake your head again. “No, it wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t my choice.”

Max, who’s been standing silently beside you, finally speaks up, his voice filled with anger on your behalf. “Charles lied to you, Pascale. He left her, and he doesn’t even know she’s pregnant.”

Pascale’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears. “Oh, mon Dieu,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I had no idea. Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your emotions in check. “Please, Pascale,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “please don’t tell Charles about the baby. I … I don’t want him to know.”

Pascale looks at you, torn, but eventually nods. “Okay. I won’t tell him,” she promises, her voice gentle but firm. “But …Y/N, I want to be a part of my grandchild’s life. I want to be there for you, for both of you.”

The sincerity in her voice breaks down the last of your defenses, and you find yourself nodding, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “Okay,” you manage to say, your voice choked with emotion. “I … I’d like that.”

Pascale steps forward, wrapping you in a gentle hug. “You’re not alone, ma chérie,” she whispers, her voice soothing. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

You cling to her for a moment, taking comfort in her words, before finally pulling back. “Thank you,” you say, wiping at your eyes. “Thank you so much.”

Max, who’s been watching the interaction with a mixture of relief and concern, gently places a hand on your back. “We should finish up,” he says softly, giving Pascale a nod. “Take care, Pascale.”

Pascale smiles through her own tears, giving Max a grateful look. “You too, Max. And Y/N … call me if you need anything. Anytime.”

You nod, giving her a small, shaky smile before turning back to the cart. As you and Max continue shopping, the weight of the encounter settles over you, leaving you emotionally drained. Max notices, his usual silence becoming a source of comfort as he quietly takes over, finishing up the shopping and paying for everything without another word.

***

The drive back to Max’s apartment is quiet, the earlier lightness of the morning replaced by a heavy, lingering tension. You stare out the window, lost in thought, replaying the encounter with Pascale over and over in your mind.

By the time you reach the apartment, you’re exhausted — physically and emotionally. Max parks the car and helps you carry the groceries inside, his movements careful and deliberate as if he’s trying to shield you from any further stress.

Once everything is put away, Max leads you to the living room, where you sink onto the couch, your body sagging with relief. He sits beside you, watching as you struggle to hold back tears, and finally, the dam breaks.

You bury your face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably, all the fear and uncertainty and pain you’ve been holding in finally spilling out. Max wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his hand gently rubbing your back as he whispers soothing words into your ear.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice steady and calm. “Let it out. I’m here.”

You cry until there are no tears left, until you’re too exhausted to do anything but lean against Max, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your sobs. Max doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just keeps holding you as if his presence alone can shield you from everything that’s gone wrong.

When you finally pull back, your eyes are red and puffy, your face wet with tears. “Sorry,” you mumble, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t apologize,” Max interrupts gently, his voice soft but firm. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re going through a lot, and you don’t have to hold it all in.”

You nod, still feeling raw and exposed, but there’s something comforting in the way Max is looking at you — like he’s not judging you, like he genuinely cares.

“Thanks,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Max offers you a small smile, his hand still resting on your back. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he says. “I’m here, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and Max watches as you slowly regain some of your composure.

“Do you want to rest?” He asks after a moment, his voice filled with concern. “You’ve had a long day.”

You shake your head, wiping the last of the tears from your face. “No, I’m okay. I think I just need to … distract myself.”

Max nods, understanding. “Okay,” he says, standing up and offering you his hand. “How about we make dinner? Something simple, but better than those pre-prepared meals.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Yeah,” you say, your voice steadier now. “That sounds good.”

***

Cooking with Max is surprisingly easy. He’s not much of a chef, but he’s attentive and eager to help, following your lead as you guide him through the steps of preparing a simple pasta dish. The kitchen fills with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs, and for a while, you lose yourself in the routine of chopping vegetables and stirring sauces, the earlier tension easing with every moment.

Max watches you closely, noticing the way your movements become more relaxed as you focus on the task at hand. He’s relieved to see you like this — more at ease, more like yourself.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Max comments as he carefully stirs the pasta in the pot, a hint of admiration in his voice.

You shrug, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I used to cook a lot,” you say, your tone a little wistful. “Before everything got … complicated.”

Max doesn’t push for more, sensing that you’re not ready to delve into the past just yet. Instead, he focuses on the present, on the simple pleasure of cooking together, the warmth of the kitchen, the shared sense of purpose.

By the time dinner is ready, the earlier tension has all but disappeared, replaced by a quiet, comforting camaraderie. You and Max sit at the table, eating in companionable silence, the simple meal a balm for your frayed nerves.

After dinner, you help Max clean up, the two of you working together in easy harmony. There’s something oddly soothing about the domesticity of it all — like a glimpse of a life you hadn’t dared to hope for, a life where things could be simple, where you didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.

When everything is finally cleaned up, Max suggests watching a movie, and you agree, grateful for the chance to keep your mind occupied. You settle onto the couch with him, his cats Jimmy and Sassy immediately curling up beside you, their soft purring a comforting background noise.

Max flips through the options on his streaming service, eventually landing on an action movie. “This okay?” He asks, glancing at you.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Something mindless sounds perfect right now.”

The movie starts, and for the next couple of hours, you lose yourself in the fast-paced action, the explosions and car chases providing a welcome distraction from the turmoil of your own life. Max is a solid, comforting presence beside you, and for a while, you let yourself believe that everything might actually be okay.

When the movie ends, you realize how exhausted you are, the emotional rollercoaster of the day finally catching up with you. Max notices too, and he turns to you with a concerned look.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, his voice gentle. “It’s been a long day.”

You nod, not having the energy to argue. “Yeah. I think I will.”

Max helps you to your feet, and you can feel his eyes on you as you make your way to the guest room. Before you can close the door behind you, he stops you with a soft, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pause, looking back at him. “Goodnight, Max. And … thank you. For everything.”

Max smiles, a warmth in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “Just get some rest.”

You nod, giving him a small smile before closing the door behind you.

Once inside the guest room, you sink onto the bed, finally letting out a long breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The room is quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city outside.

You lie down, pulling the blankets over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to relax, to let go of the constant worry and fear, if only for a little while.

As you drift off to sleep, the events of the day swirl in your mind — Pascale’s unexpected appearance, Max’s unwavering support, the strange comfort of being here, in this place that’s starting to feel like home.

And somewhere, deep in your heart, a tiny seed of hope begins to take root.

***

The apartment smells of freshly baked cake and anticipation. Max is in the kitchen, moving about with a nervous energy, double-checking everything — again. The cake is already on the counter, perfectly frosted, with a single pink and blue question mark piped on top. The knife lies beside it, waiting for the moment that feels almost too monumental to be happening in the cozy confines of his living room.

You’re sitting on the couch, absentmindedly stroking Jimmy and Sassy, who have taken up their usual positions on either side of you. Your hand rests protectively over your rounded belly, feeling the slight flutters of movement from the baby. Despite the warmth of the room, your fingers are cold, a mix of nerves and excitement pulsing through you.

“Everything’s ready,” Max says, breaking the silence. He’s trying to sound casual, but you can hear the edge in his voice.

You offer him a small smile, trying to steady yourself. “Thanks, Max. For everything.”

He just nods, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before turning back to the cake. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite read — something beyond just friendship and support. But before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock at the door.

Max visibly relaxes, glad for the distraction. “I’ll get it,” he says, moving to the door and pulling it open.

Pascale is the first to step inside, her smile warm as she takes in the sight of you. “Ma chérie,” she greets, leaning down to kiss both of your cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you reply, feeling a genuine warmth at seeing her. Pascale has been a rock for you since she found out about the pregnancy, offering support and reassurance in a way that makes you feel less alone.

Lorenzo and Arthur follow her in, both of them grinning widely as they approach you. “Hey,” Lorenzo says, giving you a quick hug. “Excited?”

“Nervous,” you admit, glancing over at the cake. “But excited too.”

Arthur chuckles, nudging his brother. “She’s having a girl, I can feel it. I’m gonna win the bet.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes. “You always say that, but I’ve got a good feeling this time. I’m thinking boy.”

Max laughs, shaking his head as he closes the door behind them. “You two and your bets,” he says. “Let’s just focus on what’s important, yeah?”

Pascale gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t say anything, instead turning to you with a soft smile. “You look lovely, dear,” she says, reaching out to gently touch your arm. “And glowing.”

You feel a flush of warmth at her words, though part of you still feels a bit of that anxiety knotting in your stomach. This is Charles’ family, after all, and the weight of what’s unsaid lingers in the air between you.

Max clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the cake. “Shall we?” He asks, looking at you with an encouraging smile.

You take a deep breath and nod, standing up and moving over to the counter. Max stands close beside you, his presence steady and reassuring. The others gather around, their faces expectant, and you feel the weight of the moment settle over you.

