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Can you do Trey,Deuce,Ace and cater with reader who has same personality as sonic the hedgehog?

✦ “Speed of Heart”

Trey Clover
You were chaos.
Not the kind that causes actual harm but the whirlwind kind, the type that kicks open the doors of Heartslabyul with wind in your hair and a cheeky grin on your face. Always late, but always with a reason. Always loud, but never with malice.
Trey swore he could hear you coming before he even saw you. Your steps were light but fast, and there was always that telltale whoosh of wind as you zipped past unsuspecting students.
“Yo, Treyyyy!” you called out one morning, sliding into the kitchen like you owned the place. “Tell me there’s still cake left!”
Trey, already holding a plate of it, sighed but couldn’t help smiling. “You could’ve knocked first.”
“C’mon, you like the drama,” you teased, poking his cheek.
He didn’t deny it.
You were everything he wasn’t, fast-talking, fast-walking, fast-everything. A free spirit, allergic to plans, always chasing the next thrill. You didn’t walk places. You ran. You didn’t ease into conversations,you dove. And yet, somehow, you were never rude. Just… honest. Energetic. Blunt in a way that made people blink, then laugh, then secretly admire you.
You challenged everyone around you,including him.
Especially him.
“You can’t just eat sweets for lunch,” he said one day as you tried to sneak a second slice of strawberry tart off the cooling rack.
You raised an eyebrow. “Watch me.”
“I’m serious, you’ll crash.”
“Then I’ll crash fast.”
He rolled his eyes. “You need real food.”
“You’re real food,” you said with a wink. “Wait. That came out weird.”
Trey flushed slightly and looked away, chuckling. You were exhausting abut he was never bored.
And somehow, even with all your speed, you always slowed down for him.
When he was tired, you walked at his pace. When he was stressed, you listened,really listened, even if your leg bounced under the table the whole time. You gave him nicknames like “Specs” and “Baker Boy,” and though he pretended to groan, he was secretly fond of them.
You reminded him that life wasn’t all about rules and routines.
He reminded you that it was okay to stop running sometimes.
“Don’t you ever rest?” he asked one lazy afternoon as you leaned over the balcony with your arms out like airplane wings.
You smirked. “Not unless I’m with you.”
“…That was smooth.”
“I know,” you grinned. “Taught myself that one just now.”
He reached over and ruffled your hair, fondly exasperated. “Try not to get banned from Heartslabyul again this week, alright?”
“No promises,” you said, laughing. “But I’ll bring you something cool if I do.”
And he didn’t doubt it for a second.

Ace Trappola
Ace Trappola considered himself pretty quick,quick with his words, quick with his wit, and definitely quick when it came to escaping Riddle’s wrath. But then you entered his life like a blue blur, all energy and grins, and suddenly Ace wasn’t the fastest kid on the block anymore.
You were a comet streaking through campus: a daredevil with wind-tossed hair, a tongue sharper than a blade, and a grin that made people wonder whether you were about to save the day or cause a scene. (The answer was usually both.) You had this ridiculous habit of doing wild stunts just for the thrill,climbing to the highest point of the mirror tower just to “see the view,” racing Deuce between class periods with no regard for rules or fences, and pulling Ace into all of it without a second thought.
“Hey, Ace! You busy?”
“...Why do you sound like you’re about to get me expelled?”
“No reason. Just meet me behind the library in five minutes and don’t ask questions.”
He always followed, of course. Complained the whole way, but followed.
At first, he thought you were just another troublemaker like him,maybe even more impulsive. A little competition, a lot of chaos. Someone he could banter with and maybe one-up for fun. But then you did something he didn’t expect.
You helped him.
Like, actually helped him. Without needing anything back.
When he was drowning under guilt after flunking a test or getting chewed out by Riddle, you didn’t mock him (well, not too much). You’d flash that cocky grin and say something like, “C’mon, I’ve seen snails move faster than your pity party. Let’s fix this.”
And then you did. Stayed up with him to study. Quizzed him with rapid-fire questions. Brought snacks and energy drinks and got genuinely mad when he doubted himself.
Ace didn’t know what to do with that kind of loyalty. Not from someone like you,someone he assumed never slowed down long enough to care.
But you did care. Fiercely.
“Don’t go acting like I’m some hero,” you shrugged once when he tried to thank you. “I just don’t like seeing my favorite idiot all mopey. Doesn’t suit you.”
His heart did that weird twist thing. (It happened a lot around you.)
You made everything feel like a race, a game, a spark that could turn into a wildfire. And when he pushed back with sass and attitude, you never backed down,you thrived on it. The two of you were constantly exchanging quips, racing to outsmart or out-prank each other. But underneath all the banter was something warmer. Real.
And when you finally opened up,about how you never stayed still because stillness
meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering you caught Ace off guard.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t break down. You just looked at him one night on the school rooftop, stars above and a bag of stolen donuts between you, and said, “I keep moving because if I stop, it all catches up.”
Ace was quiet for once. Then, gently, “...Then I’ll keep moving with you.”
You blinked, surprised. “That’s… kinda cheesy.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, “but you love it.”
You did. More than you could admit.
So now, when people see the two of you causing mischief, they think it's just chaos. But really? It's love at light speed.
And Ace? He never minded not being the fastest.
Not when he had you running ahead, always looking back to make sure he was keeping up.

Deuce Spade
You were chaos wrapped in a grin. Always darting down the halls like the world was a race and you had to win it. You challenged rules just to see if you could bend them, and laughed every time you left Ace and Deuce in the dust after another one of your impulsive “adventures.”
At first, Deuce didn’t know what to make of you. You were loud. Bold. Shamelessly confident. Always doing something risky, reckless, or technically against the school handbook. He tried to stop you once, right after Professor Trein warned the class to avoid the upper tower while it was under repairs.
You had your hand on the window frame, about to scale it.
“Y/N, stop! That’s—That’s not safe!”
You turned with a cocky grin. “Relax, Spade. I’ve got great balance.”
“You’re gonna get expelled!”
“Nah. You’ll cover for me if it comes to that, right?”
And with a wink, you were gone,climbing up the tower like gravity didn’t apply to you.
Deuce was horrified. And impressed. Horripressed maybe. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that when you finally made it back down, dusty and grinning, he didn’t scold you again. He just handed you his water bottle and muttered, “Next time, tell me first. I’ll… hold the ladder or something."
Something about you made his straight-laced sense of justice buckle a little.
Because even if you broke rules, you never broke trust.
You were always the first one to defend the little guy. You’d stick your neck out for anyone, challenge bullies twice your size, and when Deuce got into trouble for defending someone else, you were the first to stand beside him,arms crossed, smirk in place, like you dared anyone to punish him.
“Don’t yell at him,” you told Riddle once, arms protectively spread in front of Deuce. “If you’re gonna behead someone, make it me.”
You weren’t just fast. You were fearless.
He needed real. Fierce. Loyal.
He needed you.
It took him a while to admit it,longer than it took you to notice, certainly. You teased him endlessly, calling him your “knight in slightly tarnished armor.” He’d blush every time, mutter something about being an honor student, but he never pulled away.
Then one day, you got hurt. Really hurt. One of your impulsive stunts went wrong,landing off a ledge, ankle twisted, blood on your palms. You still tried to laugh it off, but Deuce’s face said it all.
“No more pretending,” he snapped, kneeling beside you, voice shaking. “You don’t have to be tough all the time. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
You blinked. “I’m fine, Deuce. Just a scratch—”
“You could’ve fallen Y/N!”
“I care about you,” he said, softer this time. “Even when you drive me crazy. Even when you break every rule in the book. I care. And it scares me.”
You looked at him,eyes honest, no walls up for once and smiled.
“That’s why I let you catch up, y’know.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’ve always run ahead. But I waited. For you.”
It hit him like thunder, warm and electric.
And from then on, you didn’t run alone. You had Deuce right beside you. Maybe still a step behind, maybe still gasping for breath half the time but always chasing after you, always trying to match your fire with his own kind of fierce.
Because even lightning needs its storm.

Cater Diamond !
Cater’s phone buzzed. Again.
[17 new messages from Y/N]
He didn’t even need to check them to know what they said. Probably something like “race you to the Mystery Shop!!” or “I found this abandoned cart and now I’m riding it down a hill,come stop me maybe?”
He sighed fondly and slipped his phone into his pocket, already heading in the direction he knew you’d be. You were faster than any broom, had more energy than a party of first-years on sugar, and just enough chaos to leave trails of confusion and awe behind you.
He loved it.
Loved you.
Even if you made his heart race in the bad and good ways.
When he finally caught up with you, you were halfway up the side of a tower, climbing as if gravity was a light suggestion. “Y/N! Babe! You’re gonna give me gray hairs,get down here before the Headmage bans me from dating you!”
You leaned over the edge, grinning wide and smug. “Then come up and get me, slowpoke!”
Cater groaned. “Why are you like this?”
You shrugged, hanging upside-down like it was nothing. “I don’t do boring. And you like me this way.”
Cater knew it was true. There was something magnetic about your constant motion. While he thrived on attention, you thrived on momentum. You ran on instinct and courage, sometimes recklessness, but never cruelty. Even when you crashed (which was often), you always got back up with a cocky grin and a new plan.
And yet, despite everything, you made time for him. You dragged him into spontaneous adventures, held his hand as you sprinted through flower fields or chased fireworks, challenged him to keep up not just physically, but emotionally.
And somehow, even when your world moved at the speed of sound, you noticed him.
When he was tired, you’d slow down. When he was overwhelmed, you’d sit still for five minutes beside him, fingers drumming impatiently against your thigh, but there. With him. Grounding and impossible all at once.
Sometimes, Cater wondered how he even ended up with someone like you.
You, who called boredom the worst kind of death, who chased dreams like wild animals and fought off fear with stubborn confidence and grit.
And then you'd stop everything just to grin at him and go, “You’re fun, Cay~ I like when your eyes sparkle like that.”
How could he not fall?
When you finally jumped down from the tower, he caught you (barely), stumbling back with a laugh.
“Next time, warn me first, speedster.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” you teased, poking his cheek.
He shook his head with a grin, still catching his breath. “One day, you’re gonna get us both in so much trouble.”
You smirked, leaning in close. “Then it’ll be fun trouble. And I know you’re into that.”
Cater sighed again, exaggerated, dramatic, adoring.
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“Fastest love story in Twisted Wonderland history,” you winked. “Try and keep up.”
English is not my first language !

#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderlands headcanon#twst headcanons#sonic the hedgehog#Sonic!reader#trey clover x reader#ace trappola x reader#deuce spade x reader#cater diamond x reader#twisted wonderland x reader
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for every “there is not enough content of x” i grow an additional middle finger
#i was having this conversation with friends and a similar one with another friend#like i get it. i get the feeling of wanting to READ a fic and not write it yourself#but the current air in fandom to me often feels very demanding#something something expecting everything to be catered to your liking#without even considering that one could just do it themselves#like write that oddly specific fic you want to read yourself#indulge yourself#let it reach the right people and inspire someone else to follow along#it’s really easy when you think about it#idk i have a lot of scattered thoughts on this#also about the implications of ‘content’ itself#like it’s something easy to consume that will never fully fill you#and puts involuntary pressure on writers and artists to just throw out stuff chasing some validation they never get in return#cw vent#i guess???#lale.txt
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if you find sex repulsive why do you go to a sex book shelf, pick out a sex book, read it, go to a sex website, read more of sex book-related sex stuff, then go loudly angrily complain that there's sex in it
#i am not even talking about individual preferences and stuff but the way some of you people talk about sex in media is so fucking weird#truly not everything has to be about you. sex is a beautiful and normal and everyday thing for a lot of people#it's not disease ridden and it doesn't have to be excluded from media just because you personally do not like to see it#there is so many worthy conversations to be held about how sex could be portrayed in a better way sure#but a lot of the times the criticism of sex in media that i see on here is straight-up 'it shouldn't exist' and hm#why do you ppl have to always be weird about everything#like you do realize there's millions of books movies shows etc etc#if you don't wanna see something? great news buddy you don't have to!#issue arrives when y'all put a media on a pedestal so much you expect it to cater to your every personal wish and preference#and then when it obviously fails you pain it out as evil/unnecessary instead of#looking up something else idk
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Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, size kink, forced orgasm.
“Ghost.”
He looks over the rim of his glasses before sliding them off completely and tossing them onto the stack of papers spread out in front of him. "Gaz."
“You out of here soon?” Kyle’s in the doorway with his arms crossed, slight smirk twisting his lips.
“Tryin’ to be.” The administrative side of this job will be the death of him one day, leaving him buried beneath mountains of paperwork. “Guys get their gear done?” He nods. “Shoot test?”
“All complete. Evals loaded in the portal.” He’s frighteningly efficient, something Simon’s come to rely on.
Kyle has no idea there’s a recommendation for promotion in this stack of nonsense on his desk.
He’s going to miss him when he makes captain.
“Good work as always then.” His phone buzzes. Three times.
>I think I should be another hour, or maybe less.
>But of course don’t feel like you have to rush over here, I’m fine to wait. I don’t mind. I know I gave you a time estimate this morning so of course I don’t expect you to work around me.
>I just meant to say I’m ready whenever. That’s all. But no rush, again.
Kyle sighs with a chuckle. "That your girl?" Simon waves him away.
“Have a good weekend, Lieutenant.”
“You too, Captain.”
“Hi.” Something in him settles at the sight of you. Tired, but excited. Half ready for bed, half ready for him, you’re standing in the shop next to one of the little tables, your work bag and jacket slung on a chair.
“Hi sweetheart.” You’ve shed some layers in the last week, become a little less inhibited with him, a little more confident, slowly adjusting, and he’s proud of you.
You’ve been good.
“How was your day?”
“Oh, fine. I’m tired.” Your eyes go wide with panic. “Not too tired though, not like t-tired I want to go home. Like, to mine uh, I still-” It doesn’t take much to knock you off balance, still exploring this new world, the one he’s building for you, his sweet fresh fawn.
“It’s alright.” He reaches, cupping your cheek. Physical contact seems to soothe you. He thinks it’s because there’s a live, tangible tether connecting you to the now, to him, instead of whatever is going on in your head. “You were up really early sweetheart, it’s understandable you’re tired.” You were awake before him this morning. Sent your usual wake up text well before the sun rose with a hurried explanation about a last minute catering order and a panicking bride.
I said I’d do it. I felt bad.
It wouldn’t be so rough if you hadn’t been at work late the night before for something else.
It’s clearly wiped you out, and he’ll need to shift gears. “Are you ready to go?” You take a half step back and hold up your pointer finger, inclining your head towards to the back of the bakery.
“Uh, wait. I forgot something, one sec.”
You return with a big white box cradled in your hands.
“What’s in there?”
“Oh I made you something. Us. I made us something. For after dinner, if you want. Obviously if you don’t want it that’s fine you don’t have to eat it, it might not even be your thing, which is fine, I just-” He steps into your space and you trail off, eyes going to his without prompting. He blocks the world out, closes in, palms the back of your neck.
“It’s me baby. Just you and me, and there's nothing to worry about. You’ll never make a single thing I won’t like, right?”
“R-right. I know that.” You’re bobbing in a continuous nod, looking away to study something on his shirt.
“What is it?”
“Pie. Boston cream pie.” Cream pie. Blood flows to his cock and he momentarily gets lost in his own head.
“Tell me.” Fat tears roll down your cheeks, hands following him desperately as he rears back and folds your knees to your chest, staring at where his cock is moving in and out of your body, everything about him too big, nearly too big to fit inside you. “Where do you want daddy to put his cum?”
“I-inside. I want your cum inside me daddy, pl- oh- please.” His balls tighten as he grinds his hips, licking an errant tear running down your face. His girl. His. In his arms, his bed, crying on his cock.
“Only good little girls get daddy’s cum, baby. Have you been good?”
“I’ve been good, I’ve b-been so- ah- f-fuck-” The wand buzzes to life, hovering just over your clit as you shake your head frantically. “No nonono, I can’t anymore, I c-can’t.”
“Yes you can,” he thrusts deep and you gasp. You’ve already come four times, but he wants more, needs more, wants to wring every single one he can get out of you before he empties his balls inside your pussy.
When he finally slides it across your swollen little nub, you howl.
“Oh- no-” you whine, nails digging into his forearms, muscles already bearing down on him, breaths turning into short rasps.
“I know. Breathe baby,” he glides it back and forth, kisses your cheek, your mouth. “Breathe through it- that’s my girl. You can take it.” You’re oversensitive, battling a war between pleasure and pain, and your legs instinctively try to close, prevent the impending explosion you know is coming. “Keep your knees open.” He gives the head of the wand firmer pressure, and you cry, shaking your head no again.