“Here we go,” you say softly, picking up the knife. Your hands tremble slightly, and Max’s hand comes to rest on yours, steadying it. You glance up at him, and he gives you a small nod.

You press the knife into the cake, cutting through the soft layers until you reach the center. The room holds its breath as you pull the slice away, revealing the color inside.

It’s pink.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Pascale lets out a delighted gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “A girl!” She exclaims, her eyes shining with joy. “You’re having a little girl!”

Lorenzo and Arthur start laughing, both of them shaking their heads in mock disbelief. “I told you,” Arthur says, clapping his brother on the back. “Looks like you owe me fifty euros.”

But you barely register their words. Your eyes are fixed on the cake, on the pink filling that seems to glow with its own light. You’re having a daughter. The realization hits you like a wave, overwhelming and beautiful, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

Max sees the tears and reacts instinctively. He turns toward you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing away the tears. “It’s okay. It’s good news, right?”

You nod, laughing through the tears. “Yeah,” you say, your voice trembling. “It’s just …a lot.”

And then, before either of you can think, Max leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, hesitant, as if he’s not sure if he should be doing this. But then you kiss him back, and something shifts, deepening the moment. It feels like the world falls away, like it’s just the two of you, and everything else fades into the background.

When Max pulls back, his eyes wide with the realization of what he’s just done, he starts to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

You shake your head, cutting him off. “Don’t,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm. “I liked it.”

Max searches your eyes, looking for any hint of doubt or regret, but all he sees is the truth in your words. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I liked it too,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

The moment between you is tender and full of unspoken feelings, but it’s broken by the sound of Pascale clearing her throat. You both turn to see her watching you, a knowing smile on her face.

“Ah,” she says, her tone gentle but teasing. “I see.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, but Pascale just smiles wider, moving closer to you. “Ma chérie,” she says, taking your hands in hers. “I want you and my granddaughter to be happy. That’s all I care about.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you squeeze her hands in return. “Thank you,” you manage to say, your voice thick with emotion.

Pascale nods, glancing over at Max. “And I can see that Max will stop at nothing to make sure that happens.”

Max looks a little embarrassed, but he meets Pascale’s gaze with a quiet determination. “I promise,” he says, his voice steady. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Lorenzo and Arthur exchange glances, both of them grinning like idiots. “Well, this just got interesting,” Lorenzo quips, earning a light smack on the arm from Pascale.

“Behave,” she admonishes, though there’s a twinkle in her eye. “This is a celebration.”

You can’t help but laugh, the tension that had been building in your chest finally breaking. It’s a strange, wonderful feeling, being surrounded by people who genuinely care, who want what’s best for you and your baby. And as you look around the room — at Max, at Pascale, at Lorenzo and Arthur — you realize that maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of laughter and conversation. Pascale insists on taking a thousand pictures of you with the cake, with Max, with everyone, and by the time she’s done, your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Lorenzo and Arthur argue good-naturedly over baby names, each of them convinced they have the best suggestion, while Max listens with a bemused smile.

Eventually, the party winds down, and Lorenzo and Arthur say their goodbyes, promising to visit again soon. Pascale lingers a little longer, giving you one last hug before she leaves.

“Remember,” she says as she pulls back, her eyes warm and full of affection. “I’m always here for you, no matter what.”

You nod, feeling a swell of gratitude. “I know. Thank you.”

Pascale smiles and gives Max a quick hug as well before finally making her exit, leaving the two of you alone in the apartment.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Max turns to you, his expression softening. “How are you feeling?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day settle over you. “Tired,” you admit, but there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before. “But … happy.”

Max smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Good,” he says simply.

You look at him, at the man who has done so much for you in such a short amount of time, and you feel something shift inside you — something that scares you a little, but that also feels like hope.

“Max,” you begin, your voice uncertain. “About earlier-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I just want you to be comfortable, to do what feels right for you.”

You nod, appreciating his understanding. “I just … I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit, your voice small. “But I know I don’t want to push you away.”

Max’s eyes soften, and he takes a step closer to you. “You won’t,” he says, his voice gentle but certain. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? We’ll figure this out together.”

You take comfort in his words, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You’ve been so used to handling everything on your own, and the thought of having someone beside you, someone who genuinely cares, feels like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed.

“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. The air between you is charged, filled with the weight of unspoken possibilities.

Max reaches out, hesitating for a brief moment before gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, and you lean into his touch, feeling a warmth spread through you. It’s as if time slows down, the world outside of Max’s apartment fading away until there’s only the two of you, standing close enough to share the same breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Max murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you and the baby are safe, happy, and loved.”

You search his eyes, finding only honesty there, a depth of emotion that takes you by surprise. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of connection, this certainty that you’re not alone.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Max shakes his head slightly, as if to say there’s no need to thank him, but you know better. You know how much he’s done, how much he’s given, and you feel a rush of gratitude so powerful it almost overwhelms you.

Without thinking, you close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. Max holds you just as tightly, his chin resting on top of your head, and for a moment, everything feels right. The world outside, the uncertainty of the future — it all fades away, leaving just the comfort of his arms around you.

After a few moments, you pull back slightly, looking up at him. There’s something in his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you press a soft, tentative kiss to his lips.

This time, there’s no hesitation. Max kisses you back with a gentle intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. Max’s eyes are dark with emotion, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

“Stay,” he whispers, his voice rough with need. “Stay with me. Let me take care of you.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I will.”

Max’s expression softens into a smile, one that lights up his entire face. He leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead, a promise in the simple gesture.

“Good,” he says, his voice full of quiet joy. “That’s good.”

You smile back at him, feeling a warmth in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. With Max by your side, it feels like maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay. As you both stand there, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around you like a cocoon, you realize that this — right here, right now — is the start of something new, something beautiful.

***

It’s early morning, the kind where the light hasn’t yet broken through the curtains, and the apartment is still wrapped in the quiet hush of dawn. You’re half-awake, swimming in that space between sleep and consciousness when you hear it — Max’s voice, low and soothing.

You keep your eyes closed, letting the sound wash over you, not wanting to break the spell. His words are soft, like he’s speaking to the most delicate thing in the world, and you realize he’s talking to your belly.

“Morning, little one,” Max whispers, his voice full of warmth. You feel the slight movement of his hand on your stomach, gentle and comforting. “Did you sleep well? I hope you’re taking it easy on your mama.”

You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips, but you stay still, wanting to hear more. There’s something so tender, so intimate about this moment, and you don’t want to interrupt it.

Max continues, his tone playful now. “You know, I’ve been thinking … you’re going to need a name for me, right? Something special. How about Maxie? Does that sound good to you?” He pauses, as if waiting for an answer. “Or maybe, one day, you’ll call me Papa. I’d really like that.”

Your heart swells, and you feel a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the blanket you’re curled under. Max’s words are like a promise, one that wraps around both you and the baby, binding you together in a way that feels unshakable.

He continues to talk, his voice filled with love and a hint of wonder, as if he still can’t quite believe this is real. “I can’t wait to meet you, you know. To see your little face, your tiny hands … I’m going to be right here, every step of the way. I promise. You and your mama … you’re my world now.”

You feel the gentle pressure of his lips as he presses a kiss to your stomach, and it sends a shiver through you, a mix of emotion that you can’t quite put into words. It’s the kind of feeling that settles deep in your chest, making you want to cry and smile at the same time.

Max shifts slightly, and you feel him lay his head next to your stomach, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ll be here to teach you all the important things, like how to kick a football or how to drive really fast — though, your mama might not like that last one,” he chuckles softly, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling.

“And I’ll be here for the hard stuff too,” Max continues, his tone growing serious. “I’ll make sure you’re safe, and that you always know how loved you are. Because you’re already so loved, little one. So much.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your eyes sting with unshed tears. You can feel the depth of his commitment, the way he’s already made space in his heart for this child, and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

Max falls quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on your belly. You can feel his thumb tracing small circles over your skin, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. “I know I’m not your real dad,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “But I’m going to love you like you’re mine. And I’m going to love your mama with everything I have, because she deserves that. She deserves everything.”

Your heart clenches at his words, a rush of emotion so strong it nearly takes your breath away. You’ve never felt so cared for, so deeply cherished, and it’s all because of him — this man who has stepped into your life and turned it upside down in the most unexpected, wonderful way.

Max leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I promise, I’ll always be here for you. For both of you. And I hope, one day, you’ll call me Papa. But even if you don’t, I’ll still be the luckiest man in the world, just to be here with you.”

You can’t keep your eyes closed any longer. They flutter open, and you glance down at him, your heart full to bursting. Max looks up, catching your gaze, and there’s a moment of quiet understanding between you — a recognition of the enormity of what he’s just said.

“Did I wake you?” He asks softly, his hand still resting on your belly.

You shake your head, your voice thick with emotion. “No … I was awake.”

Max studies your face, and you can see the concern in his eyes, the way he’s always so attuned to your feelings. “You okay?”

You nod, reaching out to brush a hand through his messy hair. “I’m more than okay.”

His lips curl into a soft smile, one that makes your chest ache with how much you care for him. Max shifts, pressing another kiss to your belly before moving to lay beside you, gathering you into his arms. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, letting it soothe you back into that half-asleep state.

“You’re going to be an amazing dad,” you murmur, your words slurred with sleep.

Max’s arms tighten around you, his lips brushing against the top of your head. “Only because I have you.”

His words wrap around you like a blanket, warm and secure. As you drift back into sleep, the last thing you hear is Max’s voice, soft and full of promise, whispering to your belly again. “I’ll always be here,” he says. “For both of you. Always.”

And with that, you let the sound of his voice carry you back into sleep, your heart filled with a deep, unshakable sense of peace.

***

The contractions start in the early hours of the morning, sharp and unyielding, ripping you out of a restless sleep. At first, you think it’s just another false alarm — your body playing tricks on you like it has for the past week. But this time, something feels different, more urgent. Max is beside you in an instant, his instincts kicking in the moment you clutch at the sheets, your breath hitching in pain.

“Are you okay?” His voice is full of concern, his hand already on your back, trying to soothe you through the discomfort.

You shake your head, biting your lip as another wave crashes over you. “It’s time,” you manage to gasp, your hand instinctively reaching for his. “Max, it’s time.”

Max’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate. He’s up, grabbing the hospital bag that’s been packed for weeks now, guiding you carefully out of bed. The ride to the hospital is a blur of pain and tension, Max’s knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel, driving with a focus that betrays his worry.

When you arrive, everything moves too quickly and too slowly all at once. Nurses and doctors swarm around you, getting you into a gown, checking your vitals, assessing the baby’s position. Max stays by your side through it all, his hand never leaving yours, his voice a steady presence in your ear as he tries to keep you calm.

Hours pass, the pain intensifying until it feels like your body is being split in two. But you’re not scared — not until the doctor’s expression changes, his calm professionalism slipping as he exchanges a glance with the nurse. It’s a look that sends a spike of fear through your heart, and suddenly, the room feels too small, the walls closing in.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your voice shaking, trying to keep the panic at bay. Max’s hand tightens around yours, his eyes fixed on the doctor, demanding answers without saying a word.

The doctor clears his throat, his tone gentle but serious. “The baby is in distress. Her heart rate is dropping, and we’re concerned about a potential placental abruption.”

“What does that mean?” Max’s voice is hoarse, his face pale.

“It means,” the doctor says carefully, “we may have to make some difficult decisions. We’ll do everything we can, but in situations like this, there’s a chance we may have to prioritize-”

“No,” you interrupt, your voice rising in panic. The room starts to spin, your vision blurring as the reality of what he’s saying crashes over you. “No, no, no … you can’t do that. Save the baby. If it comes down to it, you have to save the baby.”

Max’s grip on your hand tightens to the point of pain, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish in his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he chokes out, his voice cracking. “Don’t you dare say that.”

The doctor nods, his expression somber. “We’re not there yet. We still have time to try and turn things around, but we need to act fast.”

You nod numbly, tears streaming down your face as the pain intensifies, the fear now mingling with the physical agony. Max leans in close, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot and ragged as he struggles to hold it together.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispers, though his voice shakes with the weight of his own fear. “You hear me? Both of you. You’re both coming out of this. I need you to believe that.”

Your heart aches at the desperation in his voice, and you want to believe him, want to cling to the hope he’s trying so hard to give you. But the terror is overwhelming, and all you can do is nod, too afraid to speak, afraid that if you do, it will make everything too real.

Max pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression fierce despite the tears shining in his own. “Listen to me,” he says, his voice stronger now, a command wrapped in a plea. “You’re strong, okay? The strongest person I know. And she’s strong too. You’re both going to make it through this. You have to. I can’t-” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “I can’t lose you. I can’t lose either of you.”

His words break something inside you, and you sob, clutching at him like he’s your lifeline, because right now, he is. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty — it’s all too much, and you bury your face in his chest, trying to draw strength from him.

The doctors and nurses are moving around you, the room filled with a flurry of activity, but all you can focus on is Max. He’s your anchor, the only thing keeping you tethered to reality as the world spins out of control. His hand never leaves yours, even as the contractions grow stronger, more intense, your screams echoing off the walls.

“I’m here,” Max keeps repeating, his voice a constant in the chaos. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But then, the situation worsens. You hear the doctor call for an emergency C-section, and your heart plummets. The pain is unbearable, and you can’t breathe, can’t think. They’re wheeling you away, Max’s hand slipping from yours as they take you to the operating room. The last thing you see is his face, pale and stricken, his eyes wide with fear.

“I love you,” he calls out, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he can’t control. “I love you so much. Please — please be okay.”

The operating room is cold, the lights too bright, and all you can think about is the life inside you, the baby you’ve grown to love before she’s even taken her first breath. You can’t lose her. You can’t. But the fear is suffocating, and as they prepare you for surgery, you feel a wave of despair crash over you.

Max’s words echo in your mind, a desperate mantra that you cling to with everything you have. Both of you are making it out of this. You have to.

The anesthesia takes hold, and you feel yourself slipping away, the world fading around you. But before the darkness consumes you, you send up a silent prayer, a plea to whatever force might be listening.

Please. Please let us both make it out of this.

And then, there’s nothing but darkness.

***

Max paces the waiting room, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through his chest. Every second that ticks by is torture, every minute without news a knife twisting in his gut. He’s never been this scared in his life, not even in the most dangerous moments on the track.

His hands are shaking, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. He keeps replaying the last look you gave him, the fear in your eyes, the way you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. The thought of losing you, of losing the baby — it’s unbearable.

He can’t breathe, can’t think straight. All he can do is wait, and it’s driving him insane. He feels so helpless, like there’s nothing he can do to fix this, to protect you, and it’s killing him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the doctor emerges from the operating room. Max rushes to him, his heart in his throat, fear choking him.

“Doctor, please — tell me, are they okay?” Max’s voice is raw, barely above a whisper, his eyes pleading.

The doctor looks tired, his face drawn, but there’s a small, reassuring smile on his lips. “The surgery was successful. It was touch and go for a while, but both your partner and the baby are stable.”

Max’s knees nearly buckle with relief, a sob escaping his throat as he covers his face with his hands. “Thank God … thank you,” he chokes out, his whole body trembling with the release of tension.

“You can see them soon,” the doctor adds gently, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder. “She’s going to need a lot of rest, and we’ll be monitoring them both closely, but they’re out of danger for now.”

Max nods, unable to speak, his emotions too overwhelming to put into words. He’s ushered into a recovery room, where you’re lying on the bed, pale and exhausted, but alive. The sight of you sends a fresh wave of tears to his eyes.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly, your voice barely audible, but the sound of it is the most beautiful thing Max has ever heard.

“Hey,” he breathes, moving to your side and taking your hand in his. His other hand brushes the hair from your face, his touch reverent, as if he’s afraid you might break. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, tears welling up in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to … I just … I had to make sure she was okay.”

Max shakes his head, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, his tears mingling with yours. “Don’t apologize. You did it. You both made it. You’re both okay.”

You squeeze his hand, drawing strength from his presence. “I couldn’t have done it without you. I heard you, Max … I heard you telling me to hold on.”

Max pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. “I meant every word. I’ll always be here, for both of you. I promise.”

A nurse enters. “Would you like to meet your daughter?” She asks.

The nurse wheels in the bassinet, and you can’t take your eyes off the tiny bundle wrapped in a pink blanket. Max looks at you, his heart in his throat, as the nurse gently lifts your daughter and places her in your arms. She’s so small, her eyes closed, her tiny fists curled up against her chest. The world narrows to this moment, the overwhelming surge of love crashing over you both as you stare down at her.

Max sits beside you, his arm around your shoulders as he looks at his daughter, his breath catching in his throat. “She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “So beautiful.”

You smile through your tears, nodding as you trace a gentle finger over the baby’s soft cheek. “She is. I … I’ve been thinking about what to name her.”

Max looks at you, his heart pounding, waiting for you to speak.

“I want to name her Emilia,” you say softly, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “After you. I want her to have a part of you with her always. You’ve done so much for us, Max. You’re a part of her, a part of us. It feels right.”

Max’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t speak. His middle name is something he’s never thought much about, but hearing you say it now, giving it to your daughter — it takes on a whole new meaning.