“It’s too- too much.” Your feet are on his sides, partially bent in half, and he forces one of your thighs wide, giving him a better view of your puffy, tortured clit.
“Knees open baby girl. One more and daddy will fill you up nice and deep.” You nod, already so close he can feel it, scorching heat pulsing around him, legs trembling as they go lax. “There you go…” he pets your hip, mouth at your ear, soothing and comforting as it rips through you. It pushes him over the edge and he tosses the wand, pins you. Traps you beneath him. All his.
“Oh my god,” you slur, still riding the wave of your own orgasm, eyes rolling back in your head. It pushes him over the edge.
“Good girl, good fucking girl, so proud of you, takin’ my cum- fuck-” his own voice is choked off as he floods you, ruts like an animal, instinctively forcing as much of his seed into your belly as he can.
When it’s over, he drinks in the sight of the milky white cream dripping out of your hole before scooping it up with two fingers and pushing it back inside. You’re limp the whole time, and when he slips the plug in, you barely notice. You’ll be pumped full of him until later, and he’ll take it out to give you more.
“Daddy?” You mumble, half asleep, and he brushes his lips across yours, tucking you into his chest.
“Right here, baby. I’m right here.”
“- it’s not really. I mean, the best part about it is the cream, you know? That’s what makes the cake but the layers have to be moist on their own. You can’t just rely on the…” He swallows your words, licks them out of your mouth, cups your face and presses his thumb into your bottom lip afterwards, edging it across your top teeth. “Oh.” You blink, blindsided, and he runs a hand down the back of your head, strokes the back of your neck.
“Ready then?” You lean into him, a little dazed, off kilter.
“Y-yeah.”
Your toes scrunch at the threshold of the living room, afraid to cross until he flattens his palm on the small of your back.
“Go get comfortable sweetheart.” Battling nerves with a need for sleep, you were unsettled at dinner, sitting at the table, swallowing over and over again long after your food was chewed. There’s something more at play, something larger weighing on you. You left your plate half empty, fork resting at three oclock, twirl of spaghetti and red sauce waiting, and he should have told you to finish, or take one more bite.
But it's a slow game right now. A careful one.
“Alright.” You scamper towards the couch, settling into the far side, toes tucked between the cushions. It’s a balancing act, not too much, too too little, and when he sits down next to you with a giant slice of the cake on a plate, you watching him anxiously. Curiously.
He forks a piece free, and holds it in front of your mouth. “Open.” You do. Immediately. You trust him to feed you, and it calls to the thirst thrumming in his blood, the power of control. “Good girl.” He waits, patiently, ignores the flex of your throat, the butterfly flutter of your lashes. There’s plenty of time for it all. There will be a lifetime (if he’s alive to live it) with you. "What do you say?"
“Thank you.”
“Thank you…” He leads, and you follow. His good fucking girl.
“Daddy,” your whisper is shy, cautious and brave at the same time. “Thank you daddy.” A kiss finds its place on the corner of your mouth, then the full furl of your lips, and you burn alive, flames flickering in your eyes. He takes a bite himself and groans
“Christ baby.”
“Do you like it?” When he nods, you grin.
“Not everyone likes them because they expect a cream pie and that’s not what they get, it’s a cake with vanilla cream between the layers, see?” You point to the thick custard. “It’s not like coconut cream pie, or a banana cream pie, you know?” Cream pie. If you say cream pie one more time.
“It’s really good sweetheart. Too good.” He helps himself to another bite, offers you one, and then has a third before finally setting the plate down. Silence hovers in the air and he lets it languish, giving you time, all the space you need to give him the worry, the doubt, the weight that's holding you back.
“Simon.” He smothers his surprise. It’s not the first time you’ve used his name, but your voice wavers on it. Wide doe eyes stare back at him, and then they find the floor. That won’t do. “I don’t know what to do with…”
“With what sweetheart?”
“You. This. U-us? If that’s… if that’s what-”
“That’s what it is.” He closes what little gap there was between the two of you and pulls your knotted together fingers free, dwarfing your hand with his. “That’s what this is, baby.” The hope, the happiness, blooms across your cheeks and lasts for all of two seconds before worry overtakes it, and you begin tracing the lines in his palm, head down, focusing on the task, slightly shaking. Giving you a chance to walk away would be the right thing to do.
But he won’t.
He can’t.
He’d never give you up now.
“I’m not… I’ve never… done something like this, I don’t know how.”
“That’s okay sweet girl, you don’t have to.” The nervous tracing turns to a light scratch. He lets it continue for a beat before folding your hand between his, stopping the movement.
“I don’t?”
“No. I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you, make sure you have everything you need. I’m going to keep you happy and healthy and safe, and you don’t need to worry.” A shaky exhale rattles free from your chest, weight of a thousand questions evaporating into thin air, decisions and deliberations rapidly falling away as you settle into a new reality, a new life. One where you’re cared for, supported, and loved. “All you need to do is listen, okay?”
“Okay daddy.”
#peaches writes#simon riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#raspberry girl fic
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First years find out you're dating their dorm leader
(dramatic gasps, chaos, and a lot of “NO WAY! YOU?!”)
✦fem!reader

Ace Trappola
When Ace finds out you’re dating Riddle, he physically malfunctions. He catches the two of you in a rare soft moment. Riddle brushing your hair out of your face in the rose garden, murmuring something sweet… and Ace just… stops functioning.
“WAIT. HOLD UP. HOLD… ARE YOU DATING RIDDLE?! OUR RIDDLE?!”
You nod slowly. Riddle stiffens. “Yes. We have been for some time.”
Ace just throws his hands up.
“You mean to tell me you've been willingly dating a walking rulebook this entire time?!”
Then it clicks.
“Wait… THAT’S why you keep surviving his tantrums. And why he let you off with warnings. I knew something was sus!!”
Cue Ace groaning dramatically while muttering about how
“first the overbolts, now you, what’s next?… Cater adopting a child?!”
Deep down, he’s genuinely happy for you. But he’ll never stop teasing.

Deuce Spade
Deuce finds out about your relationship with Riddle by overhearing you call him “love” behind the dorm kitchen, and he nearly drops a whole tray of tea.
“Wait. Waitwaitwait! Did you just call Riddle love?! LIKE IN A ROMANTIC WAY?!”
You blink at him, guilty. Riddle clears his throat.
“Yes, Deuce. She’s my girlfriend. I’d prefer if you didn’t drop the teacups.”
Deuce looks like he’s about to have a full blown meltdown.
“Wha—I—Is that allowed?! Wait, no… of course it is! I’m just… YOU?! And RIDDLE?!”
He’s trying to process everything like it's a pop quiz he wasn’t ready for. He salutes you both out of sheer panic.
“I promise to uphold your secret honorably! WAIT!! Do I need to call you ma’am now?!”
Riddle: “…No.” You: laughing too hard to answer.

Jack Howl
Jack walks in on you and Leona napping under a tree in each other’s arms and nearly flips.
“…You’re kidding.”
When you’re alone he will catch you, staring you down like a judgmental big brother.
“You’re really dating Leona-senpai? Like, our dorm leader? The one who skips meetings and naps through drills?”
You nod cautiously. “Yes. We’ve been together for a while.”
Jack exhales through his nose.
“…Huh. Can’t say I expected that. But I guess if anyone could handle him, it’s you.”
Still, he’s lowkey worried. Leona’s not exactly emotionally available. But when he catches Leona actually smiling at you, Jack gives a small approving nod.
“Fine. Just don’t let him get lazy about treating you right. I’ll be watching.”
Jack becomes your unspoken protector after that. Big loyal wolf energy.

Epel Felmier
You mention “Vil” a little too affectionately during lunch and Epel spits out his juice.
“YOU’RE DATING VIL-SENPAI?!”
Everyone in the room turns to look. You cringe. “Epel, shhh—”
“LIKE… LIKE ACTUALLY DATING?! HIM?!”
You nod. “We’ve been keeping it quiet, but yeah…”
Epel’s jaw drops.
“He lets you TOUCH him?! Without a ten-step cleansing ritual first?!”
He’s genuinely floored. There’s a mix of shock, admiration, and disbelief in his eyes.
“Okay but… good for you, I guess? You must have magic-level of patience.”
He’ll never stop side eyeing you during self-care nights now, whispering:
“Blink twice if you’ve been force fed.”
Secretly though, he respects you immensely. Anyone who can tame Vil’s perfectionist side is a legend.

Sebek Zigvolt
You and Malleus try to be discreet, but Sebek’s too sharp. The second he catches you smiling at each other a little too long during dinner…
“…What is the meaning of this strange atmosphere?!”
You try to brush it off, but Malleus just calmly states:
“She is mine, Sebek. We are courting.”
Sebek’s brain breaks.
“YOU’RE WHAT?!?!”
Cue thunder and dramatic music playing in his head as he drops to one knee in despair.
“MALLEUS-SAMA HAS FOUND LOVE?! AND I DIDN��T KNOW?!”
He’s in full crisis mode. Rambles for ten minutes about how “he should’ve been notified by royal decree,” and how “no ordinary human could ever be worthy!!”
But when you squeeze his hand and call him “family,” he turns red and shouts:
“I SUPPOSE I SHALL… TOLERATE THIS!”
From that point on, he guards you like you’re also royalty
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Hope you guys liked it ʚ(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ
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˖ 𐔌 𝐃𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞࿐ .
۫જ⁀➴ Desc: || Max and you always planned the best birthday parties for your daughter, Sofie. But, with the weight of her not having friends and a birthday going wrong. Max is willing to step in and make everything right. ||



ᯓ★ (Dad) Max Verstappen x Fem! (Mom) Reader
ᯓ★ 3x Genre: Fluff, Humor, (bit) of angst
ᯓ★ Warning: Minor bullying, and of course, an angry dad Max.
ᯓ★ Requested? No
Author Note: Here is some Max dad fluff, I am glad that some people are enjoying the dad writing so far. I do plan to create dad fics for most of the drivers, just cause parenthood on them is actually cute. Remember, my requests are open, as well as my messages!
☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★
If someone had told you years ago that you’d one day be Mrs. Verstappen, you would’ve laughed so hard tears welled in your eyes. You would have denied it with every fiber of your being, maybe even swore on your career that it would never happen. And yet, here you were.
You remember the first time you saw him clearly—Max Verstappen, standing off to the side of the Red Bull garage, jaw tight, his face carved in frustration. It was post-qualifying, and something had gone horribly wrong. You hadn’t needed to check the screens to know—his muttering, the way his hand combed aggressively through his hair, and the sharp glares toward the engineering team told you everything. He was livid.
You worked for Red Bull Racing, and it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like that. People tiptoed around him, allowing him space to rant, to burn off the steam like an overheated engine. You gave him that space, too—but not without approaching him with a bottle of water. “Want to throw it at someone or actually drink it?” you asked lightly, eyebrows raised.
His lips curved, just barely. “Both,” he muttered, taking the bottle from you.
And that was the beginning.
It started quietly. Texting. Late-night phone calls. Glances stolen in the chaos of a race weekend. He was intense, unapologetically so, and never cared to soften himself for the sake of perception. But with you, he didn't have to. You learned his language—understood that his silence didn’t mean absence, his anger didn’t mean hatred. He had sharp edges, but he never cut you with them.
Behind closed doors, after draining media days, he’d find you. He’d fall into your arms like he needed you to keep him grounded. “I’m not a bad guy,” he whispered into your hair once, exhausted. “They just… they don’t see me.”
“I do,” you whispered back. “I always do.”
You were his armor. When engineers muttered judgmental remarks, you were swift with your defense. When Jos Verstappen made comments laced with toxic pride or passive disappointment, you stood up taller, redirecting the energy in the room. And when Christian Horner made jokes that crossed the line, you didn't hesitate to call him out. Max didn’t always say it, but it filled him with smug satisfaction. He loved knowing you didn’t fear anyone—not for him.
When he finally asked you out, it was your birthday. You hadn’t expected anything beyond a few wishes from the paddock, maybe a slice of cake from the catering crew. But there he was—waiting outside your flat with the exact cake you mentioned in passing weeks ago.
“Be my girlfriend,” he asked, the moment the candlelight flickered between you two.
You stared at him, stunned. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “I’m not playing games with you. Not when it’s you.”
And from that moment on, he was yours. In private at first, by choice, not shame. The peace of an undisclosed relationship was intoxicating. But all it took was one slip-up in an interview—Max, talking about the importance of his "team," then gesturing at you and proudly adding, “My girlfriend, she’s my team too.” And just like that, the world knew.
He shielded you from the worst of it. He didn’t mind the cameras, the rumors, the headlines—so long as they stayed away from you. You loved him all the more for that.
Then came the proposal—romantic, quiet, over dinner under the Monaco stars. You said yes through tears. He told the whole world, but most importantly, his family. The F1 WAGs pulled you into an emotional celebration, all teary eyes and champagne flutes. You’d found sisters in them. They stood by your side on your wedding day, and eventually, you became Mrs. Verstappen.
Your life together unfolded in Monaco—a haven of love and racing memorabilia. The walls were adorned with trophies, framed pictures, and cat towers. Three cats, each more spoiled than the last. But nothing prepared you for the day you realized there was more than just fur babies in your future.
You were pregnant.
The baby shower was intimate, warm. Charles, Daniel, and Checo argued over who Sofie would call “Uncle” first. They made bets and silly presentations. And when Sofie was born, everything changed.
Max’s world shrank to her. He held her like she was made of stardust, something too delicate to exist. He cried—actual tears—and kissed her forehead with a reverence you’d never seen before.
“She’s so small,” he whispered, eyes wide. “So perfect.”
The protective dad mode kicked in hard. Drivers came to visit with gift baskets and toys—each of them getting a lecture from Max. “Hands washed. Masks on. No sneezing. Touch nothing until instructed.”
Sofie rolled over during tummy time, crawled in your living room, walked across the cat-strewn floor with Max filming and softly cheering. Her birthdays became events of pure magic.
Her first: pastel princess fantasy. Max teared up watching her toddle around in her tiara. Lando caught him. “Are you crying?” he whispered, smirking.
Max sniffled, glaring. “No.”
After the party, when Sofie was asleep, you cleaned confetti off the floor with aching feet and gave Max a tired high five. “Success.”
“Always,” he said, brushing a kiss to your temple.
Her second: unicorns. Lando in costume. Carlos wheezing from laughter. “I might hire you in the future,” Carlos told Lando, who was sweltering in glitter and misery.
“Public humiliation,” Lando muttered.
Her third: animals. Of course. Oscar was the zookeeper, Lando a lion again, Fernando a grumpy honorary guest who Sofie insisted on including. You snapped photos of it all—blackmail, surely, for future teenage rebellion.
“Drink and movie?” you asked Max that night.
He kissed your knuckles. “Of course, mijn liefste.”
Her fourth: Sesame Street. Daniel was Cookie Monster by force. “She likes him,” Max offered, stealing a cupcake.
“She’s my niece. That’s the only reason I’m doing this,” Daniel muttered, swiping frosting off his suit.
Lewis wandered in. “Have you seen Roscoe?”
“She’s feeding him snacks under the table,” you said casually. “Good luck with that.”
Another successful party. Another sleepy Sofie, surrounded by “uncles” on the floor. Another high five. Another kiss goodnight.
But now… now she was turning five.
And something shifted.
Her dolls? Dusty. Her tiaras? Forgotten. Her plushies? Stuffed in the toy box, untouched.
“She’s changing,” you said one night, sitting beside Max, folding laundry. “She’s not into the princess phase anymore.”
He looked at you, thoughtful. “It’s a phase, schatje. She’s growing. Let her.”
You tried to believe it. But it still stung.
One morning, you served pancakes, placing the final plate down in front of your daughter. She sat across from Max, legs swinging under the table, hair tied up in her favorite pink scrunchie.
“What do you want to do for your birthday this year, lieve?” you asked with a warm smile.
Her eyes lit up. “Race cars! Like Papa’s racing!”
Your hand froze mid-air. You blinked. Max looked up from his coffee, noticing the way your expression faltered.
You smiled softly. “Race cars?”
“Yep!” she grinned. “I wanna drive and be fast and beat everyone like Papa!”
Max reached over, resting a reassuring hand on your thigh under the table. “She’s watching us, schatje.”
You blinked the emotion away, forcing a grin. “Race cars it is.”
She clapped, delighted.
Later that night, when Sofie was asleep, Max pulled you close. “She’s still your baby,” he whispered against your hair.
“I know.” You sniffled. “But she’s not… little anymore.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice thick with affection. “No matter how fast she grows, no one replaces you. You’re the one who made this life possible. You gave me everything.”