“Emilia,” he repeats softly, as if testing it out. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body as he wraps you both in his embrace. Emilia stirs in your arms, making a soft noise as she opens her eyes for the first time, looking up at you and Max with wide, curious eyes. It feels like time stands still, the three of you cocooned in this perfect moment.

“She’s going to be so loved,” Max whispers, his voice full of awe and determination. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You nod, knowing he means it with every fiber of his being. Max has already proven that he’ll do anything to protect you and Emilia. It’s in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you both as if you’re the most precious things in the world.

As you sit there together, your new family, you know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, you won’t be facing them alone. Max is here, by your side, and with him, you have all the strength you need.

“Welcome to the world, Emilia,” you whisper, kissing her tiny forehead. “We love you so much.”

Max kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering there as he closes his eyes, letting himself feel the full weight of the love he has for you both. This is what he’s been waiting for, what he didn’t even realize he needed until now.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmurs, his voice a promise. “For both of you.”

And as you hold your daughter close, you know that those words are true. Max will always be here, and together, you’ll face whatever comes next as a family.

***

Max carefully pulls the car up to the curb outside his Monaco apartment, his hands gripping the steering wheel just a little too tightly. He’s driven this route countless times, but today feels different — monumental. He glances over at you in the passenger seat, Emilia cradled in your arms, bundled up in a soft pink blanket. She’s asleep, her tiny mouth forming an ‘O’ as she breathes peacefully.

Max’s heart feels like it might burst from his chest as he watches you both. The love he feels is overwhelming, so much that it almost scares him. He’s not sure how to carry it all, but he knows he wants to try — no, he needs to.

“Ready?” He asks, his voice soft, not wanting to disturb Emilia.

You nod, smiling down at your daughter before looking up at him. “Ready.”

Max steps out of the car and hurries around to your side, opening the door for you and helping you out, his hand warm and steady on your arm. You both move carefully, as if the world might shatter if you’re too rough. Emilia stirs slightly as you adjust her in your arms, but she stays asleep, oblivious to the world outside.

The front door of the apartment clicks open, and you step inside, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you. Max closes the door behind you, and suddenly, the apartment feels different — more complete, more alive. He watches as you walk into the living room, a sense of awe filling him as he realizes that this is your home now, Emilia’s home.

Jimmy and Sassy are lounging on the couch when you enter. They lift their heads lazily, eyes narrowing with curiosity as they spot the new addition to the household. Max watches them closely, his heart racing slightly. He knows how territorial they can be, and the last thing he wants is for them to feel threatened by Emilia.

You lower yourself carefully onto the couch, cradling Emilia in your arms, and Max sits beside you, his arm around your shoulders. “Guys,” you whisper to the cats, your voice gentle, soothing. “Come say hi.”

Jimmy is the first to move, hopping down from the couch and approaching slowly, his eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the tiny human in your arms. He sniffs the air cautiously, his ears twitching, and then, to Max’s surprise, he rubs his head gently against Emilia’s leg, purring softly. Sassy follows suit, jumping up onto the armrest to get a better look, her green eyes curious and bright.

Max lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a smile spreading across his face. “Looks like they approve,” he says, his voice full of warmth.

You laugh softly, the sound like music to his ears. “I guess so. They’re so gentle with her.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees, his eyes never leaving Emilia’s face. “They know she’s important.”

For a while, the three of you just sit there, basking in the quiet joy of the moment. Emilia shifts in your arms, her tiny fingers flexing as she begins to wake up. Her eyes flutter open, and she lets out a small, contented sigh. Jimmy and Sassy watch intently, as if fascinated by this little creature that’s suddenly become the center of their world.

Max reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against Emilia’s cheek. She turns her head slightly, her eyes trying to focus on him, and Max feels a lump form in his throat. “Hi, meisje,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Welcome home.”

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. But then, as if the weight of the world suddenly returns, Max feels a pang of dread deep in his chest. He tries to push it away, but it lingers, gnawing at him.

You notice the change in him immediately, lifting your head to look at him, concern in your eyes. “Max? What’s wrong?”

He hesitates, not wanting to ruin the moment, but he knows he has to tell you. “I just … I’ve been thinking about the races,” he admits quietly. “I’m going to have to leave soon, and … I hate the thought of being away from you and Emilia. Especially now.”

Your expression softens, and you reach out to take his hand, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Max, it’s okay. I know how much racing means to you. We’ll be fine.”

He shakes his head, his eyes searching yours. “I know you will. It’s just … I don’t want to miss anything. I don’t want to miss her first smile, her first laugh, her first steps …”

“You won’t,” you assure him, squeezing his hand. “We’ll make it work. And when she’s old enough, we’ll come with you to as many races as we can.”

Max’s heart swells at the thought, but then another worry creeps in. He hesitates, glancing away for a moment before looking back at you. “But… what about Charles? I don’t want you to feel like you have to be in the same paddock as him. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering his words, and then you shake your head, a determined look in your eyes. “Max, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I want to be there with you. Emilia and I will cheer you on, and Charles … well, he’s in the past. You’re our future. I want to support you, and I want Emilia to see how amazing her papa is.”

The relief that washes over Max is palpable. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that until now. “Are you sure?” He asks, his voice almost trembling. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I’m sure,” you say firmly. “Besides, I want Emilia to grow up surrounded by people who love her. And that includes you, Max. You’re her papa.”

Max’s breath catches at the word, his chest tightening with a mix of love and fear. He’s been called many things in his life — champion, prodigy, competitor — but ‘papa’ is new. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Papa,” he echoes softly, the word feeling both foreign and right on his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

You smile, your eyes shining with warmth. “Me too.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur of small, beautiful moments. You and Max take turns holding Emilia, watching as she discovers the world around her with wide, curious eyes. Max can’t stop marveling at how tiny she is, how perfect. Every little coo, every small movement feels like a miracle to him.

When evening falls, you feed Emilia while Max busies himself in the kitchen, preparing something simple for dinner. He’s not much of a cook, but he’s determined to take care of you both in any way he can. As you sit at the table together, Emilia cradled in your arms, Max watches you with a sense of contentment he’s never felt before.

But as the night grows darker, that lingering dread creeps back in. Max knows he has to leave for the next race soon, and the thought of being away from you and Emilia feels unbearable. After dinner, he finds himself pacing the living room, his thoughts swirling.

You notice his restlessness and approach him, Emilia sleeping soundly in your arms. “Max,” you say gently, drawing his attention. “Talk to me.”

He stops, running a hand through his hair as he looks at you, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “I just … I don’t know how I’m going to leave you both. I hate it.”

You step closer, reaching out to touch his arm. “Max, I know it’s hard. But we’ll be okay. And you can call us anytime, video chat, whatever you need. We’ll make it work.”

Max nods, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “I just don’t want to miss anything,” he repeats, his voice strained. “I want to be here for everything.”

“And you will be,” you promise, your voice firm. “We’ll figure it out together. We’re a team now, remember?”

Max lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah,” he says softly, his voice filled with gratitude. “We are.”

You lean up to kiss him softly on the lips, a kiss that’s full of reassurance and love. When you pull back, Max looks at you with a mixture of awe and affection.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

“For being here. For being you,” he says simply, his eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile, your heart swelling with love for the man in front of you. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Max pulls you into a gentle embrace, careful not to disturb Emilia as he holds you both close. In that moment, he knows that no matter how many races he has to go to, no matter how far he has to travel, this is where his heart will always be — with you and Emilia.

And as you both stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, Max makes a silent promise to himself: to always be there for you, no matter what. Because this — this little family you’ve created together — is the most important thing in the world.

***

The doorbell rings just as Max is finishing up with Emilia’s bottle. He glances at the clock — 10:30 a.m. Whoever it is, they’re too early for lunch, too late for breakfast, and entirely unexpected.

You’re in the kitchen, humming softly while packing away the groceries Max picked up this morning. Max smiles to himself as he looks down at Emilia, her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb. It feels like everything in his life is finally in place.

But that sense of contentment shatters the moment he opens the door.

Jos stands there, his presence immediately filling the entryway with tension. The older man’s eyes flick to you in the kitchen, then back to Max, his mouth curling into a sneer.

“Max,” Jos says, stepping forward before Max can say a word. His voice is cold, sharp. The man doesn’t even bother with a greeting.

“Dad,” Max replies, swallowing hard as he shuts the door behind him. Jos is already walking into the apartment, his eyes scanning the place like he’s looking for something to criticize.

You turn around, startled by the sound of footsteps you weren’t expecting. The soft smile on your face fades when you see Jos. Max can see the recognition in your eyes, followed by a flash of concern. You know about Jos, the kind of man he is. Max’s jaw tightens.

“What are you doing here?” Max tries to keep his voice steady, but there’s an edge to it, a warning.

Jos ignores him. His gaze is fixed on you now, his expression unreadable but undeniably harsh. “So this is her, huh?” He waves a hand in your direction. “The one Charles tossed aside.”

You freeze, hands trembling as you instinctively clutch the counter behind you. Max’s blood runs cold.

“Don’t,” Max warns, stepping between you and his father. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Jos scoffs. “Relax, Max. I’m just stating the obvious. She’s nothing more than your rival’s sloppy seconds. And you … you’re playing house with another man’s child.”

The air leaves the room. Max’s vision narrows, and all he can see is Jos — the man who made his childhood a battleground. The man who pushed him so hard he could barely breathe under the weight of his expectations. Now he’s here, trying to break apart the life Max has built for himself.

“That’s enough,” Max snaps, his voice rising in a way that’s unfamiliar, even to him. Emilia starts fussing in his arms, sensing the tension, and it only makes him angrier. “You don’t get to walk in here and insult my family.”

Jos raises an eyebrow. “Family? Don’t kid yourself, Max. This isn’t your family. This is Charles Leclerc’s leftovers. You’re raising another man’s child, and you think that makes you a father?”

Max feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s not that scared little boy anymore, the one who craved his father’s approval more than anything in the world. He’s a man now — a father — and he won’t let Jos tear him down again.

“You don’t know anything about this,” Max says, his voice shaking with fury. “I love her. I love Emilia. She’s my daughter, and I’m her father, no matter what you think. And if you can’t respect that, then you don’t belong here.”

Jos’s eyes flash with something dark, something that Max recognizes all too well. But before he can say anything, you step forward, your voice trembling but determined. “Please, just go.”

Jos glances at you, then back at Max. For a moment, it looks like he might push further, but then he shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You’ve gone soft, Max. You’re making a mistake, and one day you’ll see it.”

Max tightens his grip on Emilia, who’s starting to cry now, her small voice cutting through the tension. He turns his back on Jos, cradling his daughter close to his chest, and says, “Get out.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then, with a huff of disdain, Jos turns on his heel and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.

You rush to Max’s side, reaching out to touch his arm. “Max, I-”

“Don’t,” Max says, his voice cracking. He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as he struggles to keep his composure. “Just … don’t.”

He doesn’t mean to snap at you, but the anger, the hurt, it’s all too much. You say nothing, just move closer, wrapping your arms around him and Emilia, holding them both as tightly as you can. Max can feel the tension melting away, replaced by a deep, bone-deep exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Max replies, shaking his head. “It’s … it’s just him. He’ll never change.”

You pull back slightly, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “He’s wrong, Max. You are her father. You’re already everything she needs.”

Max looks down at Emilia, who’s slowly calming down in his arms. Her tiny hand grips his finger, and the simple, innocent gesture makes something in him break. He swallows hard, blinking back tears.

“I don’t care what he says,” Max whispers, more to himself than to you. “I’m not him. I’m never going to be him.”

You reach up, gently brushing a tear away from his cheek. “You’re not. You’re a good man and you’re already a great father.”

Max can’t find the words to respond, so he just leans down and kisses you, a slow, desperate kiss that says everything he can’t put into words. You kiss him back, your hands gently cradling his face, grounding him in the moment.

When you finally pull away, you smile at him, and it’s like the sun breaking through a stormy sky. “We’re going to be okay,” you say softly. “All three of us.”

Max nods, pressing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “We are.”

You both stand there in the quiet of the apartment, holding onto each other and to Emilia, who has finally fallen back asleep. The storm has passed, but Max knows there will be more to come. But as long as he has you and Emilia by his side, he knows he can face anything.

And for the first time in a long time, Max feels like he’s finally home.

***

The room is silent except for the soft hum of the baby monitor, its rhythmic buzz a constant backdrop to the night. The apartment is dark, save for a thin sliver of moonlight seeping in through the curtains, casting a pale glow over the room.

You stir, groggily reaching for the warmth of Max beside you, but find only cold sheets. Instantly, you’re more awake, your heart quickening as you sit up and squint into the darkness. It’s late, or maybe it’s early — time has blurred into an endless loop of feeding, changing, and trying to snatch sleep in between.

Max isn’t in bed, but you can see his silhouette across the room, standing over Emilia’s crib. His back is to you, his posture tense yet somehow fragile, as if he’s holding something inside that’s threatening to spill over. You watch him for a moment, the quiet of the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, before you gently call out his name.

“Max?”

He doesn’t turn immediately, and for a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you. But then he shifts slightly, his shoulders dropping as if he’s finally exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough with emotion. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head, though he’s not looking at you. “No. I just noticed you weren’t in bed.”

He glances back at you then, just briefly, his eyes shadowed and unreadable in the dim light. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admits, turning his gaze back to Emilia. “I kept thinking about … everything.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone that makes you push back the covers and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You stand up, crossing the room to where he’s standing. When you reach him, you place a hand on his arm, feeling the tension thrumming through his muscles.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” You ask softly, trying to meet his eyes.

For a moment, he’s quiet, staring down at Emilia with a look that’s a mix of awe and fear. Then he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I keep saying she’s mine. I’ve said it so many times, but … I don’t think it really hit me until just now. I’m her dad.”

He finally looks at you, his blue eyes shining with something raw and unguarded. “I’m her dad, and that means … everything. It means I’m the one who’s supposed to protect her, to make sure she’s safe and happy. I’m the one who’s supposed to teach her, to love her, to be there for every moment of her life.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and you feel your heart break for him, for the weight he’s been carrying. You squeeze his arm gently, encouraging him to continue.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to be what my dad wanted me to be,” Max continues, his eyes dropping back down to Emilia. “I pushed myself so hard because I thought that’s what I had to do, that I had to prove something to him, to everyone. But this … being her dad, it’s different. It’s not about proving anything. It’s just about being there for her, for you.”

You can hear the fear in his voice, the uncertainty, but also the determination. Max has always been a fighter, always pushing himself to the limit, but this is different. This is about love, about responsibility, about a future that’s no longer just his.

“I promise,” he says, his voice stronger now, more certain. “I promise I’ll always do the best for her, and for you. I’ll make mistakes, I know I will, but I’ll always try to do what’s right. I’ll always be here.”

His words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You step closer, sliding your arms around his waist and resting your head against his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, a comforting rhythm that grounds you in the moment.

“You’re already doing it,” you whisper against his chest. “You’re already an amazing dad, Max. She’s so lucky to have you, and so am I.”

Max wraps his arms around you, pulling you even closer. You feel the warmth of his body against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It’s a simple, quiet moment, but it’s everything.

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I didn’t think … I never imagined this. Having a family. But now that I do, I can’t imagine life without it. Without you. Without her.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes are soft, full of love and something else — something deeper, more profound. It’s the look of a man who’s found something he didn’t even know he was searching for.

“I love you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can even think about them. But they’re true, and you realize with a start that you’ve been feeling them for a while now.

Max’s breath catches, and for a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to memorize your face, your words, everything about this moment. Then he smiles — a real, genuine smile that lights up his entire face.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “So much.”

You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, tender kiss. It’s not the first kiss you’ve shared, but it feels like the most important. It’s a promise, a commitment, a beginning.

When you finally pull away, Max rests his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you close. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For everything. For trusting me, for being here, for giving me this family.”

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

He kisses you again, softer this time, a lingering brush of lips that sends warmth spiraling through you. Then he turns his attention back to Emilia, who’s still sound asleep in her crib, blissfully unaware of the world around her.

“She’s so perfect,” Max murmurs, his voice full of wonder. “I still can’t believe she’s ours.”

“She is,” you agree, leaning against him as you both watch your daughter sleep. “She’s everything.”

Max nods, his eyes never leaving Emilia. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she has the best life possible. I don’t care what it takes. She’s my little girl.”

There’s a fierceness in his voice now, a protective instinct that you know will only grow stronger with time. It’s the kind of love that can’t be measured, the kind that changes everything.

“And you,” Max adds, looking down at you with a softness that makes your heart swell. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re happy too. That you never have to worry about anything.”

“I know you will,” you say, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. “But you don’t have to do it all on your own, Max. We’re in this together, okay? We’re a team.”

He nods, his expression serious. “Yeah. We are.”

You stand there in the quiet of the night, wrapped up in each other and in the future you’re building together. It’s a future that’s still uncertain, full of challenges and unknowns, but it’s yours. It’s yours, and it’s beautiful.

After a while, Max guides you back to bed, and you both climb under the covers, your bodies fitting together perfectly. He holds you close, his arms wrapped around you as you settle against his chest. You can hear the steady beat of his heart, feel the warmth of his skin against yours, and it lulls you into a peaceful sleep.