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The next morning unfolded with a calm softness—rare, but welcomed. The skies above Monaco were clear, sunshine glittering off the glass buildings as Max drove through the winding city streets. You sat in the passenger seat, one arm casually resting along the console, the other hand wrapped around your warm coffee. Sofie sat in her car seat behind you, kicking her little legs and rambling excitedly in the way only a child could.
“…and the cupcakes should be chocolate, but also strawberry, and then we can have a race track cake, and Papa can bring his car—just for the party! And balloons, but red, not pink. Pink is for babies, Mama.”
You chuckled, glancing at Max with an amused raise of your brow. “You hear that? No pink. She’s officially too grown up for princess themes.”
Max smirked. “That’s devastating. I was looking forward to wearing another tiara.”
“Please,” you said, laughing. “Last year you wore it better than I did. Checo still has that photo framed.”
Sofie leaned forward, strapped tightly in her booster but determined to be part of the conversation. “Can Jack come too?”
“Jack?” you echoed, glancing back. “Of course, baby. I’ll talk to Toto and Susie. I’m sure they’ll bring him. He wouldn't miss it.”
Sofie squealed in delight, kicking her feet. “Yay! Jack and me are gonna beat everyone on the track!”
You smiled, already picturing the chaos of five-year-olds with tiny karts and an F1 audience cheering them on. You looked at Max, a warmth tugging at your chest. “Tell the drivers to hurry up and have kids. Our daughter needs a whole junior paddock.”
Max laughed. “That’s a dangerous idea.”
You smirked. “Why? Scared of a new generation?”
He made a show of pretending to think. “Oscar and Lily? Too busy being adorable. Yuki… still can’t take care of himself, let alone a baby. Lando? God help us all if he becomes someone’s dad right now.”
You snorted. “Amen.”
“And Fernando?” Max continued. “That man will father a championship before he fathers a child.”
You arched a brow. “And Lewis?”
“Lewis has Roscoe. That’s already a full-time kid,” Max said, glancing at you with a grin. “High maintenance.”
You both laughed until a tiny voice interrupted.
“Mama! Papa!” Sofie called, wriggling in her seat. “Invite my other friends too!”
You twisted to look at her. “Your other friends? You mean the ones at school?”
She shook her head quickly, digging through her little sparkly backpack like it was filled with secrets. With dramatic flair, she pulled out several sealed envelopes—gold stickers keeping them closed—and held them up like treasure.
“My racing friends. My brothers!” she said with a proud little nod.
You blinked, taking the envelopes as she handed them to you one by one. “Brothers?”
And then it clicked.
Kimi Antonelli. Ollie Bearman. Isack Hadjar. Liam Lawson.
They weren’t just names in F2 and F1. They were constants in Sofie’s little universe—regular faces at your table, in your living room, voices that made her light up with pure joy. To her, they weren’t rising stars or young drivers. They were her playmates, protectors, snack thieves, homework buddies—her brothers.
Max glanced at you and you saw the exact same realization cross his face.
“Right,” you said gently, brushing a hand over her knee. “Of course. Me and Papa will invite them, too. They’ll be there, baby.”
Sofie cheered again, eyes wide with excitement, and you felt your chest squeeze. You turned back toward the front as Max stopped at a red light, and for a brief moment, the hum of the world quieted.
“She really loves them,” you murmured.
“They really love her back,” Max replied softly.
You smiled to yourself, already seeing it in your mind—the boys trickling in, older but still so gentle with her. You remembered how Kimi would show up with his homework, slouched in your kitchen chair, pencil in hand while Sofie sat beside him with her toy laptop pretending to help. She called him “Kimi the Smart,” and he never corrected her—even when he barely passed a math test.
Ollie would stop by unannounced, digging through your snack drawer with the kind of hunger only a young driver could justify. “She said I could have cookies,” he’d argue. Sofie would appear from the hallway, arms crossed. “Only if you read me a bedtime story first.” And he always did.
Isack came for the food. Not the snacks—real meals. “It’s better than the paddock,” he always claimed as he helped set the table. He’d let Sofie braid his hair, even though it was barely long enough, and pretend to cry when she tightened it too hard.
Liam was dragged into everything—from tea parties to “driveway grand prix” races with tricycles. Once, he walked into your living room in a full Elsa dress, crown and all, because Sofie had insisted. Max nearly cried laughing. Liam stayed in it the whole afternoon.
They weren’t just boys passing through. They were part of the family you built. They showed up, again and again, not for obligation—but because they wanted to. Because Sofie mattered to them, and maybe, in a strange way, you and Max had created something much larger than a family of three.
You'd created a home that people wanted to come back to.
Max reached over and took your hand as the car rolled forward. “She really is growing up fast, huh?”
You nodded. “Too fast. But I think we’re doing okay.”
He glanced in the mirror at Sofie, who was now humming to herself, staring out the window like she could already see her party coming to life.
“We’re doing better than okay,” he said. “We gave her a team.”
You smiled, leaning back into your seat. “One hell of a team.”
The car rolled gently to a stop in front of Sofie’s school. Max reached over to put it in park, the soft click echoing in the morning hush. In the backseat, Sofie was quiet now, her earlier giggles and chatter about the party giving way to a more withdrawn stillness. She stared out the window, backpack clutched tightly in her lap, the colorful invitations barely peeking out from the front pocket.
You turned around from the front seat, noticing the shift. Her lips were slightly pursed, eyebrows scrunched just a little in thought—something she only did when she was nervous or trying not to cry.
You reached over to open her car door and unbuckle her from the car seat. As you leaned in, she looked at you carefully, her eyes wide.
“So… my brothers are really coming?” she asked softly.
You smiled warmly, smoothing back a wisp of her soft hair. “Yes, baby. I already told you, we’ll invite them today. They’ll be there. Especially Kimi.”
That brought the tiniest spark back to her face. “Tell bubba Kimi to bring Eli, please?” she asked in a small, hopeful voice. “She paints my nails really pretty… like the sparkle kind.”
Max chuckled from the driver’s seat, resting one arm out the window. “You’ve got quite the party committee forming.”
“She’s like a celebrity already,” you said with a soft laugh, grabbing Sofie’s bag. “Red carpet, mani-pedi, guest list.”
Sofie smiled faintly, then turned to Max. “Bye, Papa,” she said, blowing him a kiss.
He caught it with both hands this time, exaggeratedly pressing it to his cheek. “Have fun, sweet girl. Be fast, be kind, be you.”
That earned another small smile. You helped her down from the car, and she immediately reached for your hand, holding it tighter than usual as you began walking her toward the school.
As you entered the familiar hallway, the noise of the morning buzzed around you—shoes squeaking, zippers zipping, the hum of chatter and laughter. And then, a few feet ahead, a group of little girls stood in a loose circle near the classroom door, showing off big pastel bows clipped into their ponytails. Each girl had her own distinct color—lavender, bubblegum pink, sunshine yellow. They giggled, whispering as one showed off her sparkly unicorn clip.
You felt Sofie’s steps slow.
“Those are the girls you told me and Papa about, right? The ones who love unicorns and snacks?” you asked, glancing at them and then down at her.
She hesitated.
Then nodded. “Yeah,” she said quickly. “They’re my best friends.”
Her voice was a little too high-pitched, a little too forced. You didn’t catch it—not fully. You were watching the girls, not her.
You smiled, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “That’s great, sweetie. Make sure you give them their invitations, okay? They’ll be so excited.”
She didn’t answer, just gave a small nod, her grip on your hand tightening. You walked her the rest of the way to the classroom, where her teacher stood by the door greeting students.
“Good morning!” the teacher beamed.
“Morning!” you greeted in return, then crouched down to meet Sofie at her level. “Alright, soon-to-be birthday girl. I want you to have a really great day, okay? Be your kind, brave, smart self. And remember—don’t let anyone tell you your glitter bow isn’t cool.”
She looked at you for a long moment. And then, without a word, she suddenly threw her arms around your neck, hugging you tight.
So tight it surprised you.
“Oh,” you laughed softly, hugging her back. “Big squeeze!”
But she didn’t let go right away. She stayed there for a few seconds longer, her small frame pressed to yours. You didn’t see the way her face scrunched up, the way she blinked fast, trying to push down the sting in her eyes. You didn’t feel the way her chest trembled just slightly when she pulled away, looking down at the floor as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder.
“Hey,” you whispered gently, brushing your knuckles across her cheek. “You alright?”
She nodded again quickly. “Mhm. I’m okay.”
Her voice wavered, just a little. But then she stepped into the classroom.
You handed the teacher the small stack of extra invitations you had tucked in your purse, just in case. “We’re planning the party this weekend. She’s got quite a list.”
“She’s been talking about it for weeks,” the teacher said with a knowing smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll help her hand them out.”
You smiled in gratitude, stepping aside as another cluster of kids passed by. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sofie sit down at her table, setting her bag beside her and slipping an envelope out to place in a cubby. You watched her glance up at the girls with the bows, who were still standing in their circle, whispering. They didn’t even look at her.
But she looked at them.
Just for a second.
Then back down to her desk.
You waved gently. She didn’t see it—her eyes were on her hands now, fidgeting in her lap.
You turned to leave, calling a final soft goodbye before walking back out into the sunlit morning.
Max was leaning on the car now, still nursing his coffee. He looked up as you approached, sensing something.
“All good?” he asked, tossing the empty cup in a nearby bin.
You nodded with a sigh, sliding your sunglasses on. “She hugged me like she was going off to war, but yeah. She’s good.”
“Maybe just nerves,” Max said, unlocking the car. “Party planning pressure.”
“Maybe,” you replied, sliding into your seat.
But even as you said it, a small thought nagged at the back of your mind.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
With Sofie dropped off at school, the car ride home was quiet, almost still. You sat beside Max, fingers tapping at a to-do list on your phone, while he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably between you.
“She asked for Eli,” you murmured, glancing over at him.
Max chuckled, the sound low and affectionate. “I heard. Bubba Kimi better show up with a whole salon kit.”
You smiled, heart a little full at the thought of your daughter wanting her "big siblings" at her party—Kimi and his girlfriend Eli included. She had her favorites, and Eli, with her fun nail kits and bright makeup bags, was always welcomed with open arms.
“We’ve got a lot to do before next weekend,” you sighed, leaning back in the seat.
“Which is why we’re seeing Toto and Susie,” Max said, turning the wheel. “Let’s get it done.”
By the time you reached their villa nestled in the Monaco hills, the late morning sun had lit up the soft cream stones of their front terrace. Monaco’s skyline glistened in the distance, but here, everything felt a bit slower, more personal.
Susie greeted you both at the door with that signature warmth of hers. “You’re early,” she teased, stepping back to let you in. “Which means you’re either running from something or planning something.”
“Both,” you joked. “We need help.”
“Breakfast first,” she smiled, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Toto’s in the back garden, sulking over emails and espresso.”
Max gave you a look and smirked. “He’s always in that state.”
You laughed together as you followed her in. The table was set with fresh fruit, flaky croissants, eggs, and plenty of coffee. You hardly got to sit down before Toto appeared through the sliding glass doors, sleeves rolled, sunglasses perched atop his head, holding a small plate of berries.
“Well if it isn’t Monaco’s most stubborn couple,” he said, placing his plate down. “What brings the Verstappens to my home this early?”
“We come with birthday demands,” Max said flatly, settling in with a croissant.
You leaned in. “It’s about Sofie’s party.”
Toto raised a brow, clearly interested.
“She wants a karting theme this year,” you began. “And not the pretend kind, either. She’s serious. She wants a track.”
“And she doesn’t just want to play at racing,” Max added. “She wants to race. Helmets. Flags. Mini podiums.”
Toto leaned back, his expression unreadable. “You know this is Monaco, right? We don’t exactly have open space just lying around.”
“We thought about that,” you said, pulling out your phone. “But we found something.”
You tapped open a photo of a tucked-away private outdoor kart track just outside the main city—close to the water, low-profile, small enough to keep intimate and safe, but polished enough to look impressive.
Toto leaned in. “This is the one near Fontvieille?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Heard you’ve hosted a few team events there.”
“Private. Gated. Decent track for kids. There’s a viewing deck too,” Toto said, nodding slowly. “It’s not bad.”
“We want it for her birthday,” you said. “The whole afternoon. Preferably media-free, completely private.”
“She wants her friends to race too,” Max added, stealing a strawberry from your plate. “And her 'brothers'—Kimi, Ollie, Isack, Liam. She's got them all on a list.”
“And she specifically asked for Jack,” you added with a knowing smile. “So you and Susie have to come.”
Toto exhaled, but there was no resistance behind it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright. I can make the calls. I know the guy who runs it—he owes me a favor or two.”
“See? I told you he still had his Mercedes clout,” Max joked, nudging your knee under the table.
Susie grinned. “You’re lucky we adore that little girl.”
You reached into your bag and pulled out four glittery, slightly crumpled envelopes. “She wanted these delivered personally.”
Toto took them carefully, reading the names: Kimi, Ollie, Isack, Liam.
“She calls them her racing brothers,” Max said, glancing toward the garden.
“And she asked for Eli to come too,” you added. “She loves how she paints her nails and makes her feel grown-up.”
“Eli’s already asking what color she wants,” Susie laughed. “I think she’s going to bring a little kit for all the girls.”
“That’ll make her so happy,” you said, the warmth curling in your chest. “She’s so ready for this birthday. I just want to get it right.”
“You two always do,” Susie said sincerely.
You glanced at Max, who gave you that soft, rare smile—the one only for you, the one he wore when you both shared the silent understanding of just how lucky you were.
Toto stood with a stretch. “I’ll call the track manager today. If all goes well, you’ll have your mini-Monaco Grand Prix ready to go.”
Max clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Now we just need to build a podium.”
“Oh, she’s already asking for trophies,” you said with a laugh. “I may have to get them custom made.”
“I’ll get Jack practicing his wave,” Toto muttered.
You all burst into laughter, the morning filled with more than just plans—it held warmth, community, and the kind of love you couldn’t script if you tried.
As your coffee cup neared empty and the conversation began to slow, you leaned back in your chair, fingers laced loosely over your stomach as you glanced between Toto and Susie.
“Do you guys know if George and Carmen are busy today?” you asked, your tone casual, but already mentally organizing what needed to be done next.
Toto sat back with a thoughtful hum, brushing a crumb off his shirt. “I don’t think so. George mentioned he had the weekend off, and Carmen said something about wanting to check out that new home decor boutique near the harbor, but nothing concrete. Worth texting them.”
You nodded, already reaching for your phone. Before you could tap the screen, you glanced at Max.
“And you,” you said, narrowing your eyes in mock warning, “for once, can you please put whatever unspoken, silly track drama you’ve got with George behind you? Just for Sofie?”
Susie snorted behind her mug, clearly entertained, while Toto chuckled under his breath.
Max raised both hands as if caught red-handed. “I’m not the one who keeps trying to ‘accidentally’ block him during qualifying.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
He sighed and leaned forward on his elbows, eyes softening slightly. “Alright. Fine. I’ll behave. It’s about Sofie, not me and George.”
You gave him an approving smile and reached over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.”
“You guys are so dramatic,” Susie said, standing up to start clearing plates. “You’re just lucky you’re raising the cutest little girl on the grid.”
Toto stood too, taking the envelopes you'd handed him earlier. “I’ll call about the track the moment you leave. If it's available, it's yours. I’ll text you.”
“Perfect,” you said, rising to your feet. “Thank you both. For the food, the help, everything.”
You walked over to hug Susie tightly. “This birthday might actually come together.”
“It always does,” she said warmly.
“And thanks to you too, big boss,” you grinned, giving Toto a quick hug.
“You’re very welcome, princess of Red Bull,” he teased, earning a playful groan from Max.
As the door shut behind you and Max, the warm smell of Susie’s breakfast still clinging to your clothes, you walked down the steps with purpose.
“Okay! Before we meet up with George and Carmen,” you announced, tugging on Max’s sleeve as you both headed toward the car, “I need you to take me to Lando’s.”
Max stopped walking like you just asked him to drop you off at the devil’s front porch.
“Lando’s?” he asked, slowly turning toward you, narrowing his eyes. “As in Norris?”
You looked over your shoulder, already opening the passenger door. “Yes, as in Norris. I need to talk to him. Personally.”
Max blinked. “Personally?”
“Personally,” you repeated, hopping in the car like it was no big deal. “He owes me a favor.”
Max raised a brow and got in behind the wheel, giving you a suspicious side-eye. “Right. A favor. You sure you’re not just going over there so he can hit on you again in that stupid flirty voice he uses when he’s trying to pretend he has a chance?”
You grinned. “Max, please. I am a happily married woman,” you said, waving your hand in front of his face and flashing your wedding ring like it was a shield. “Married to the world champion. The father of my child. The man I trust to tell me when I’ve left the oven on. I’m not running off with Lando for some favors.”
Max muttered under his breath, “He probably color-coordinates the cones with his shoes.”
You snorted. “He does. And he also has a very cute balloon setup I’m trying to get for Sofie’s party. And I need a custom banner for her birthday, he's the man for the job, he's done it for his own niece—tell me that’s not fate.”
Max sighed as he started the car. “You know, if he flirts with you in that dumb little voice again, I might lock him in his McLaren simulator for 24 hours.”
“You’re welcome to try,” you teased, then leaned back in your seat, glancing at him sideways. “But you know I only flirt back when it’s for leverage.”
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. “You flirted back?”
You grinned. “Relax, Verstappen. I said if. Besides, he’s harmless. Like a golden retriever in Gucci sneakers. and I never flirt with Lando, besides he's always joking and I always jokingly tell him you'll kick his ass."
He shook his head, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You better not give him that smile.”
“What smile?” you asked innocently.
He turned to glance at you at a red light. “That one. The ‘I need something, and I’ll giggle while I ask’ smile.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said sweetly, already pulling out your phone. “Besides, it works.”
Max sighed again, defeated but amused. “Fine. Go to Lando’s. But I’m staying in the car. If he comes out shirtless again, I’m driving off without you.”
You laughed. “Fair. But if he’s shirtless, I’m definitely getting that balloon arch.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And still your wife.”
“That part I don’t regret,” he muttered, shaking his head as the car took off toward Lando’s place in the glittering hills of Monaco, your laughter echoing in the air.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
You didn’t knock. You never did. At this point, Lando Norris should’ve expected you to waltz right into his Monaco flat like it was your second home.
“Breaking and entering again?” he called out as he heard the door open.
“Only breaking,” you called back, already making your way into the kitchen. “I’ve entered smoother places.”
Lando appeared around the corner, tousled curls, no shoes, and wearing a hoodie that clearly hadn't seen an iron in weeks. He gave you a skeptical look as you grabbed a sparkling water from his fridge like it was yours. “You’re awfully comfortable for someone trespassing.”
You took a sip, resting your hip against the counter. “Please. If I was trespassing, I wouldn’t be asking for a favor.”
His brows lifted. “Ah, so that’s what this is. What am I loaning now? My yacht? My soul?”
You smirked. “Sofie’s birthday is coming up, and we’re trying to keep it simple, fun, and personal. Max and I could throw her some wild, luxury-level event—but that’s not who we are. We want her to remember the love, not the bill.”
Lando softened a little. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t get sentimental on me. I’m not done.”
He laughed.
“I remember you had that balloon arch set-up at your niece’s party. Orange and white? Minimal, but really cute. It’d be perfect for Sofie’s birthday.”
“You want to borrow it?” he asked, eyebrow cocked.
“Yes. I could go out and order some new one from some event planner, but… why? You already have it. It’s cute. And it’s from someone who actually likes Sofie. That means more to us than overpriced glitter balloons that’ll pop in five minutes.”
He gave you a lopsided grin. “You’re really pulling the emotional card, huh?”
You shrugged. “It’s not an act. We want people she loves involved in this day—not just vendors with clipboards. The less it feels like a show, the more it feels like home.”
He nodded, then raised a teasing brow. “What’s next, you want me to personally blow up all the balloons too?”
You pointed again. “I mean, if you’re offering…”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Alright. I’ll get you the arch, and I’ll even throw in the mini banner I had made—just swap the name out.”
You lit up. “You’re a legend. And one more thing—if you’re thinking of getting her a gift…”
“Oh no. You’re not wrangling me into more.”
“You have a helmet collection,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She’s obsessed with them. Obsessed. She watches your behind-the-scenes vlogs and pauses to look at the shelves. A mini replica would make her year.”
Lando sighed dramatically, but there was no resistance. “Fine. I’ll see if I can get one custom-made. She deserves it.”
“See? That’s why I came to you.” You grinned. “Not because you’re the face of McLaren—though, you know, that helps—but because you care. That’s what we want for her birthday. People who care.”
He tilted his head. “Does Max know you’re here buttering me up?”
You checked your watch. “He’s in the car downstairs. I told him I needed to talk to you privately—strictly business. I assume he’s staring at the time, counting how long I’ve been alone with you.”
Lando chuckled. “Tell him I behaved.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll even tell him you offered to blow up the balloons.”
“Don’t push it.”
You pushed off the counter, tossing the empty bottle into his recycling bin. “You’re the best, Lando. Really.”
“Only because it’s for Sofie,” he called as you headed out.
You paused at the door and turned around. “Exactly why I came to you.”
“Came to me and not Oscar…” Lando muttered as he walked you to the door, arms lazily folded across his chest.
You turned back with a grin, already expecting the jab. “He’s next on my list. Love bothering dear ol’ Piastri. He’s so… composed. Watching him slowly unravel is kind of fun.”
Lando snorted. “What’s next—gonna ask him to DJ?”
You tilted your head, mock thoughtful. “You know, that’s actually not a bad idea…”
He stared at you, half horrified. “No. No, no, no. That man listens to silence recreationally. I wouldn’t trust him to run a toaster, let alone a sound system.”
You grinned. “To be fair, you wouldn’t be allowed to DJ at my kid’s party either.”
Lando put a hand over his chest, fake-offended. “Excuse me? I have taste.”
“You have a playlist titled ‘Pure Chaos, Vol. 2’. And the cover is just a blurry photo of you in sunglasses.”
“Artistic expression,” he defended, then sighed. “Fine. So I can’t DJ. But I can still bring the balloons, the arch, the banner. The classics. I’m reliable.”
You tapped your chin. “Actually, one more thing…”
He leaned in dramatically. “Is it a pony? Because I draw the line at live animals.”
You snapped your fingers. “Music. Bring a speaker. Nothing crazy—just something we can hook up to my phone. I’ll make a playlist with her favorite songs.”
“Like the Moana soundtrack on repeat?” he asked, deadpan.
You smiled. “Exactly. She also loves that silly Dutch song Max taught her. I have no clue what it says but she sings it like it’s gospel.”
He chuckled. “Alright. I’ll bring a speaker. But just so we’re clear—it’ll be a small one. Real tiny.”
You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “You’re a millionaire.”
He gasped. “Sofie is going to make me go broke!”
You both burst into laughter, and then, for a moment, things settled into a comfortable silence.
You stepped forward, wrapping him in a quick, warm hug. “Thanks, Lando. Really.”
He hugged you back with a grin. “You know I’d do anything for her.”
You pulled away and gave him a playful warning point. “No DJ-ing. No fog machines. Just show up, smile, and hand over the balloon arch.”
He gave you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Back downstairs, Max sat in the car, arm draped lazily over the steering wheel, scrolling on his phone. As you opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, he glanced sideways.
“Did he flirt?” he asked without looking up.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek, smiling. “He was a perfect gentleman. I’m irresistible, but he tried his best.”
Max smirked, tossing his phone into the console and starting the engine. “Good."
“Well,” you said, settling into your seat, “now take me to George and Carmen.”
“That’s stop number two?” he asked, pulling into the road.
“Oh, no, my love. After George and Carmen, I need Oscar. Then we head to Lewis. Then Charles. And by the time we’re done doing this grand prix of birthday planning…”
“We’ll be picking Sofie up from school,” Max finished with a groan.
You reached over and patted his leg. “Welcome to the domestic paddock.”
He just laughed, driving toward the next stop, knowing full well that for Sofie—you both would do this a hundred times over.
The day had been a whirlwind—no, more like a full-blown sprint from one friend to another, and the weight of planning Sofie’s fifth birthday was finally catching up to you.
You and Max had started strong with George and Carmen. They met you at a cozy café tucked away in Monaco’s quieter streets. Over warm pastries and espresso, they eagerly agreed to help coordinate catering—something that would bring together all of Sofie’s favorite comfort foods, from tiny grilled cheese bites to heart-shaped fruit platters and little macarons. Carmen even suggested a vegan dessert option “just in case,” and George promised to talk to someone about outdoor seating near the track.
Next was Oscar. You had warned Max ahead of time to let you lead, knowing Oscar’s naturally quiet demeanor. But surprisingly, he welcomed you both with a calm smile, and once you mentioned activities for a little girl’s birthday party, his entire posture softened. Growing up with sisters gave him a special insight—and Lily, his ever-supportive girlfriend, chimed in over video call with ideas about crafting stations and maybe a bubble machine. You left with a list of surprisingly thoughtful ideas, plus the promise of a gift from both of them.
Then came Lewis.
You met at his sleek apartment, a space that felt like modern art had collided with calm energy. You asked him to host the karting portion of the party—after all, kids looked up to him, and his name carried both weight and warmth. He was honored, of course, but you had one specific request. “Roscoe has to come.”
Lewis laughed, nodding as Max smirked. “I figured that was non-negotiable.”
“Completely,” you grinned. “She doesn’t want to race unless her favorite dog is trackside.”
Roscoe, aging but still regal, was happy to oblige—even if he’d mostly be napping through the event in a shady spot with his tongue out.
Then finally, you headed to Charles and Alex’s place. Their shared home was lively, filled with soft music and the smell of whatever Alex was cooking when you arrived. She was thrilled to help with the goodie bags—already pulling out themed stickers, ribbon, and mini toys. “Leo can’t wait,” she said with a bright smile, referring to their dog that Sofie also loved. Charles, lounging with a sleepy Leo on his lap, looked up. “I’ll get you all the merch we’ve got,” he offered, already pulling out his phone to message someone on the Ferrari team.
And now—at last—you and Max were walking into the final stop: the bakery.
The scent of sugar, vanilla, and warm bread wrapped around you both like a soft blanket. You closed your eyes for a second, inhaling deeply. The display case glittered with cakes like jewels—fondant-covered dreams in every shade and theme.
“Okay…” you said, lacing your fingers through Max’s. Your voice was quieter now, tinged with fatigue. “We know how many guests. We know how many layers we need. And we’re doing an F1 theme. We just need to lock in a flavor.”
Max stepped forward with a kind of quiet confidence that made your heart flutter despite the exhaustion. “I know what she likes,” he said simply.
You watched as he leaned casually on the counter, listing everything out to the baker with a gentle authority. “Five layers. Vanilla and strawberry swirl for the top, chocolate for the base. Middle tiers mix of lemon and white cake. No fondant. Just soft buttercream—Italian Meringue.”
The baker nodded, impressed. “And the design?”
He smiled. “A miniature track on the top. Small racing cars. One with her name on it. And pink accents. Lots of pink.”
You blinked slowly, your heart so full you could barely stand it.
This was Max in his element—not the race suit, not the podium, not the press. But here, in a bakery, ordering a cake for his daughter with the kind of care most people saved for world championships.
When he turned around, he handed you the order receipt with a satisfied little smirk. “Done. We pick it up the morning of the party.”
You scanned the paper briefly, then looked up at him. “Italian Meringue Buttercream?”
He nodded. “Only the best.”
You exhaled a soft laugh and stepped forward, kissing his cheek tenderly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
Max wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in for a moment, his lips brushing your temple. “She’s only five once,” he murmured. “Let’s make it count.”
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The day had finally wound down after what felt like a whirlwind of movement. Your phone had buzzed nearly non-stop—messages from drivers, friends, family. Each one confirming their part, their presence. You and Max had pulled it off again. Another party, another year, another carefully stitched-together moment of joy for your daughter.
Sofie’s birthday was going to be perfect.
At least… it looked perfect on paper.
Later that afternoon, you both picked her up from school. She clambered into the back seat with a sleepy grin, her voice soft, a little quieter than usual. She talked about her day in fragments—mentioning what she had for lunch, how the sun was too hot on the playground, how her teacher wore funny shoes that squeaked. And then, tucked in between all those little things, she said, “My friends are coming to the party.”
Your heart had lifted at first. You gave her a soft smile in the mirror. “That’s great, baby.”
But something about the way she said it… the way her eyes drifted to the window right after… it stayed with you.
The evening passed gently. Dinner was simple, the lights were warm, and the sea breeze brushed against the Monaco skyline as you helped Sofie settle into bed. She clutched her Ferrari plushie close, the one Max had custom ordered the year she was obsessed with pit stops. She didn’t fight sleep that night. She just turned over and drifted off like a leaf on water.
Her room was dim now, filled with soft pinks and whites, her little books neatly lined on the shelf. In the corner, her toy box sat slightly open, stuffed with a mix of stuffed animals and race cars. And on her nightstand was a framed photo—one of her favorites. Sofie, grinning from ear to ear, with her cheeks slightly smudged from a chocolate snack, standing beside Yuki Tsunoda in the paddock. Yuki had crouched beside her, doing a peace sign, both of them wearing oversized sunglasses. The photo had been taken during last season’s race weekend in Japan, and she had insisted it be framed because, in her words, “Yuki is small like me.”
You smiled at it briefly, then turned to finish cleaning.
It was late now. Max was downstairs, tidying the kitchen while you stayed behind to finish Sofie’s room. You moved quietly, scooping up scattered toys, fluffing pillows, straightening the corners of her blanket.
And then you saw it—her little backpack, tipped halfway off the side of her table.
You reached for it absentmindedly, grabbing the handle to move it to the hook. But the zipper was undone. Papers spilled to the floor like leaves on a windy day.
You crouched down with a soft sigh. “She always forgets to zip it up…” you muttered, shaking your head.
Then you froze.
There, half-tucked into the folder pocket, were the invitations.
Uncreased. Unmarked. Untouched.
Still there.
All of them.
You slowly gathered them, your breath catching. The glitter glue you helped her with still shimmered faintly under the soft glow of the hallway light. Her little handwriting—proud and bouncy—read: “Come to my birthday!!” with hearts drawn around the names of her classmates. But none of them had left her backpack.
Not one had made it into a child’s hand.
Your chest felt hollow as you knelt there, gently placing the invitations back where they had come from. Your fingers lingered over them for a beat too long, heart twisting.
The house was still now. Too still.
You turned off the last light and made your way to the bedroom, your movements slow, like you were carrying the weight of something invisible.
Max was already in bed, scrolling lazily through his phone, waiting for you. When he looked up, the moment his eyes caught yours, his expression changed. He set the phone aside immediately.
“Lieverd…” he said softly, sitting up straighter. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
You walked over slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I was cleaning her room… and I found the invitations. The ones we helped her make for school.”
He blinked. “She gave them to her friends already, right?”
You shook your head, your throat tightening. “No. They’re still in her bag, Max. Every single one.”
His eyebrows knit together, mouth opening slightly. “What… she must’ve forgotten. Maybe she was nervous about giving them out?”
You just looked at him, the silence answering for you.
And then you said, quietly, “Max… I don’t think she has anyone to give them to.”
He flinched, his features tightening. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” you replied gently. “But I’ve seen it. When we drop her off… the girls, they don’t even say hi. She sits at that tiny little desk, on her own, while the others group up.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes suddenly stormy. “No. She has friends. She plays with Kimi and Ollie and—”
“She calls them her brothers,” you cut in softly.
“Because she loves them,” he snapped, but the bite in his voice was more self-defense than anything.
“She never asks for sleepovers. She doesn’t talk about birthday parties at school. She only talks about our friends, your friends, and how she wants to be around them. Max…”
You sat on the edge of the bed, your voice shaking now. “I think she’s lonely.”
He stood abruptly, his voice rising—not in anger, but in desperation. “She’s got us. She’s got so much. She’s smart, and she’s bright, and she’s funny as hell, and beautiful, and bilingual, and—”
“I know she is.”
“She’s got your smile and my stubbornness, and she lights up every room she walks into—how can you say no one wants to be her friend?”
You stood too, reaching for his hands, pulling them down to yours.
“I’m not saying that to hurt you. I’m saying it because I saw her face this morning when those girls walked past her without a single word.”
He looked away, his throat visibly tightening. You saw it now—under all the frustration and protest, he was hurting.
Deeply.
Because he had promised himself he would never let her feel the kind of loneliness he knew all too well. The kind he had carried through childhood, behind closed doors and in foreign paddocks. He had vowed to break that cycle.
And yet, here it was, slipping through the cracks.
"Max, at some point, you have to accept that this is happening," you said, your voice quiet but firm, the kind of tone that came from deep worry, the kind only parents knew. The words felt like glass on your tongue, but they needed to be said.
Max stood in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. He shook his head slowly, defiantly. “No,” he said, voice sharp. “Because I won’t let it happen.”
You sighed, your shoulders sagging under the invisible weight you’d both been carrying all day. “Max, she needs friends her age,” you said gently, pleading with your eyes for him to hear you. “Hanging out with ours, yours and mine, it isn’t going to fix what’s going on when she’s not with us. When she’s at school, she’s alone.”
His face hardened, like stone forming under pressure. His voice turned into a low bite, his wall going up like armor. “She has our friends,” he snapped. “And she likes them. And they love her.”