As you drift off, you hear Max’s voice one last time, a soft whisper in the darkness. “I’m never letting go of this. Of you. Of her. I promise.”

And with that, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling more loved and more secure than you ever have before.

***

Max is darting around the private jet, a man on a mission. He’s checking every corner, every surface, making sure it’s all baby-proofed, while you sit on the plush leather seat, watching him with a mix of amusement and affection. Emilia, cradled in your arms, is blissfully unaware of her father’s nerves as she gurgles happily, her tiny hands waving in the air.

“Max, it’s fine,” you call out, but he’s too busy testing the security of a cabinet door to hear you.

“What if the turbulence knocks something over?” He mutters, more to himself than to you, as he gives the cabinet another pull to ensure it’s locked tight. He moves on to the safety straps on the seats, tugging at them to make sure they’re secure.

You can’t help but smile at how seriously he’s taking this. Max Verstappen reduced to a bundle of nerves over the safety of a half-year-old baby on a private jet. It’s endearing, seeing him so out of his element, so completely focused on making sure everything is perfect for Emilia.

“Max, she’s going to be fine,” you say gently, but with a hint of laughter in your voice.

Max finally turns to you, his expression a mix of determination and mild panic. “I know, I just-” he pauses, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t want to take any chances. What if something happens? What if-”

“Max,” you cut him off, “everything’s going to be okay. You’ve checked everything three times already.”

He lets out a breath, his shoulders finally relaxing a little. “Yeah, you’re right. I just ... I want her to be safe.”

“She will be. And besides,” you add with a teasing smile, “you’ve already won the overprotective dad award.”

That gets a small smile out of him, and he walks over to where you’re sitting, leaning down to press a kiss to Emilia’s forehead. “You’re right,” he says again, though this time it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

You reach up to touch his cheek, your thumb brushing over the stubble there. “You’re an amazing dad, Max.”

He covers your hand with his, his blue eyes softening as he looks at you. “I just ... I never thought I’d be this worried, you know? Driving at 300 kilometers an hour doesn’t scare me, but this ...”

“Because this is different,” you finish for him, understanding completely. “She’s your whole world now.”

“You both are,” he corrects, and you can see the emotion in his eyes, the depth of his feelings for both you and Emilia.

The flight attendant comes by to offer refreshments, and Max asks for a bottle of water before turning his attention back to you and Emilia. He takes a seat beside you, carefully cradling the baby as you hand her over. The moment Emilia is in his arms, the tension in his shoulders eases, and he looks down at her with the kind of adoration that makes your heart swell.

“Look at her,” he murmurs, as if he still can’t believe this little person is real, is his.

“She’s beautiful,” you agree softly.

Max leans back in his seat, holding Emilia close. She’s starting to doze off, her tiny mouth making little sucking motions even in her sleep. “I can’t wait for her to see her first race,” he says quietly, his voice full of anticipation and pride.

You smile, watching the way he looks at Emilia, as if she’s the most precious thing in the world. And to him, she is.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” You ask, leaning your head on his shoulder.

He chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I hope so. Maybe she’ll be my little lucky charm.”

“She already is,” you say, closing your eyes for a moment, just soaking in the warmth of the moment.

The plane starts to taxi down the runway, and Max holds Emilia a little tighter, his other hand reaching out to take yours. The takeoff is smooth, but Max’s grip on your hand doesn’t loosen until you’re well into the air.

“She didn’t even stir,” you note, nodding towards Emilia, who’s still peacefully asleep in Max’s arms.

“She’s tougher than we give her credit for,” Max replies, smiling down at his daughter.

As the flight progresses, Max eventually relaxes enough to stop checking every detail of the cabin. He spends most of the time just watching Emilia sleep, occasionally glancing out the window at the clouds passing by. You can see the wheels turning in his head, and you know he’s already imagining what it will be like to have her at the track, to share that part of his life with her.

After a while, you start to feel the effects of the early morning and the flight. The gentle hum of the plane and the steady warmth of Max beside you lull you into a state of drowsiness. You lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder, your hand still holding his.

Max looks down at you, his heart swelling with a fierce protectiveness. This is his family, his girls, and he would do anything to keep you both safe, to make sure you’re happy. He kisses the top of your head, the gesture so natural, so filled with love, that it almost surprises him how right it feels.

As the plane flies steadily towards its destination, you drift off to sleep, the last thing you hear being Max whispering softly to Emilia, telling her about the first time he’ll take her to the paddock, how he’ll introduce her to everyone, how he’ll teach her everything he knows. His voice is filled with so much love and promise that it makes your heart ache in the best way possible.

And then, you’re asleep, resting peacefully against Max’s shoulder, while Emilia snoozes in his arms. Max stays like that for the rest of the flight, holding both of you close, his heart full and content.

***

The paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race excitement, but today, there's an extra layer of curiosity. People are craning their necks, whispering to each other, their eyes widening as Max Verstappen strolls through, an unusual sight to behold. Emilia is strapped to his chest in a baby carrier, her tiny hands grabbing at the fabric of Max’s shirt, while you walk beside him, pushing a stroller that’s more a mobile storage unit for all the baby essentials.

It’s your first time back at a race since everything changed, and the significance of the moment isn’t lost on you. Every step feels heavy with the weight of anticipation, not just for the race itself, but for the reactions you both know are coming. Max, usually so composed in these environments, seems a little tense. His hand rests protectively over Emilia, his thumb gently stroking her back as he navigates through the crowd.

As you walk together, you catch the eyes of team members, fans, and media alike, all of them stunned by the sight of Max — stoic, single-minded Max — suddenly a father. The whispers grow louder, cameras discreetly capturing the moment, and you feel the eyes of the entire paddock on you. But Max, despite the tension in his shoulders, keeps his focus on you and Emilia, blocking out the stares as best he can.

You try to smile, to project confidence, but you can’t shake the feeling of being exposed, vulnerable. It’s not just that this is your first time back in the paddock — it’s that this is the first time the world is seeing you, Max, and Emilia together. You brace yourself for the reactions, knowing they’ll come.

Max senses your unease and squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance that he’s with you every step of the way. “Ignore them,” he says quietly, his voice firm. “This is about us, not them.”

You nod, taking a deep breath as you push the stroller forward. Emilia, blissfully unaware of the attention, coos happily against Max’s chest, her tiny head resting against him. It’s that sound, that innocence, that gives you the strength to keep going.

As you walk further into the paddock, the sea of familiar faces starts to part for you, some people smiling warmly, others too shocked to do much more than gape. Max acknowledges a few of the team members with a nod, his usual stern expression softened by the presence of his daughter.

Then, as you turn a corner near the Red Bull garage, you see him. Charles, dressed in his Ferrari red, stands talking to a few engineers. His back is to you, and for a moment, you think you might pass by unnoticed. But then, as if sensing your presence, Charles turns.

The world seems to slow as his eyes lock onto Emilia. He freezes, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief in a matter of seconds. His gaze flickers between you, Max, and the baby, and you can see the moment it all clicks for him. The green eyes, so like his own, staring back at him from the face of the baby strapped to Max’s chest.

“Max,” Charles says, his voice low, tight. His face flushes with a mix of emotions — shock, anger, betrayal. “What the hell is this?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “Let’s not do this here.”

But Charles doesn’t seem to hear him. He takes a step closer, his eyes locked on Emilia, and you instinctively move closer to Max, as if you can shield your daughter from whatever’s about to happen.

“You had a baby?” Charles spits out, his voice rising with each word. “My baby?” He points at you, disbelief and fury written all over his face. “You stole my girlfriend and now you’re raising my child?”

The words hit like a slap, and you feel the blood drain from your face. You knew this confrontation was coming, but nothing could have prepared you for the intensity of it, for the venom in Charles’ voice.

Max steps forward, placing himself between you and Charles. “Watch what you’re saying,” he warns, his voice dangerously low. “Emilia is not your daughter. You gave up that right when you left her mother.”

Charles scoffs, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Max. “You think you can just replace me? That she’ll ever be yours?”

“She already is,” Max replies, his voice steady, unyielding. “She’s mine because I’m here for her, every day. Because I love her. And because you walked away.”

Charles looks like he’s about to explode. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, you think he might actually take a swing at Max. But instead, he turns his anger on you.

“And you,” he snaps, his voice dripping with contempt. “How could you do this? How could you let him take my place?”

The accusation stings, but before you can respond, Emilia starts to cry, the tension and raised voices too much for her to handle. The sound cuts through the air like a knife, and suddenly, all eyes are on the three of you, the scene unfolding like a car crash that no one can look away from.

Charles looks stricken at the sound of Emilia’s cries, but his anger doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it seems to fuel him further. “You think you can just replace me? That she won’t know who her real father is?”