“I know they do, Max,” you said, trying not to raise your voice. “But they’re not her peers.”
You stepped forward, hands reaching out as if to pull his stubborn heart closer, make him see what was breaking yours. “She needs people her age. She can’t go to every race weekend with you forever. She can’t tag along when Lando invites you out for a party, or when Charles hosts another rooftop dinner. She can’t sit next to you while you drink with Daniel or talk strategy with Fernando. That’s not her world.”
He looked away, blinking hard, trying to bite down the emotions climbing his throat. You could see the fight in his jaw, how he flexed his hands to keep from breaking.
“She has the others,” you continued, more gently this time. “Yes, she has Kimi, Isack, Ollie, Liam… but they’re getting older, Max. They’re teenagers now. They’re not always going to want to play board games or sit through cartoon movies. Oscar and Lily won’t always be around to have baking nights. Lando won’t always be free to play dress-up when she asks.”
You paused, swallowing down the rising lump in your throat. “She can’t always trail behind Checo when he’s with his wife and kids. Eventually… everyone has their own life.”
And then you said what neither of you had wanted to admit.
“She’s going to be left behind, Max. She already is.”
That hit something in him. Hard.
Max’s fists clenched at his sides, his breath shaky, his eyes darting around the room like he needed something to hold onto—something solid in a world that was beginning to crack.
“Bullshit…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “It’s all bullshit.”
But the way his voice cracked near the end—it was the sound of someone trying to run from the very thing that shaped them.
You stepped closer, your hand gently brushing his arm, grounding him. “I know what you’re feeling,” you whispered. “I know. You see yourself in her.”
He said nothing, but his shoulders dropped, and he finally looked at you. Really looked. His eyes were red-rimmed, glistening.
“That feeling…” he said quietly, like it pained him just to give it breath. “When everyone’s laughing and you’re sitting there… pretending you don’t care.”
You nodded.
“I hated it,” he said. “I hated how it made me feel. Like something was wrong with me. Like I was too much or not enough. Always trying to prove myself. Always trying to be liked by doing something. Never just… being.”
Your heart broke a little more hearing it.
“That’s why I gave her everything,” he said, voice shaking. “That’s why I bring her with me. To the races, to the garage, to dinner with the guys. Because there, she’s loved. There, she laughs. There, she’s seen.”
You stepped in front of him, pressing your forehead gently to his. “But we can’t build her whole life around borrowed moments from ours, Max. She needs a world of her own.”
He let out a long, tired breath and finally sank down onto the edge of the bed, like the truth had hit his chest so hard, his legs couldn’t hold him anymore.
“She’s so happy around us,” he said softly. “I thought that was enough.”
“It is,” you said. “But it’s not everything.”
There was silence for a long moment, and then he spoke again, voice barely more than a whisper.
“I don’t want her to think she’s not enough.”
“She never will,” you replied, gently cupping his cheek. “Because she’s got us. And we’ll do whatever we can to help her build something of her own. We’ll talk to her teachers, find other kids with shared interests, maybe even change schools if we have to.”
“She deserves a world,” he whispered. “Not just to live in ours.”
You kissed his temple, your voice soft but filled with quiet power. “Then let’s give her one.”
And in the dim glow of your bedroom, the two of you sat together, not just as husband and wife—but as parents. Not with answers, but with a shared promise.
You would give your daughter the world. And if it didn’t welcome her with open arms, you’d build her a new one.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The days that followed were delicate—fragile, like trying to hold water in your hands and hoping it wouldn’t slip through your fingers. You and Max had made a quiet, mutual promise to show up more, to not just be parents, but pillars. Breakfasts became rituals—stacked pancakes shaped like hearts, fresh fruit slices fanned into rainbows, Sofie tucked between the two of you at the table, chattering away as her sleepy curls bounced with every excited word.
After school, there were quiet hours of play, where she lined up her stuffed animals for a pretend concert and made Max sit cross-legged while she turned into a glittering pop star. You cheered, Max clapped, and for a moment the world outside didn’t exist. But mornings… mornings were the hardest. School had become an obstacle no child should have to face with a brave face and a heavy heart.
So, when Max told you, “Let me take her alone today,” you agreed, though it left you unsettled. Something had shifted in him. You could see it in the way he zipped up her backpack for her, in the way he held her hand as if it were glass, precious and breakable.
At the school, Max walked tall, even in casual clothes, his hand protectively holding Sofie’s as they made their way down the hallway. She clutched her backpack, red sneakers squeaking with every step. He paused outside her classroom door, knelt to her level, brushing her curls behind her ears.
“Hey, you remember what I said?” he asked softly.
She nodded, whispering, “Shoulders back.”
He smiled. “That’s right. Strong like mama, brave like papa.”
She beamed and walked in, waving over her shoulder.
Max stood, his face hardening like steel. His gaze landed on her teacher, who was bent over a desk arranging colored pencils. He walked over, calm but deliberate.
“We need to speak,” he said, voice low but commanding.
The teacher blinked, taken off guard. She stood, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door gently behind her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Max didn’t hesitate. “Yes. A lot is wrong,” he said, eyes fixed and unwavering. “Why have neither my wife nor I been contacted about what’s been going on with Sofie?”
The teacher looked confused at first, then flustered. “I—I wasn’t aware there was a concern—”
“She has no one,” Max interrupted, his tone sharper now. “She tells us every day about her ‘friends,’ but when we watch her, she’s alone. Sitting by herself. The other kids ignore her. That’s not a concern to you?”
She hesitated. “Children go through phases—”
“She is not a phase,” he snapped, stepping slightly closer, lowering his voice but not the fire in it. “We don’t drop her off here every morning so she can be pushed aside. I understand children can be selfish, but isn’t that your job? To help guide them toward compassion? Empathy?”
The teacher said nothing. Her silence was too loud.
Max continued, “This weekend is her birthday. The invitations are in her bag. If I find them still there after school—if they are not handed out to every single child in that classroom—I will make sure this becomes a much bigger issue.”
There was something dangerous in the calm of his threat.
“She is a good kid. Bright, loving, loud, funny. She knows how to say ‘thank you’ in three languages and still thinks a photo of her and Yuki Tsunoda in the paddock is one of the best days of her life,” he said, voice softening for just a moment. “She deserves to be seen.”
From the doorway, Sofie peeked out, grinning. Max turned, and instantly, his features softened into a smile just for her.
He gave her a thumbs up.
She giggled and gave him one back, then blew him a kiss. He caught it with exaggerated flair, pressing it to his heart with both hands.
“I love you!” she called.
“I love you more,” he mouthed back, and then turned to walk away, shoulders square, heart still burning.
The dining room was chaos—in the most loving, sugar-filled, glitter-splattered way possible.
You sat on the floor in a cozy oversized hoodie, surrounded by boxes of checkered flag stickers, racing-themed whistles, mini trophies, and little plastic cars. A roll of pink ribbon dangled from your wrist as you carefully tied it around a goodie bag, cinching it tight.
Alex sat cross-legged across from you, working just as diligently. “This is like… if Formula 1 met Barbie and had a sugar-high child.”
You chuckled. “Exactly the aesthetic I was going for.”
The bags were a hit of adrenaline and sweetness—racing-themed from start to finish, but unmistakably Sofie: pink pit passes, mini tires filled with candy, and even small keychains shaped like helmets. Everything screamed her love for speed, but also her love for softness, for color, for joy.
You reached for a small checklist on your phone, double-checking the gifts. “Helmet keychains, tire gummies, flag stickers, race medals... check, check, check.”
Alex leaned back on her palms, raising a curious brow. “Did Lando ever finish that helmet thing you mentioned?”
Your lips curved into a secretive smile. “Yes. It’s done. Pink and black—just like his, but flipped. Even has her name etched in cursive on the back.”
Alex grinned. “No way. That’s gonna make her lose it.”
“She has no idea,” you said softly, pride and emotion tugging at your voice. “It’s just between me and him for now. We’re giving it to her at the end of the party.”
Alex clutched her heart. “You guys are insane with the details. No wonder she’s the most spoiled little speed demon on Earth.”
“She’s loved,” you corrected, looking over the pile of nearly-finished bags. “Not spoiled.”
Alex nodded, no argument. “And you both make sure of that every day.”
Just then, your phone rang—and the second you saw the contact, your stomach twisted.
You answered fast. “Charles?”
“I’m at the bakery,” he said with a sigh. “They’re claiming they don’t have the cake.”
Your mouth dropped open. “What do you mean they don’t have it? We placed the order days ago!”
“I brought the receipt. Still nothing in the system.”
You stood up, pacing already. “Tell them it’s under Max Verstappen. Look again. I swear, Charles, it was confirmed.”
“I’m telling them. But they’re acting like they’ve never seen the name in their life.”
You didn’t even hesitate—you tapped Max’s contact and dialed him.
He picked up instantly, like he knew it was urgent. “What happened?”
“They’re saying they don’t have the cake,” you said, your voice rising. “Charles is there, but they’re not finding the order. Her cake, Max. Her birthday is tomorrow.”
“I’m on it, mama bear,” he said, calm but tight with frustration.
“This has to be perfect. We’ve never messed up before. We can’t start now. Not on this.”
“I know,” he said firmly. “Trust me. I’ll fix it.”
You hung up with a deep exhale, fingers brushing the pink ribbons on the goodie bags as if they could calm your nerves. Alex handed you a gummy tire.
“Eat this,” she said. “And breathe. You’ve got Verstappen going full throttle into bakery battle. It’ll be fine.”
Across town, the little boutique bakery was filled with the scent of fresh pastry and just a hint of trouble.
Charles stood stiff at the counter, holding the order receipt like it was a legal document. “This order was placed for my niece. A five-layer cake. We submitted it days ago.”
The baker behind the counter shrugged again, like he had all the time in the world. “There’s nothing under Charles Leclerc. Nothing under Verstappen either.”
“Check again,” Charles pressed.
The bell above the door jingled sharply.
Max stepped in like a storm front. No greeting. No smile. Just purpose. He spotted Charles and walked straight up.
“What’s going on?” he asked, jaw clenched.
Charles held up the receipt. “They’re saying they don’t have it.”
The baker sighed. “There’s nothing in our system. We need to re-place the order—”
Max cut him off. “No. You’re not listening.”
He stepped closer to the counter, resting his hands there like he was barely containing himself. His voice was low but charged, like thunder before the lightning.
“This cake isn’t just some random request. It’s five layers. Top tier is vanilla and strawberry swirl. Middle layers are lemon and white cake. Base layer is chocolate. No fondant. Just soft buttercream—Italian meringue.”
The baker blinked.
Max didn’t stop.
“Decoration is a miniature track on the top. With tiny racing cars. One of them has her name on it. There are pink accents everywhere—because she loves pink. And because she asked for this. Specifically this.”
Charles stood a little taller beside him. “You don’t understand—this cake means everything. It’s not just dessert. It’s the centerpiece of the day.”
Max leaned forward. “I just watched my daughter walk into school this morning feeling invisible to every kid in her class. I saw her fake a smile. I saw her look for hope. This cake is part of the joy we’re trying to give back to her. So either you honor the receipt you were given—or you lose a whole lot of business.”
“And reputation,” Charles added. “Because I promise you, if this place is the reason my niece doesn’t get the birthday she deserves, you’ll be hearing about it.”
The baker paled. “I… I’ll talk to the kitchen. We’ll find a way to get it done.”
“Good,” Max said, stepping back. “Because if I come back here and it’s not being worked on—I won’t be calm next time.”
He turned sharply, walking out with Charles behind him. As the door shut, Charles exhaled a breath of admiration. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Max didn’t answer. His mind was already home again—imagining her smile when she saw that pink-iced track, her little fingers tracing her name on that tiny racing car.
No one was going to ruin that.
Not on his watch.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Later that afternoon, the air was soft and golden, the kind of light that kissed everything it touched and made it feel like the day might end gently after all the chaos.
You and Max stood hand in hand outside the school gates, the breeze tugging lightly at your jacket, fingers locked tightly together. You spotted Sofie before she saw you—her little frame bouncing down the school steps with her backpack bouncing right along behind her, hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink from the warm afternoon sun. There was always a piece of your heart that healed just by seeing her.
She noticed you both and her steps quickened, her face lighting up like she hadn’t just seen you this morning. “Mama! Papa!”
“Hey, honeybee,” you smiled, crouching down with open arms as she ran into them, hugging you tight before shifting into Max’s legs.
Max bent slightly, smoothing her hair back. “Let me see your bag, baby.”
Sofie tilted her head, curious. “Why?”
Max gave a light grin. “Just wanna check something.”
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly slipped the straps off her shoulders and passed the bag to him. You leaned in, watching as he unzipped it carefully.
Together, you both sifted through the pockets—crumbled drawings, a rogue crayon, an empty juice box—and then, surprisingly, no envelopes. No stack of pink-and-checkered birthday invites. Your brows lifted.
“You gave them to your class?” you asked, your voice light, though your heart was thudding.
She nodded quickly, her excitement peeking through. “Yup! I passed them out after snack time!”
Then, a beat passed. Her expression changed—her eyes dropped slightly, a small frown tugging at her lips.
“I don’t know if they’ll come though…” she mumbled, her voice small. The uncertainty in her tone pierced right through you.
You glanced up at Max, your heart twisting. He met your eyes, reading your worry instantly. He gave the smallest shrug and then—like clockwork—he stepped in.
“If they don’t,” Max said gently, crouching to her level, “then they’re gonna miss out on the coolest birthday party ever.”
Sofie blinked at him, surprised.
“I mean—think about it,” he said, lifting an eyebrow, “they won’t get to eat that yummy cake we’ve got coming, they won’t get to hang out with your uncles—especially the ones who are basically kids themselves,” he winked.
She started to giggle.
“They won’t get to see Roscoe and Leo in their party bow ties. And they definitely won’t get to meet your best friend Jack.”
Her smile bloomed.
“And worst of all…” Max leaned closer, pretending to whisper, “they’ll miss me. Which is, let’s be honest, tragic.”
That did it. She giggled so hard she snorted a little, covering her mouth with both hands as her eyes crinkled.
You mouthed a silent thank you over her head to Max, overwhelmed by his constant ease, his unwavering ability to smooth the cracks before they spread.
He hummed in reply, then in one effortless move, wrapped his arms around her and scooped her up. She shrieked with laughter and clung to him, resting her head on his shoulder like it was her favorite pillow.
“We’re gonna eat at your favorite place tonight,” Max told her, kissing the side of her forehead. “And tomorrow—we party, okay?”
She nodded eagerly, confidence back in her voice. “Let’s go!”
As you all walked to the car together, you felt the weight in your chest loosen. The tension that had knotted in your stomach since that morning, the uncertainty about the cake, the kids, the timing—it all felt manageable again. Because Max had a way of doing that.
Now that you really thought about it, he always did. From the first time Sofie’s favorite toy broke and he spent an hour at the kitchen table with glue and toothpicks, to the time her markers dried out and he ran to the store before she even noticed. On nights when you were half-asleep in her bed from a nightmare, Max would carry her to yours and let her nestle in between you, then pull the blankets up gently around both his girls.
He had a habit of being exactly what the moment needed. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just there. Steady. Reliable. Yours.
The car ride was quiet, the soft hum of tires on the road blending with the calm buzz of the early evening. Sofie sat in her car seat behind you, half-singing a little made-up tune as she watched the world go by from the window. You reached over and let your hand rest on Max’s thigh, giving it a small squeeze. He gave your hand a soft pat, his thumb running along your fingers as he drove.
And then, from the backseat, her small voice piped up again.
“Can we get dinner and… watch the water?”
You and Max exchanged a look, a bit confused by the request.
“Watch the water?” you asked.
“Yeah…” she said dreamily. “Like near the boats. Where the ducks were last time.”
You smiled. “You mean the pier?”
She nodded.
Max glanced in the rearview mirror. “Sure,” he said with a shrug, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Dinner and a view. That’s what the birthday girl wants.”
You turned slightly in your seat. “We can grab your favorite—what do you say? Pasta?”
“With garlic bread,” she added firmly.
“Deal.”
A beat passed.
“Is Yuki coming to my party?” she asked, almost shyly.
You laughed softly, the tension fully melted now. “Of course he is. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’re basically his favorite little human.”
She grinned.
You could already picture it: Yuki showing up with a gift too big to carry properly, Roscoe and Leo dressed in tiny party bow ties, Jack sprinting around with a balloon sword, and Sofie at the center of it all—smiling, glowing, loved.
And right now, in this quiet little moment in the car, with Max’s hand resting on your knee and Sofie humming softly behind you, you realized something:
This was it. The life you built. The family you fought for. The love that Max held together so effortlessly—even when things felt like they might fall apart.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The golden morning sun poured through the large kitchen windows, casting a soft glow on the breakfast table where laughter mingled with the smell of pancakes and strawberries. The air carried that familiar excitement that only came once a year—Sofie’s birthday. She was officially five now. A whole hand. Your heart ached and swelled all at once. Where had the time gone?
You smoothed out your white embroidered maxi dress as you moved about the kitchen, the delicate eyelet hem brushing your ankles with every graceful step. The shirred bodice clung softly to your figure while the thin straps sat lightly on your sun-kissed shoulders. You looked down at Sofie—your little sunshine—who was happily munching on a strawberry, her cream cherry-print jumpsuit just as sweet as she was. Her long blonde hair was still a bit tousled from sleep, but her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
Max leaned casually against the counter, dressed in a ribbed beige knit shirt that hugged his frame just right, paired with light tan trousers and his usual quiet confidence. His watch caught the light as he reached for his coffee, his eyes settling on Sofie with a gentle smile.
The kitchen was buzzing with quiet chatter. Kimi, Ollie, Isack, and Liam had joined the breakfast table, each of them clearly still waking up but making the effort. “I’m thankful you all came all the way from England to Monaco for this,” you said, your tone genuine.
Liam waved you off with a smile. “It’s nothing. I wasn’t going to miss her birthday for the world.”
Max nodded in agreement. “Now that you’re all here, it really means a lot.”
Kimi carefully sliced a strawberry and placed it on Sofie’s plate. “So the party’s at the karting track?” he asked, looking to you and Max for confirmation.
Max chuckled, nodding. “Her pick. She’s officially done with princess parties.”
“She still likes pink, but she’s moved past princess wonderland,” you added with a fond grin, watching as Ollie made goofy faces at Sofie. She giggled, her little shoulders bouncing, the cherry print on her jumpsuit dancing along.
Max shook his head, amused. “Of course those two are having a competition before 10 a.m.”
There was something magical about that moment. The world felt still and warm, full of light and laughter. Sofie’s excitement was bubbling over, yet grounded by the comfort of having everyone she loved under one roof.
Your phone buzzed, and you excused yourself from the table, stepping just outside the kitchen into the sun-drenched hallway. “Hello?” you answered.
“Bonjour, we have the cake here, the party is all set!” Charles' voice rang with energy. “And believe it or not, some little guests are already here, waiting on the birthday girl. But don’t worry—I haven’t let them touch a thing. Now hurry up and get my niece here!”
You laughed. “I’m bringing her, Leclerc. Don’t get bossy. She has Verstappen blood running in her veins.”
Charles laughed back. “As long as she’s living in Monaco, she’s a Leclerc. Now bring her!”
You shook your head, smiling, and hung up. Stepping back into the kitchen, you clapped your hands to gather everyone's attention. “Alright! Finish up your breakfasts, we’ve got a party to attend.”
Everyone began to rise, but you raised a hand. “Hold on—sunscreen. All of you. It’s bright out today, and I want Sofie, Kimi, Ollie, Isack, and Liam protected.”
Max raised a brow, amused. “They can do it themselves.”
You arched a brow right back. “You’re putting sunscreen on too. I don’t care if you think you're invincible.”
He smirked, grabbing the bottle off the counter. “Yes, ma’am.”
They had gotten sunscreen on just the way you’d instructed—foreheads, cheeks, even behind the ears. You had given each of them a motherly once-over, especially Sofie, ensuring her delicate skin was fully protected from the summer Monaco sun.
Sofie was already bubbling with excitement, bouncing slightly on her toes until Isack crouched in front of her with a grin. “Hop on, birthday girl.” She squealed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, her laughter ringing out like windchimes in the breeze. Her curls spilled over his shoulder as he stood up, carrying her out the front door like the most precious cargo.
The others followed behind them—Ollie carrying his water bottle and party hat, Liam holding two gift bags, and Max trailing steadily behind them all with the black duffel slung over his shoulder. The bag held Sofie’s custom racing suit, one she had insisted on wearing for her "big girl kart race." Max’s steps were slow, steady, his eyes lingering on his daughter—radiant, joyful, entirely in her element.
You followed last, gently closing the front door behind you and twisting the key until the lock clicked. The moment you turned, Max was waiting, already a few paces ahead. You jogged a little to catch up, your dress swaying around your ankles, the embroidery catching the sunlight in soft reflections.
“You know,” you said, nudging Max gently with your shoulder as the two of you walked in unhurried step behind the rest, “Charles said she already has friends there. Like, real friends.”
Max didn’t respond right away, but you saw the tension drop from his shoulders like a weight shrugged off. His jaw softened, and he looked ahead where Sofie sat proudly on Isack’s back, talking animatedly with Ollie.
“That’s good,” he finally said, voice low and thoughtful.
You could hear the silent hope underneath that one word. Good. That she wouldn’t feel like some odd little girl being pitied by the children of her father’s fame. That maybe, just maybe, she was making connections of her own. That today’s party might be more than just a grand gesture—it might be the start of something more permanent, more normal. Friends who stuck around because they liked her, not because of who her dad was. Max didn’t say all that, but he didn’t have to. You felt it.
Up ahead, Kimi veered off to his own car. He gave Max a quick thumbs-up. “Picking up Maggie and Eli, see you at the track,” he called.
Liam did the same, calling out that he and his girlfriend would follow shortly behind.
You and Max moved toward your car as Ollie opened the backseat door, holding it open for Sofie as Isack gently lowered her in. Her little fingers fidgeted with the seatbelt, and Ollie helped her click it into place, all while she chattered away about the “super secret handshake” she and some girl named Lila had made at school.
Isack laughed and nodded along, and soon he and Ollie were caught up in a very serious discussion with Sofie about which kart color was the fastest. The backseat became its own little world of theories and giggles, a bubble of youthful imagination.
You slid into the passenger seat, smoothing your dress beneath you as Max got in and started the car. He glanced at you, eyes crinkling with something soft and unreadable—comfort, maybe, or gratitude, or the peace that came from knowing she was happy.
You rested your elbow on the door, turning your head slightly to watch him as he drove. The road to the track wound through the city in smooth curves, palm trees casting shadows on white stone and flashes of the marina glittering like a promise.
The day had only just begun, but already, it felt perfect.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Toto had come through brilliantly. The track venue was booked out entirely for Sofie’s birthday, giving the kids space to race in short karting rounds while a roped-off, grassy courtyard near the paddock had been turned into party central.
The party was alive with laughter, bright colors, and the unfiltered joy that only a child's birthday could bring. The yard was transformed into a wonderland of streamers and balloons, bubbles dancing through the air, floating like tiny glistening orbs in the warm sunlight. Music spilled from the speakers, a playful soundtrack to the chaos that unfolded across the lawn.
The water guns, of course, hadn’t remained in the hands of just the little ones for long. Kimi had started it—grabbing one of the bigger water blasters with a mischievous smirk—before Isack, Liam, and Ollie joined in, practically reliving their own childhoods. Franco and Yuki weren’t far behind either. Soon it was a full-on battle between the “older kids,” the laughter from their side of the yard mixing in seamlessly with the younger ones.
You stood beside Max under the shaded canopy, sipping a glass of lemonade as the chaos unfolded in front of you. His arm brushed against yours, and though neither of you spoke right away, there was something comforting about the shared silence. Just watching.
Leo ran in gleeful circles with the kids, his small golden tail wagging wildly, letting the children hug him between runs. Meanwhile, Roscoe lay peacefully on a soft blanket in the corner of the yard, basking in the shade and soaking up all the love and gentle pets he was receiving. He only opened one eye every so often, as if supervising the activity like an old man watching his grandkids play.
“I didn’t expect her whole class to show,” you murmured, eyebrows raised in disbelief as you counted more and more familiar faces from Sofie’s school. “What did you do?”
Max shrugged with a feigned innocence that you didn’t believe for a second. “Put a little fear into the teachers,” he said casually, smirking. “And the baker. That’s how her cake got done in record time.”
You smacked his arm with a laugh, earning a grin from him. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he said, not ashamed in the slightest. “She deserved it.”
Nearby, Lando was staring at Sofie, clearly moved. “She’s gotten so big. Goodness, I remember holding her when she was still wrapped up in that yellow baby blanket.”
Oscar raised a brow. “Are you crying?”
“What? No!” Lando huffed, wiping under his eyes a little too quickly.
Everyone chuckled, including Fernando, who sighed dramatically. “I feel too old being here.”
You pointed at him with your drink. “You were just running around with a water gun two minutes ago.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “True. But my back’s gonna feel it tomorrow.”
As the sun dipped lower, the golden hour wrapped the yard in a warm glow. Everyone gathered around for food—sandwiches, pasta salad, pizza, grilled veggies, tiny sliders. Sofie, with her plate full, sneakily dropped little bites of chicken and fries near Roscoe and Leo.
Charles caught her in the act but only chuckled. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.”
“Me too,” Lewis added with a shrug. “She is the birthday girl after all.”
After the food, it was time for the cake, it stole the show, the attention of those gathered, but it was beautiful, and you were thankful Max managed to get it on time.
Everyone gathered around, singing loud and out of tune, clapping and cheering as Max carefully removed the candle for her.
She took a deep breath and blew out the flame, her eyes sparkling as you clapped and kissed the top of her head. You cut the cake into slices as fast as you could, Daniel ruffling Sofie’s hair as he handed out plates. “Happy birthday, munchkin.”
She giggled, holding her plate with both hands, eyes wide at the sweet treat.
The cake was a hit, no one would be able to forget about it and you were glad to see the smile upon Sofie's face as she sat on Max's lap, eating away at her cake slice.
Adults and kids alike devoured their slices. Afterward came dancing, bracelet making with Oscar and Lily, and even makeup and nails with Eli under the craft tent. Sofie got a glitter heart on her cheek and her nails painted sparkly purple.
Then came the moment of chaos: gift opening.
Alex stepped forward, dramatically holding up her phone to record. “Our gift first, please!”
Sofie tore through the pink wrapping with careful excitement, revealing a soft white jewelry box. Inside was a delicate gold necklace with a heart-shaped diamond pendant. She gasped, her fingers trembling as she touched it.
Your eyes widened. “A necklace? Charles, Alex... it’s beautiful.”
Max let out a low whistle. “That looks real…”
“It is,” Charles confirmed with a proud grin.
Max's jaw dropped slightly. “She’s five! She doesn’t need a real diamond necklace!”
“She’s a princess,” Alex teased. “Princesses wear diamonds.”
Oscar and Lily's gift came next, and it had Sofie hugging the box before she even opened it. Inside was a beaded bracelet with a tiny photo charm—it showed her grinning between Lily and Oscar at the kart track.
“A bracelet?! Mama! Papa! Look! It’s me and Lily and Oscar!” she exclaimed, showing you both.
Max laughed and leaned over. “You two are spoiling her so much, I’m afraid I’ll be buying her necklaces and bracelets worth half my salary by next year.”
Oscar clapped him on the back. “Welcome to parenthood.”
When Yuki’s gift came, Sofie squealed louder than before. It was her very own custom Red Bull race suit, complete with patches and her name embroidered on the chest.
“Now I’m like Papa!” she said proudly, twirling in it.
You clasped your hands together. “You look beautiful, baby.”
She ran over and hugged Yuki’s leg tightly. “Thank you!”
“You can race for us now!” he joked, beaming.
Lewis gifted her a pinky ring, small and elegant, with a tiny pink gemstone. You had reservations about it—another real piece of jewelry?—but the way Sofie’s eyes sparkled as she slipped it on melted your concern.
Kimi and Eli gifted her a child-safe makeup set, which nearly made Max groan audibly. Still, he bit his tongue and gave a tight smile as Sofie squealed in delight, already planning to give him a “makeover.”
Isack, Ollie, and Liam came through with plushies—an entire family of them. Unicorns, kittens, a racing-themed bear. You immediately knew you’d be picking them up off the floor for the next six months, but it was worth it to see her grin.
More gifts poured in: F1 merch, books, puzzles, glittery clothes, light-up shoes. She was spoiled, there was no denying it—but she was also so deeply loved. And as you watched her eyes shine with each new surprise, her cheeks sore from smiling, her voice getting hoarse from all the excitement, you realized that Max was right earlier.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
The time had come — the part Sofie had been anticipating all day.
The sun had dipped just low enough to cast long golden shadows across the track, a soft breeze sweeping through the area as the children gathered at the starting line. The smell of rubber, faint gasoline, and birthday cupcakes still lingered in the air, blending oddly well with the thrill of what was about to unfold. Helmets were secured, tiny gloves pulled tight, and nerves buzzed just under the surface — not just from the kids, but the adults too.
You stood on the sidelines beside Susie, arms crossed gently over your chest, your heart thudding in rhythm with the distant hum of engines. Max was pacing lightly a few feet ahead, hands cupped around his mouth, shouting across the track.
“Go, Sofie! Full throttle! Brake late!” he bellowed proudly.
You nudged Susie with your elbow, shaking your head with a smile. “Think he might out-cheer Toto.”
She laughed, brushing her hair out of her face as a gust of wind picked up. “Possibly so. But I’m pretty sure Toto never did cartwheels after a heat win.”
You both watched as the kids took off — the little karts buzzing, weaving clumsily yet determinedly around the first corner. Sofie was near the front, her pink helmet gleaming under the floodlights now starting to flicker on around the track. She gripped the wheel with a seriousness far beyond her years, eyes focused, lips pursed in pure concentration.
Everyone was recording — phones up, laughter echoing, cheers rising. And in that moment, the world slowed. Nothing mattered except the look on her face, the joy, the pure bliss of being alive, celebrated, and fully seen.
When she took the final corner wide and pushed ahead to cross the line first, Max erupted in loud claps, pumping his fist in the air as if she’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix.
“That’s my girl!” he shouted, beaming.
You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. The handmade trophies you and Max had ordered sparkled on a nearby table, waiting — not as symbols of competition, but as reminders of effort and joy. You had both agreed early on: this day wasn’t about placing first. But watching Sofie throw her arms up in victory — it was clear she had her father’s fire. And Max? Well, he looked like he’d just won father of the year.
The kids were ushered into a loose line for photos. Pictures, hugs, and videos followed, tiny hands gripping their miniature trophies while smiles stretched across frosting-stained faces. Sofie held hers like it was gold.
As twilight deepened and the air cooled, the buzz began to mellow. Guests started gathering their things, parents thanked you for the invitation and complimented the party. Kids gave Sofie tight hugs, one by one, and you could see how it warmed her. She wasn’t just loved by family — she had friends. Real friends. Watching her bounce from child to child, exchanging giggles and promises of playdates, made something swell in your chest.
You caught a glance at Max, who had gone quiet beside you, his eyes misty. He blinked quickly and coughed. “She’s growing up,” he said softly, not quite to you, not quite to himself. “Too fast.”
You placed your hand on his arm. “I know.”
As the final few families drifted out into the night, the stars now beginning to peek overhead, Lando stepped forward, holding a box tucked under his arm. He crouched down to Sofie’s level, his smile soft. “For you, kiddo.”
You stilled, heart tugging, already knowing what it was. You watched as Sofie’s eyes went wide, her little hands tearing through the wrapping with excitement bubbling over.
The moment she uncovered it — a custom black-and-pink helmet, her size, with a glimmering finish — she gasped.
Her hands trembled slightly as she turned it in her lap, then looked up. “It’s like yours... but for me!”
It was true. She’d always been obsessed with his helmet design — not because of branding or sponsorships, but simply because to her, it looked like something out of a dream. You could see her trying to hold back the tears that came anyway.
She launched forward, wrapping her arms around Lando tightly. He chuckled as he hugged her back.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said into her hair.
“She loves it,” you whispered, placing a hand over your chest.
Max smiled, watching the two of them. It was more than just a helmet. It was a memory — a gift she’d never forget.
Lando stood, ruffled her hair, and with one last “Happy Birthday” and a warm smile your way, he headed toward his car, disappearing into the night.
You and Max lingered in the quiet afterglow. The lights around the track were being turned off one by one, the venue slowly emptying. Sofie held her helmet tight, nearly dozing off as she clung to her final gift of the night.
There was nothing left to do now — no more cupcakes to serve, no more goodie bags to pass out. It had been everything you hoped for. Maybe more.
Later, the soft hum of cartoons filled the Verstappen living room, the glow of the TV flickering gently across the walls. You sat curled on the couch, Sofie curled up against your side, her head on your chest. She had fallen asleep almost instantly once the adrenaline wore off, helmet tucked nearby like a teddy bear.
Her trophy was carefully placed in a case by Max in silent joy before deciding to check up on you two.
You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep, too, until Max came in, stepping quietly around the couch. He paused, smiling at the two of you.
He reached down, pulling a soft throw blanket from the armrest and draped it over your legs and shoulders. He leaned in, kissing Sofie’s temple first, then yours.