Max’s composure finally breaks. He steps forward, his face inches from Charles, his voice deadly calm. “You lost the right to call yourself her father when you walked away from her mother without a second thought. Don’t you dare try to claim her now.”

“Max, please,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach out to him. But before you can pull him back, Charles lashes out.

“You think this is over? You think I’ll just let you play happy family with my daughter?”

“Stop it, Charles,” you plead, but your words fall on deaf ears.

Charles opens his mouth to respond, but Emilia’s cries grow louder, her tiny fists clenching in distress. Max’s expression hardens as he looks at Charles, then at his daughter, who’s clearly terrified by the escalating confrontation.

“That’s enough,” Max says, his voice firm. “You’re scaring her.”

But Charles doesn’t back down. He takes another step forward, his voice rising. “She’s mine, Max. And I’ll make sure she knows it.”

Emilia’s wails reach a fever pitch, and Max’s patience snaps. He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching as he turns to you. “Take her,” he says softly, carefully unstrapping Emilia from the carrier and handing her to you. You can feel his hands shaking slightly as he passes her over, his control fraying at the edges.

You cradle Emilia close, trying to soothe her as you watch the standoff between Max and Charles with mounting dread.

Max squares his shoulders, turning back to Charles with a look that could freeze over hell. “If you ever come near her again,” he says, his voice cold as ice, “I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Charles’s eyes flash with anger, but he’s out of words, out of retorts. He glares at Max, then at you, before turning on his heel and storming away, his footsteps echoing down the paddock.

For a moment, everything is silent except for Emilia’s soft cries. The crowd that had gathered disperses, but not without a few lingering looks of shock and curiosity. You can feel the weight of their stares, the buzz of gossip that’s sure to follow, but all that matters is calming Emilia and holding it together for her.

Max stands there, his chest heaving, the adrenaline from the confrontation still coursing through his veins. He watches as Charles disappears from sight, then turns back to you, his expression softening as he sees the tears in your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. “I didn’t want it to happen like this.”

You shake your head, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, you focus on Emilia, her cries quieting as she nuzzles against your chest, seeking comfort.

Max steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm, grounding both of you. “Are you okay?” He asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’m okay,” you manage to say, though your voice is shaky. “It’s just ... it’s a lot.”

“I know,” Max says, his voice filled with regret. “I wish I could make it all go away.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the tension start to ease as Max’s presence grounds you. “We’ll get through this,” you say softly, more for yourself than anyone else.

Max wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, his other hand resting on Emilia’s back. “We will,” he promises, his voice steady and sure. “We’re a family, and nothing’s going to change that.”

As you stand there, the chaos of the paddock fading into the background, you realize that no matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, you’re not alone in this. You have Max, and together, you’ll face whatever comes your way.

***

Max paces the length of his driver’s room, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low but urgent. Outside, the hum of the paddock continues, but inside, the tension is palpable. He runs a hand through his hair, the stress of the day catching up with him. His mind is a storm of thoughts, all centered on you and Emilia.

You stand at the doorway, hesitating as you hear his voice, too focused on the conversation to notice your presence. You can’t make out every word, but the ones you do catch make your heart pound in your chest.

“No, I don’t care what it takes,” Max says, his voice firm. “I want to make sure he has no rights. None. He can’t just walk back into her life and take her away.”

Your breath hitches, and you step closer, just out of his line of sight. Max pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other end of the call, his jaw clenched tight. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in, the gravity of what he’s discussing weighing heavily on your heart.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. “I’ve thought about that. Adoption. I want it to be official, as soon as possible. I want to be her dad in every way that matters.”

You feel like the air’s been knocked out of you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to contain the emotion that surges through you. You’ve always known that Max loves Emilia as his own, but hearing him talk about adoption, about making it official, is overwhelming. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Max’s back is to you, his shoulders tense, his free hand on his hip. “No, I don’t care about the PR fallout. She’s my daughter, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.”

You can’t stay quiet any longer. “Max …”

He turns so quickly that he nearly drops his phone. His blue eyes widen in surprise, then soften when he sees you. He quickly wraps up the call, telling his lawyer he’ll be in touch soon, and hangs up, his attention solely on you now.

“How much did you hear?” He asks, a touch of worry in his voice as he approaches you.

“Enough,” you admit, your voice trembling with emotion. “You’re serious about this? About adopting her?”

Max stops in front of you, his hands gently taking yours. “Of course, I am,” he says softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “She’s mine, in every way that matters. I don’t want there to be any question about that. I want to make it official.”

Tears well up in your eyes, and you blink rapidly, trying to keep them from falling. “Max … I don’t even know what to say. You’re amazing, you know that?”

He smiles, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that tugs at your heart. “I just want to do what’s right for you and Emilia. You both mean everything to me.”

Your heart swells with so much love that it feels like it might burst. “I love you,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Max’s eyes light up, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “I love you too,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “So much.”

You bury your face in his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you as you let the tears fall, tears of happiness, relief, and love. Max’s hand runs soothingly up and down your back, his touch reassuring, solid, and everything you need.

“I didn’t know if you’d want that,” you admit after a moment, your voice muffled against his shirt. “The adoption, I mean. I didn’t want to pressure you into anything.”

Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands cradling your face. “This isn’t about pressure,” he says earnestly. “This is about what I want. I want to be her dad, officially. I want us to be a family.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you can’t hold back the smile that breaks across your face. “We already are, Max. But … making it official … it would mean the world to me.”

He kisses you then, softly, sweetly, as if sealing the promise with his lips. When he pulls away, there’s a determination in his eyes that makes your heart race.

“We’ll get this sorted,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “Charles won’t be able to touch her. I’ll make sure of it.”

You nod, trusting him completely, knowing that whatever happens, Max will be there, by your side, protecting you and Emilia. He’s already proven that in so many ways.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning into his embrace. “For everything.”

Max presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if he never wants to let go. “I’ll always be here for you,” he promises, his voice a gentle vow. “For both of you.”

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the weight of the world outside the room forgotten. It’s just you, Max, and the love that’s grown between you, a love that’s only getting stronger with each passing day.

Eventually, Max steps back, his hand slipping into yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again. “Come on,” he says softly, a small smile playing on his lips. “Let’s go check on Emilia.”

You smile back, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah,” you agree, squeezing his hand. “Let’s.”

***

The FIA Prize Giving Ceremony is a glittering affair, with the most celebrated drivers in the world gathered under one roof, all eager to see who will take home the evening’s highest honors. The room is abuzz with energy, cameras flashing, and the air thick with anticipation. It’s a night of recognition, where the best of the best are acknowledged for their achievements on the track. But for you and Max, tonight is about something much more personal.

You sit beside Max at one of the front tables, your hands clasped together under the tablecloth. Max looks sharp in his tailored suit, but his usual air of calm confidence is tinged with a nervous excitement that he can’t quite hide. His eyes are fixed on the stage, where the host is just beginning to announce the next category: Rookie of the Year.

“... and the Rookie of the Year award goes to ... Emilia Verstappen!”

The applause is instantaneous, loud and enthusiastic, as the cameras pan across the audience. You squeeze Max’s hand, and he turns to you, his eyes shining with pride. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to — you can see everything he’s feeling written all over his face.

You both watch as Emilia makes her way to the stage, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, the bright lights catching the sparkles in her gown. She moves with the grace and confidence of someone who’s been in the spotlight her entire life, but there’s still that youthful energy in her step, the excitement of someone just beginning to make her mark on the world.

When Emilia reaches the podium, she takes the award in her hands, the applause still roaring around her. She takes a moment to look out at the audience, her eyes searching until they find yours and Max’s. She smiles — a smile that’s a little bit of yours, a little bit of her biological father’s, and completely her own. The room gradually quiets down, and when she speaks, her voice is clear and steady, carrying through the hall.

“Wow, this is ... incredible. Thank you so much to the FIA, to my team, and to everyone who’s supported me this year. It’s been a wild ride, and I’m so grateful for every moment.”

She pauses, glancing down at the award in her hands, turning it over thoughtfully. “But there are two people I need to thank more than anyone else, because without them, I wouldn’t be standing here tonight.”

You feel Max’s grip on your hand tighten just slightly, as if bracing himself for what’s coming. He’s always been proud of Emilia, but tonight, the emotion is running deeper than ever.

“My parents,” Emilia continues, her voice growing softer, more heartfelt. “Mama, Papa ... I owe everything to you.”

The crowd is silent now, all eyes on the young woman at the podium, the daughter of one of the greatest drivers in Formula 1 history, but tonight, it’s clear that this is Emilia’s moment.