Today had been good. Better than good. It had been magic.
He crouched a little, careful not to wake you, and held up his hand. Slowly, he gave your limp, sleeping hand a quiet high five, chuckling to himself.
“We really did it,” he whispered, voice low. “I did it. And I’ll make sure every birthday for her turns out just as well. Always.”
He stood for a moment, just watching you both — his whole world curled together on that couch — and let himself breathe.
Because this? This was what everything was for.
#f1#f1 x reader#f1 fanfic#f1 fic#f1 fluff#f1 imagine#f1 x female reader#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen#f1 drivers as fathers#max verstappen fluff#dad! max verstappen
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forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !
⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!
⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.
⟢ word count. 13.7k+
⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this
You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.
A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.
And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.
But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.
And yet—
There’s something missing.
It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.
You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?
You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.
And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.
You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.
You haven’t even been working for three years.
And yet—
You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.
The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.
“Look what I made!”
You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.
Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.
She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.
“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.
Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.
Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.
“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.
You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.
A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.
Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.
A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.
You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.
“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.
“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.
“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.
“Yeah?”
“Yes!”
She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—
“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”
You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”
Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.
“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”
“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”
You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”
Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.
“The Falcon.”
The words land like a punch to the ribs.
You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.
Because for Maria, it’s admiration.
For you, it’s something else entirely.
“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”
Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.
Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.
“Here.”
You glance down.
The bird.
You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.
“You have it.”
You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.
“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.
You still have the bird.
It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.
You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.
It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.
And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.
Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.
You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.
And then you saw it.
The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.
Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.
His skin was pale—too pale.
His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.
The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.
“Heart palpitations—“
“Severe burns—“
“Broken arm—“
“Breath is weak—“
“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“
“Won’t make it to the OR—“
Your heart stuttered.
You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.
And after that, you were moving on autopilot.
The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.
One hour turned to two.
Two turned to four.
Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.
You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.
“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”
You froze.
The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.
You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.
And now?
Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?
Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.
The surgeon calling out the time of death.
Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.
Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Your eyes locked onto the glass.
And then—
“Clear!”
Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.
From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.
“Clear!”
His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.
You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.
The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.
But it didn’t feel like him.
He looked dead.
He looked so, so dead.
Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.
And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.
He was so alive, and he was crying.
His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.
His skin burned beneath your fingertips.
Like home.
But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.
The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.
And then he pulled away.
It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.
But neither of you moved.
His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.
The metal slipped from your skin.
The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.
Your breath stilled.
He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.
And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.
You tasted the salt of tears.
Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.
You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.
But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.
He was the first to move.
The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.
Then, finally, painfully, he let go.
That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.
He was alive then. And so were you.
But when the door shut, a part of you had died.
And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.
It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.
Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.
You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.
You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.
Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”
“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.
“Were you working?”
You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”
Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”
You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.
You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.
“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”
Do you?
You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.
You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.
“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.
“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”
Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”
You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”
Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.
“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.
You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.
The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.
He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.
And even then, he stays put.
So do you.
It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.
Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.
You don’t say anything either.
Because you don’t need to.
For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.
You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.
You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.
You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.
By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.
You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.
Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.
But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.
You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.
She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.
You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.
“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.
“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.
“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”
That makes you pause.
You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.
“Oh?”
Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”
You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.
Captain Joaquín Torres.
The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.
You freeze.
Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.
Your stomach turns.
“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”
Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”
“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”
“I know.”
That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.
You stare at her, trying to process the words.
“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”
Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.
“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”
She’s right. You know she’s right.
But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.
And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.
Would he even want to wake up to you?
You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”
Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”
You wish you believed her.
You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.
Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.
He might wake up anytime.
Your stomach twists.
The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.
The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.
You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.
You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.
He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.
Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.
You press your lips together and push the door open.
The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.
Your eyes find him instantly.
He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.
There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.
Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.
You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.
You hesitate before touching him.
Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.
Too gentle.
You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.
You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.
When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.
You don’t leave right away.
You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.
Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.
With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.
This is just a job.
And you have work to do.
The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.
Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.
Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.
You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.
You aren’t ready to face them.
You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.
So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.
But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.
The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.
The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.
His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.
A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.
Sam visits often.
He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.
He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.
You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.
Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.
Instead, you go through the motions.
His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.
You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.
The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.
The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.
It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.
But warmth can be deceptive.
Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.
And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.
One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.
The heart monitor.
The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.
You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.
Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.
But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.
This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.
You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?
Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.
And then it hits you.
He feels it.
He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.
Your chest tightens.
This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.
You should be relieved.
But you’re not.
Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.
What if the first thing he sees is you?
What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?
What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?
Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.
But it never comes.
His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.
Your hands feel cold.
You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.
You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.
“¡Mija!”
Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.
“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.
You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.
When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.
“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.
“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.
She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”
And then she stops. Really looks at you.
Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.
“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.
You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.
But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.
You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.
"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"
"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.
And then she smacks your arm.
"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"
You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.
"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"
Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."
Your mouth goes dry.
Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.
Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.
"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."
Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.
"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.
Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.
The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.
You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
It’s too much.
Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.
"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."
"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.
"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."
Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.
But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.
And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.
You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.
You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.
Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.
There’s no time to process this right now.
But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.
Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.
You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.
But today is special. It’s her birthday.
She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.
Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.
Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.
She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.
"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.
Maria gasps. "Really?"
"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."
Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."
You smile. "Yeah, they are."
For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.
It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.
She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."
"Are you sure?"
She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."
"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.
The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.
She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.
Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.
Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.
Her mouth falls open.
"The Falcon?!"
Your stomach drops.
"Maria—"
"The Falcon is here?!"
Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—
Torres, Joaquín
Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."
"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.
"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"
You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."
"Can I go say hi?"
"No."
"It’s my birthday."
"Maria—"
"Please!"
You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.
This was not in your job description.
You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—
But then you look at Maria.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.
And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.
He always has.
You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.
It feels like something he would want.
And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.
Still, you hesitate.
You’re comfortable taking care of him now.
Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.
Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.
But he’s also impossibly far.
No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.
For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.
But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.
"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"
She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."
Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.
Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.
You don’t blame her.
Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.
You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.
Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.
You blink, glancing at her. "What?"
She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.
“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.
Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"
She nods seriously.
There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.
You know that feeling.
Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.
Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.
There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.
Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.
The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.
You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.
Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.
"I think he’s gonna be okay."
You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."
It’s enough. For now.
Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.
Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.
Your heart stutters.
A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.
Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.
Even though it could be everything.
You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.
You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.
But then—
A sound.
Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.
Your name.
Spoken.
Maria gasps softly.
And you—you freeze.
The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.
Did you imagine it?
You must have.
But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.
Because she heard it too.
Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.
And it came from him.
Joaquín.
The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.
That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.
But it’s not.
Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.
His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.
Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.
Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.
For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.
Then, he moves.
His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.
His gaze shifts—and lands on you.
The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.
A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.
His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.
Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.
"Me morí."
The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.
"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."
His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.
Your heart lurches.
You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.
"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."
Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.
His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.
"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"
His gaze snaps back to you.
Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.
His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.
His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.
Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.
"Hi."
Your breath catches.
Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.
"Hi," you whisper back.
His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.
Like he’s afraid you might disappear.
"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.
Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.
"Hi, Joaquín."
A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.
Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.
The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.
A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.
It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.
"You gotta stop scaring me like this."
"I’m trying, I swear."
You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.
And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.
Only this time he can't kiss you.
Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.
You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.
Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.
"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."
The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.
A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.
"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"
Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.
There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.
You don’t give yourself time to process it.
Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.
Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.
You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.
The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.
The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.
"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.
She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.
You get it.
She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.
It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.
It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:
“He’s awake. Now what?”
Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.
And then you’re alone.
For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.
Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.
You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.
Your eyes sting.
Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.
He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.
You should feel relief. You should feel something good.
And yet.
It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.
Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.
He can react to what you say, to what you do.
Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.
And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.
You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.
The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.
Shit.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.
Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.
Then you force yourself to step inside.
The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.
The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.
Joaquín is watching you.
His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.
You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.
You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.
"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."
You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.
Still, you feel it.
The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.
You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.
You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.
The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.
His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.
Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.
"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.
"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."
"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.
She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."
Then she turns to you.
"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."
You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.
"Thanks."
"I’ll come back later for a check-up."
And then she leaves.
The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.
You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.
But that’s not what’s stopping you.
It’s him.
Awake. Looking at you.
Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.
His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.
"You took care of me?"
Your breath catches.
It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.
You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.
He’s here.
Breathing. Talking. Alive.
And yet—his dead face still haunts you.
The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.
The tears in his mother’s face.
The look of dread on Sam.
The guilt.
"Uh, yeah. I did."
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.
It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.
Still, he tries.
And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.
"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."
Right. Your job.
The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.
Because you remember the last time he said that to you.
Your last fight.
Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?
Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.
It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.
You had barely been sleeping.
Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.
And Joaquín?
He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.
You tried to make it work. God, you tried.
You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.
At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.
But that day never came.
Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.
The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.
"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."
You had whispered it.
Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.
He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.
Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.
"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.
And that had been the worst part.
Because love wasn’t the problem.
It had never been the problem.
It was everything else.
Your job. His job.
The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.
And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."
Like that was supposed to make it better.
But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.
"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.
Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.
But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.
His brow creases. "How bad was it?"
You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."
His lips part. "Right."
"It was pretty fucking bad."
A beat.
"Right."
You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.
You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."
The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.
Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.
"I died?"
You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.
"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."
He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.
What it means to you.
"Oh."
You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."
Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.
"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.
In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.
Maybe you’d both be married to other people.
The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.
"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"
"No."
You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.
But if he really wants something, he can call you.
You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.
"Can you stay?"
You linger because you didn’t expect it.
Because you kind of hoped he would ask.
Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.
"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."
You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.
His eyes are pleading.
It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.
You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.
You sink into the chair slowly.
A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.
Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.
He exhales.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.
You blink, caught off guard.
"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Not really."
A beat.
"Nightmares?"
"Something like that."
"Something on your mind?"
"Lots on my mind."
The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.
The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.
You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.
Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.
"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"
"I'm always worried about you."
You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.
His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.
You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.
"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"
"I miss you."
Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"
"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."
You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”
"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."
You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."
"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.
"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.
Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”
Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.
“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”
"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.
He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.
"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."
"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.
“I know, I do too,” you admit,
“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.
"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”
“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.
You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.
"Will you still be here?"
You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"
His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
#listen to blood orange while reading 🫶🏽#they make out and fuck after this i promise#faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ#joaquín torres#joaquín torres x reader#joaquin torres#joaquin torres x reader#joaquin torres x you#joaquin torres imagine#joaquin torres fluff#joaquin torres fic#joaquin torres fanfiction#the falcon#the falcon x reader#joaquín torres smut#joaquin torres smut#joaquín’s wings
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Unlucky Overtime
SUMMARY: The Spelldrive game against Royal Sword Academy was very close. But it was in overtime that the teams broke the tie and Night Raven College... lost. They were very upset by this loss and need your comfort even if they deny it.
CHARACTERS: Spelldrive Club 🧹 (Leona Kingscholar; Ruggie Bucchi; Epel Felmier)
TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Comfort; Kiss
WORD COUNT: An average of 780 words per character.
COMMENTS: Following the same premise as what I wrote for Basketball Club and Track and Field Club of "What if they lost?"
When I started writing about comforting them when they lose, I ended up finding it more interesting and cute than celebrating when they win. I think it's in the bad times that feelings are most intimate and honest.
When I wrote Epel's part, I was upset about something IRL and it ended up helping me writing him. 😂
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy 😉
OTHER CLUBS:
But… We Lost… - Basketball Club (Ace / Floyd / Jamil)
Romantic Experiment - Science Club (Trey / Rook)
For a Quarter of a Second - Track and Field Club (Deuce / Jack)
A Rainy Walk - Mountain Lover Club (Jade) / Gargoyle Studies Club (Malleus)
In the Backstage - Pop Music Club (Cater / Kalim / Lilia)
CONTEXT: If there are competitive players who love to win, they are the members of the NRC Spelldrive Club. Leona, Ruggie and Epel especially. They were playing with everything, especially because of the school they were playing against. The game against Royal Sword Academy was very close, as expected.
When the game ended they needed to break the tie and so the game went into overtime. But unfortunately, this did not give your school the victory.
Leona seemed upset about losing, as did the other players on his team. But even so, he was the calmest in comparison.
They congratulated the RSA students on their victory (or as close to it as possible, if we ignore the slight growls and murderous looks). They avoided unnecessary interactions until they could leave the field.
You know very well how Leona hates to lose, especially when he tries so hard. And so you knew you had to check on him and try to comfort him, even if he says he doesn't want you to.
You go to the locker rooms exit, but you don't see Leona coming out. Many of the players looked at you angrily when they passed by, but knowing how close you were to Leona, they didn't have the courage to even be rude to you directly.
When you see Ruggie, you ask him about Leona. He tells you that Leona left right after he came in, that he went in, grabbed his things and left. He didn't even change his clothes. This worries you and Ruggie.
“You should go check on him.” Ruggie tells you. “And even if he says he wants to be alone, don't listen, okay? He likes your company even if he doesn't like to admit it. I would also warn you not to pressure him, but you already know that.”
“And where do you think he went?” You ask.
“Where do you think he went? Come on, it's not like we don't know his favorite spots.”
You decided to try your luck at the Botanical Garden, and it looks like you were right, but you didn't realize it right away. You go to one of his favorite spots under a certain tree. You look around, but you don't see anyone, until you suddenly see a tail appearing hanging down beside you. You look up and see Leona lying on a thick branch above you.
“I don't need your comfort.” Leona says, without moving and without looking at you. “Go to your dorm. It's late.”
“You wanted me to see you.” You say. “Otherwise you wouldn't let your tail fall beside me.”
“Believe what you want, herbivore.”
His tail was still there by your side and you don't resist to touch it to mess with him. You reach your hand towards his tail, but at the last second it swings, lightly hits you in the face and returns to Leona's lap, away from you. He finally looks at you, but with an annoyed face and growls.
“I'm not in the mood to play. Go away before I bite you... Don't look at me like that.” He adjusts his head again and stops looking at you.
You sit down against the tree trunk. He growls again, but doesn't move. Just like with cats, you'll just stay there waiting for him to come to you. You use your phone or read a book while you wait.
A few minutes later it starts to get colder, you start to notice it and curl up a little. Suddenly something falls on top of your head, you uncover yourself and see that it is a long coat. Leona's captain's coat. You look up and see him in the same lazy position but without the coat and just with the black clothes and belts. You put it on and you start to warm up right away because it was still warm from him having been wearing it.
A few more minutes later and you are startled again by something that falls right in front of you. Or rather, that lands right in front of you.
“Don't you get tired?” Leona asks you, crouching down and looking you in the eyes. “Of being so stubborn?” He has that unbothered, but still slightly annoyed face.
You put down what you had in your hands and stretch your legs on the floor. He gives you a little throat growl. You smile, but he growls at you more, and suddenly he throws himself at you as if he's going to attack you. But he didn't. He stopped very close to your face.
“Yes. I'm angry that I lost.” He says in a low voice. “And that's why you shouldn't have come to me. I don't need pity or words of comfort.”
“Do you really think I pity you?” You ask. “I wasn't worried about you being angry. I was worried that you would fall back into that depressive state of feeling like life is unfair and it's not worth trying anymore.”
His green eyes remain fixed on yours and suddenly he kisses you eagerly. You already know him well enough to know what truly hides behind those roars and tough guy mask. His instinct was to reward you for it.
After he breaks the kiss he lays his head either on your chest or in your lap and hugs you. You are trapped now until he is willing to let you go.
Ruggie was so angry that Leona had to calm him down. All the NRC players congratulated the RSA players, but clearly only because it was what they had to do. The tension and animosity could be cut with a knife. After that, the NRC players go straight to the locker rooms. You feel like you should check on Ruggie.
You go to the exit of the locker rooms to wait for him. Some of the players who passed you on their way out gave you bad looks, but knowing how close you were to Ruggie, they did nothing more than just grumble into the air.
When Ruggie finally left he was still angry. When he saw you, his expression didn't change much other than being a little embarrassed.
“Hi, sorry, I don't have time.” He apologizes, clearly trying to avoid you, but smiling. “I want to put these clothes in the wash ASAP.” He walks around you and starts going away.
You follow him.
“I was thinking about trying those new donuts from Sam's shop with you.” You say.
You see his ears twitch with interest.
“Yeah... but you know, I'm not really hungry. And since they're new, those donuts are still expensive. I'm waiting for him to lower the price a little.”
“Don't worry, I already bought them for you.”
Ruggie stops! And looks at you in surprise.
“You did?! Why?”
“I wanted to give them to you after the game anyway. You know, for the good game.” You see him pouting. “I didn't buy them as a consolation gift. I did it before the game started. I was going to give them to you even if you had won.”
He seemed more satisfied with that explanation and you took out the box you had in your backpack.