“Mama,” Emilia says, her gaze finding you again, “you’ve been my rock, my biggest supporter, and the person who’s always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. You taught me what it means to be strong, to never give up, and to follow my heart. I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”

A lump forms in your throat, and you feel tears welling up in your eyes. You’ve watched Emilia grow from a baby into the remarkable young woman she is today, and hearing her speak these words is almost too much to bear. You squeeze Max’s hand again, finding comfort in his presence beside you.

“And Papa ...” Emilia’s voice catches slightly, and she takes a moment to steady herself. “I know I might not look like you, but no one can deny that I drive like you. You’ve taught me everything I know about racing, but more importantly, you’ve shown me what it means to be passionate, dedicated, and fearless. I’ve always wanted to make you proud, and I hope I’ve done that.”

Max can’t hold back the tears any longer. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep his emotions in check, but it’s no use. His eyes are wet, his chest tight with pride and love for his daughter. He nods, his lips pressed together in a tight line, as if trying to keep himself from breaking down completely.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. In this moment, it’s just the three of you — everything else fades away.

Emilia takes a deep breath, her gaze sweeping across the audience one last time. “I’m so lucky to have parents like you. Thank you for everything. This award is as much yours as it is mine.”

The applause that follows is deafening, the crowd rising to their feet in a standing ovation. Emilia smiles, a little shy now that the speech is over, and nods her thanks before stepping back from the podium.

As the applause continues, Max turns to you, his eyes still glistening. “She’s incredible, isn’t she?”

You nod, too emotional to speak, your heart full to bursting with love for both of them. Max leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, a silent acknowledgment of everything you’ve been through together to reach this moment.

The ceremony continues, but you’re not really paying attention anymore. You’re too lost in your thoughts, in the warmth of Max’s arm around you, in the overwhelming pride you feel for your daughter.

When Emilia returns to the table, the award in her hands, Max immediately pulls her into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “So, so proud.”

Emilia hugs him back just as tightly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thanks, Papa,” she whispers, her voice full of love. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They hold each other for a long moment, and you can’t help but smile through your own tears. This is your family — your beautiful, wonderful, extraordinary family.

As the evening draws to a close and the final awards are handed out, you find yourself reflecting on the journey that brought you all here. It wasn’t always easy, and there were times when you weren’t sure how things would turn out. But standing here now, with Max and Emilia by your side, you know that every challenge, every hardship, was worth it.

As you all make your way out of the ceremony and into the cool night air, Emilia holds her award close, her eyes still shining with happiness. Max keeps his arm around you, his other hand resting on Emilia’s shoulder, as if he can’t bear to let either of you out of his reach.

When you reach the car, Max opens the door for you and Emilia, and you both slide inside. As Max takes his seat behind the wheel, he glances over at you, his expression soft and full of love.

“Ready to go home?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, smiling at him, your heart full. “Yeah,” you reply, reaching over to take his hand. “Let’s go home.”

As Max drives through the quiet streets, Emilia leans her head against your shoulder, her award still clutched in her hands. You glance at her, at the peaceful expression on her face, and feel a surge of contentment wash over you.

This is what it’s all about, you realize. This is the life you’ve built together, the family you’ve created. And as you sit there, surrounded by the people you love most in the world, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together — just as you always have.

[reignpage]

He Gave Me The (Eww)

Content: things the jjk men do that give you the ick, hard read fr, brutally honest, second hand embarrassment, don't tell me they wouldn't...you know they would...they're just men after all

Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna

Satoru

Tells jokes he thinks are hilarious and repeats them when no one laughs. Even explains them. Looks to you to laugh too with manic eyes, begging, pleading. Might even throw in a, ‘Tough crowd, amirite?’

Gets ignored in the group chat and will keep spamming until he gets the attention he wants.

Tries to get discounts at any and every store by flashing a grin and using those baby blues to charm the sales assistant. Shoots his shot with men too. It rarely works and when he gives them his black AMEX card, the sales assistants always get a look in their eyes like, ‘Seriously?’

Sings the chorus too early and plays it off by trailing and then coming in at the right part. Goes, ‘Ay…ay….ay, YEA– oh… ahahah…ay…ayy… yeahhhh…’

Suguru

Spits when he talks. He gets into these long rants about monkeys and whatever so he doesn’t even notice when the person he’s talking to discreetly wipes off the fat droplet. 

You’ve seen him going on spiels to random people, gets so into it that he also doesn’t realise they’ve walked away. Would play it off by taking his phone out and going, ‘Alright, talk to you later.’

Or, he'll say a snarky comment to someone out of nowhere and they didn't even hear him, caught by surprise, so they just awkwardly laugh and hope he doesn't follow up.

Super rude to servers at restaurants you take him to. Clicks his fingers. Confronts those moody teenagers working part time and says, ‘Why don’t you smile? You’ll look so much more friendly if you do.’

Wears open toed sandals everywhere. Dawgs out for free, toenails unclipped and ever so slightly yellow. Could probably cut a bitch.

Choso

At a group setting, a picture might be getting shown around and he isn't being shown the picture. He will say, ‘Can I see? Hey, you missed me. I wanna see. What’s so funny? Guys, come on, I didn’t see. Hey!’

When everyone else is in pairs or groups talking, he’ll go on his phone and open the Weather or Calculator app to pretend he’s doing something important. His phone is on full brightness so everyone can see he’s not actually texting anyone.

Gets left on read quite often. Will double text anyone and everyone. Triple texts even. Asks, ‘You aren’t ignoring me, are you?’ 

Invites himself to functions. If someone mentions a party or a visit to a museum, for example, with their friends, he’ll say, ‘That sounds fun. That’s at 3pm? I’m free. See you there!’

Toji

Boy oh boy where to begin…

Does the broke boyfriend hug. Swings you side to side too and gives you a kiss on the head, talking bout, ‘I’ll get the next one on payday, ma.’

Flashes his ass crack when he climbs out of the car. 

Might even have skid marks.

Asks to remove the service charge off the bill, doesn’t tip no matter how great the server is, and probably puts his own hair in the food to comp the meal. Will even flash you a wink like he’s finessed the system.

Will fart and burp in front of you unashamedly. Doesn’t care how stinky it is. Laughs when you cover your nose. Won’t lie, he probably loves pulling a Dutch Oven on you. Peak comedy for him. 

Shows up to his kid’s school events in his bum ass outfit and goes straight to the food table. It could be his university graduation and everyone’s in their pretty dresses and sharp suits, he will be in a Uniqlo heattech and grey joggers with a stain on it. 

Finds a crumb on his shirt, doesn’t know what it is or how long it’s been there. Will eat it anyway.. 

You point to a bouquet of flowers or a cake you want, excited and wanting to buy it. He'll look at the price and very loudly complain, 'That's how much? The hell? Nah, we're not getting that. If you want flowers, I can pick some up from a park for free.'

Kento

Still gets embarrassed about farting or taking a shit around you. Will make a lame excuse to exit the room like, ‘Oh, sweetheart, I think I left a light on in the next room.’ Doesn’t realise that the walls aren’t that thick and you can hear his adorable toot. If you ask him if he’s okay because he’s taking a while in the bathroom, he’ll lie and say, ‘No, dear, I’m alright. Just fixing a light bulb in here. I’ll be out in a minute.’ The type to not realise you can quite literally smell the evidence after. 

Will throw random slang and use it wrong. ‘You already ate? That’s slaying me.’ Or, ‘She cheated on her boyfriend? That’s so cunt of her. Please don’t entertain her anymore.’

Has built up a reputation to you as being all-knowing. Likes that you ask him first before Google. But when you ask him a question he doesn't know the answer to, he make some sort of distraction so he can go on his phone, find out the answer and give it to you like he knew all along.

Reads so much but often comes across words he knows the meaning of but has never heard anyone actually say. Mispronounces them. Says 'studious' as 'study-yus.' Or 'albeit' as 'al-bayt.'

Sukuna

Crashes out so often that he sometimes mistakenly gets upset for no reason. A servant will ask if you want a drink, assumes they’re talking to him and gets grumpy. ‘I already said no. Can you hear?’ When informed, he’ll tsk to cover up he’s ever so slightly embarrassed but everyone can see his ears going red. If he hears a single snicker though, he’s airing out the room.

Even when you tell him it’s okay and he doesn’t have to, he’ll join in on group dates just because he gets FOMO lowkey. Will stand there menacingly and so super out of place he actually looks like he’s stalking the group. Makes everyone feel awkward and tense. 

Children get so scared of him that he’s been escorted out of premises before. You have to join him, apologising to everyone, otherwise he’ll kill all of your friends. Like children will full on start sobbing and hyperventilating and you’re ashamed to tell your friends he’s actually not allowed within a certain radius of a school. Their mind goes to the worst places.