“How come I don't smell it?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise, so I asked Sam if there was a way to hide the scent from you. He used a spell on the box.”
Ruggie asks you if he charged extra for the spell. You said he didn't. Before you open the box, Ruggie suggests that you go to a more chill place. After all, you were still near the locker rooms surrounded by players and spectators.
The Windmill is right behind the coliseum and not many people usually go there. In fact, there was no one else there. The two of you sat on the edge of the stream that surrounded the Windmill. The sound of running water could calm both of you.
You open the box, take out one of the donuts and hold it up to his mouth. He blushes a little, but accepts your offer and takes a bite. You loosen your grip and he takes the donut out of your hand with his mouth.
While he was eating he looked at the water and despite the calming sound his anger returned because of the thoughts that also returned to that game. You could hear him mumbling softly, and see his ears back and his teeth showing.
He finishes eating the donut and stands up abruptly, starting to release his frustration with swearing and cursing to the air, kicking the ground and even pulling up grass. You remain sitting on the floor eating your donut.
As soon as he finishes his emotional outburst, which he always did with his back to you, he finally turns around, dropping his arms and sighing. He kneels down next to you, looks at you with a pout, picks up the box of donuts and takes it from your lap. For a second you think he's going to steal all the donuts for himself, but he sets the box aside and lays his head in your lap as if he's laying it on the pillow after a tantrum. You even hear a dog-like whining. If you pet his head, you might see his tail wagging a little.
The two of you continued eating the donuts as you pet his head and ears to comfort him. When the donuts are gone and the box is empty, he gets up, sitting on the grass next to you. Ruggie looks at you, still a little sad, but calmer and with an affectionate sparkle in his eyes.
He doesn't say anything, he just throws himself into a kiss as a thank you.
EPEL WAS PISSED!!! Leona and Ruggie had to calm him down. Even RSA players were scared to see someone like Epel like that. Like other NRC players he avoided unnecessary interactions with players from the opposing and winning team.
As soon as they were able to retreat to the locker rooms Epel was one of the quickest to leave the field. You knew you should check on him.
You go to the exit of the locker rooms to wait for him. You see the other NRC players walk past you, angry about losing and when you finally see Epel coming out of the locker room, the expression on his face is the same if not worse than that of his other teammates, even the vein in his forehead was bulging.
But that changes completely the moment he sees you. His shoulders, and consequently his posture, relaxed and he smiled slightly at you, knowing he couldn't fool you with a big smile. He had a bandage on his nose because of the injury he suffered when he blocked a shot with his face during the game.
You walk over to him and carefully place your hands on his face, showing your concern for his injury. He blushes!
“D-Don't worry. I'm fine, I promise... Gah, wait! Vil’s gonna kill me when he sees me like this!” He suddenly worries.
You say that Vil doesn't need to see him so soon and suggest that the two of you go for a walk so he can clear his head a bit. He sighs and accepts your offer, you are usually right at these times.
“I really need to go for a walk. Or a run. Dagnabbit, I don't even know if walking around the entire campus is enough. If we could leave the camps whenever we wanted and I had a Blastcycle, or... OH! What if you come with me for a broom ride?”
“But you just finished a game of Spelldrive.” You say “Are you sure getting back on a broomstick will be good for you?”
“Don't worry, I can separate a game from a ride. Trust me, it will be good to feel the fresh wind on my face.” He gives you a reassuring smile.
He goes to get his broom and you climb on it behind him, holding on to his torso. The beginning of the ride is pleasant, but eventually he starts to speed up until he reaches a point where you squeeze him and ask him to slow down.
“AH! Sorry, sorry, sorry! My mind went back to that game and I got angry again. I must have started speeding up by accident because of that. Sorry... I think we should stop somewhere for a break.”
He lands on the roof of Ramshackle Dorm.
“Sorry again if I worried you.” He tells you after you both get off the broom. But the ride actually helped me a bit.” Suddenly he grimaces in pain and puts his fingers to the bandage on his nose, it seems his bad mood was returning.
You cup his face and kiss his nose lightly. He blushes a lot again and look away from you.
“I wanted you to see us win.” He admits. “I was so excited to know you were watching. I really wanted to make you proud.”
You tell him that you're proud of him, just as Ruggie and Leona probably are too. Who wouldn't be? He always works so hard to improve. And he's still just a freshman, there will be more opportunities to win, he's just starting out. And for a start, you're sure he played better than a lot of freshmen. You finish by saying that he should rest, especially with an injury like that, and you even offer to take care of it for him if he needs.
“Thank you so much, (Y/N).” He smiles sweetly at you. “I promise I'll give you a win next time.”
If you say that you would prefer him to be more careful, his smile and gaze will become even more affectionate.
“I'll try. Although... hum, nothing.”
You say that now you want to know and he blushes slightly.
“I... I was just thinking that... it must be nice to be taken care of by you. I wouldn't mind getting a shot in the face again for that. Ha ha ha.”
If you hug him, he will freeze for a second, but then he will hug you back and you will feel a loving squeeze, as he whispers a thank you. If you let him, he will kiss your cheek after the hug. And if you want, he will continue with another type of kiss.
If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX
#Twisted Wonderland#twst#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#twst imagines#twst fluff#Twisted Wonderland Fluff#Leona Kingscholar#Leona Kingscholar x Reader#Ruggie Bucchi#Ruggie Bucchi x Reader#Epel Felmier#Epel Felmier x Reader
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Mind Over Words
Kinkvember Day 10: Mind Reading
Ex-IZONE/Soloist Kwon Eunbi x Male reader
8k words

Kwon Eunbi was no stranger to adoration. As one of the most illustrious idols in the K-pop industry, she had become accustomed to the constant spotlight illuminating her every move. The shimmering lights of fame and the intoxicating cheers of her fans filled her life with an exhilarating thrill, while those around her—managers, stylists, and bodyguards—catered meticulously to her whims. They were like loyal shadows, wholly devoted to her, and Eunbi thrived on the attention that came with her status.
But when you entered her life, it was like stepping into a different world. Assigned as her new bodyguard after a particularly harrowing fan incident, you weren’t like the others who had surrounded her. Their gazes lingered, always softened with admiration or anxious deference, each gesture a silent acknowledgment of her celebrity. But you? You were an enigma, a puzzle. From the very first moment, Eunbi sensed something unusual, even unsettling about you.
Your composure seemed unbreakable, almost otherworldly. You didn’t hover; you didn’t flinch at her biting remarks or her occasional temper. You simply stood there, strong and steady, carrying out your duties with a level of professionalism that was both maddening and captivating. Why doesn’t he react to me? Eunbi wondered, confusion and frustration swirling within her. Why doesn’t he treat me like I’m someone to be adored?
What she didn’t know was that you could hear her thoughts, clear as a voice spoken aloud. You heard her silent questions, felt her frustration, even her curiosity. But she didn’t need to know that yet. You simply stood there, impervious on the outside, knowing every flicker of emotion that crossed her mind.
Eunbi’s initial attempts to ignore you were futile. Your presence was like a constant hum in the background, steady and unavoidable. She couldn’t shake how your striking features, rugged and composed, carried an aura of authority that demanded attention—yet you didn’t wield it like others. You emitted a calm restraint that, despite your undeniable allure, made her pulse quicken in unexpected ways.
Every day, she tried to brush off these reactions, but her inner thoughts were a chaotic mix of confusion and intrigue, and you felt it all. You didn’t react, didn’t show the slightest hint that her presence affected you. And with each passing day, Eunbi’s frustration grew.
As weeks passed, Eunbi found herself caught in an emotional bind. Somehow, you seemed to know what she needed before she could even ask. When she was parched after a long rehearsal, there would be a bottle of chilled water in her hand before she even turned around. At an outdoor shoot, as the heat grew unbearable, you’d have a towel ready or a fan positioned for relief. It was uncanny, almost supernatural.
Yet, the more you took care of her needs, the more irritated she became. Perfect was a word she’d heard too often, but you embodied it in a way that felt oppressive. Why were you so attuned to her? Why did you seem to understand her unspoken needs so well? Your silence and precision highlighted her vulnerability, unsettling her more than she cared to admit. You never asked for gratitude, never expected her approval or admiration. You were…unmoved.
Her frustration simmered, and her thoughts spiraled: Does he ever make mistakes? Why doesn’t he react to me? Why does he care about everything else but my attention?
Your calm exterior held, but you were fully aware of her thoughts. Eunbi’s inner voice pulsed with equal parts irritation and fascination. She lashed out in small ways, hoping to provoke a crack in your armor. She made cutting remarks, and tossed off-handed jabs your way, but you only replied evenly.
“I’m here to take care of you, Ms. Kwon. It’s my job,” you said once, offering a towel after a particularly grueling rehearsal, your tone gentle but unreadable.
That was the crux of her dilemma—you were too good at your job. Your calmness was both a shield and a barrier. Each time she lashed out, a part of her hoped for a reaction, for some glimpse of humanity behind the stoic mask. And you felt her silent yearning. It was palpable, woven into her thoughts as if searching for proof that you weren’t just her bodyguard.
What truly haunted her was the attraction that had blossomed almost immediately after your arrival. She fought against it, clinging to professionalism. But every stolen glance—at the strength in your hands, the confident set of your shoulders under a suit, the way your jaw would tense in moments of concentration—only pulled her deeper into a world of fantasy.
God, just imagine those hands on me, she mused one day, biting her lip before catching herself. The thought startled even her, and she chastised herself immediately. But she couldn’t resist the magnetic pull that only grew stronger with each passing interaction. You could feel her fantasies drift through her mind, the haze of longing nearly suffocating. Still, you held firm.
When ignoring her desire no longer worked, Eunbi switched tactics. She began dressing more provocatively around you, telling herself it was merely her style, but she knew the intent was far from innocent. The first time she walked into the room in a low-cut top, she threw you a glance, eagerly anticipating a response.
But you merely nodded politely, eyes scanning the surroundings as if her presence were no more remarkable than anyone else’s. Her thoughts turned bitterly annoyed: Seriously? He didn’t even notice.
The next day, she wore a tight dress that accentuated her legs and hips. She swayed deliberately as she passed, hoping to break your indifference. But once again, you remained indifferent, your gaze focused on her surroundings rather than her.
Why doesn’t he see me? she fumed inwardly. She knew she was attractive. She knew the effect she had on people. But with you, it felt like she was invisible.
“Do you think this dress looks good on me?” she asked one morning, adjusting the straps with a slight smirk. The neckline dipped, framing her figure in a way she knew was alluring.
You glanced briefly. “It’s appropriate for the event, Ms. Kwon,” you replied smoothly, sensing the frustration flaring up inside her even as she kept her expression neutral.
Appropriate? she seethed inwardly, biting back a scowl. I’m practically throwing myself at him, and all he can say is that it’s ‘appropriate’?
The tension built steadily over the following weeks, until it finally reached a boiling point at a fan meeting. She sat behind a long table, surrounded by the chatter and excitement of her fans, a familiar routine. But today, her mind was somewhere else—on you.
You stood nearby, ever-watchful, a statue of unwavering professionalism. She knew you were scanning the room, focused on your duty. But amid the buzz of adoring fans, she felt a strange emptiness. You were so close, yet so unreachable, her thoughts swirling with a longing she didn’t want to name.
He can’t be this detached. He has to feel something. Why won’t he let me see?
What she didn’t know was that her thoughts, though silent to others, echoed clearly in your mind, striking like a silent plea. You remained steadfast, a lighthouse against her growing storm, guiding her while suppressing your own turbulent emotions. You knew the line between duty and desire was razor-thin, and crossing it could unravel everything.
But Eunbi’s thoughts grew louder, her mind practically screaming her frustration, her curiosity, her yearning. It was almost as if she wanted you to hear her deepest, most vulnerable desires. And you heard every word, every unspoken admission, knowing that the boundary between you was wearing thin.
Why won’t he just look at me? Eunbi thought bitterly, frustration simmering just below the surface of her practiced smile. I could be naked, and he wouldn’t care.
The thought stirred up both anger and a strange thrill that unsettled her. It was childish—a possessive cry for your attention, yet it was raw, disarmingly real. She wanted you to notice her—needed you to, more than she had ever wanted anything. Yet, as she subtly stole glances at you out of the corner of her eye, she found nothing: no hint of interest, no flicker of recognition that her heart raced in your presence.
Her dress hugged her curves perfectly, an outfit chosen with every intention of catching your eye. A silent plea wrapped in silk and lace, it clashed painfully with the stoic indifference she saw in your gaze. Just as she caught herself hoping for your attention, the laughter of nearby girls pierced through her focus, their admiration for you like daggers to her heart.
“He’s so handsome!” one of them squealed, her eyes sparkling as she gazed at you. “Do you think he’s single?” another chimed in, her tone blending excitement with hope.
Eunbi’s jaw tightened, her forced smile growing strained. They’re not here for him. They’re here for me. Why are they looking at him like that? The surge of jealousy and insecurity nearly broke her composure. What was he even looking at? They’re flat as a plank compared to me.
But what twisted the knife deeper in Eunbi’s heart wasn’t just the attention you were receiving; it was your reaction to it. For the first time since she’d met you, a small laugh escaped your lips, a polite smile brightening your features just slightly. The sight was like a slap, lighting a painful flame of betrayal within her. You had never smiled at her like that, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many subtle advancements she made. Nothing could ignite a spark in you.
Are you kidding me? Her heart raced, jealousy and anger pounding against her ribcage. He can smile at them, but not at me? The thought was painful, almost intoxicating, as if it revealed a hard truth she wasn’t ready to confront: you saw beauty in them, but not in her.
Her gaze narrowed on the girls, their laughter stinging like a taunt. They were transfixed by you, oblivious to the charge in the air between her and you, their eyes shimmering with a careless admiration. He’s mine, she thought fiercely. Not yours.
The jealousy seethed within her, tightening the knots in her stomach with each passing second. She knew she shouldn’t focus on them—or on you—but try as she might, her attention kept snapping back to the frenzied crowd. Fans clamored to catch a glimpse of her, their smiles far brighter than the tension brewing inside her heart. She struggled to maintain her facade, to plaster a smile on her face while signing autographs, yet nothing could shake the bitter realization that had taken up residence in her chest.
As she forced herself to engage with the fans ahead of her, the laughter of those girls, and the image of you chuckling at their admiration, echoed in her mind. Would she ever break through the wall you had built around yourself? And why, despite everything, did she still hope for your gaze to meet hers, even if just for a fleeting moment?
And then, her already brittle patience snapped with the next fan in line—a man whose presence was a jarring departure from the girls. A middle-aged man stepped forward, his smile wide enough to reveal uneven teeth, but it was the way his eyes lingered on Eunbi that made her stomach churn. “Eunbi-ssi,” he said, a shadow of something unsettling lurking in his voice. His gaze traveled down her body before snapping back to her face, and she forced a polite smile, wishing desperately to push the waves of jealousy swirling in her mind into the recesses of her consciousness.
“I’ve been following your career for years,” he continued, his eyes uncomfortably assessing her. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”
Great, she thought, her stomach churning in disgust. Another creep.
Eunbi clenched her jaw, masking her distaste with a polite response. “Thank you for your support.” Her voice, sweet yet strained, fell flat in the air, thick with tension. As she hastily signed the man’s poster, she mentally urged him to move along.
But the encounter was far from over. The man extended his hand with a persistence that unsettled her, the simple handshake suddenly feeling invasive. Reluctantly, she took his hand, hoping the interaction would be brief. But as his grip tightened, she felt a chill run through her—a sense of an unseen boundary being crossed. His fingers lingered too long, and he leaned in closer, invading her personal space with an oily request, “Can I get a special picture? Just between us?”
Let go, she thought desperately, panic flickering in her eyes. Why won’t he let go?
Her pulse quickened, her mind spinning as panic threatened to take over. With every second that passed, she felt more cornered, her instincts screaming for her to pull away, but his grasp tightened instead. Her gaze darted to you, instinctively pleading for a reprieve from the unwanted encounter.
Without hesitation, you stepped forward, seamlessly inserting yourself between Eunbi and the unwanted fan. Your presence was commanding, authoritative yet calm, exuding a sense of protection that immediately eased some of her unease. “That’s enough.Take your hands of Ms. Kwon before I force them off,” you said, your voice steady and unwavering.
The fan blinked, his bravado crumbling as he quickly released Eunbi’s hand. He mumbled an apology, retreating with a pale face, his previous confidence shattered. The relief that flooded through Eunbi was palpable, yet beneath her relief lingered a gratitude so profound, it unsettled her, a quiet acknowledgment that went beyond mere professionalism. You had stepped in at exactly the right moment, just when she needed you the most. It wasn’t just about professionalism anymore. It was something deeper. You had understood her discomfort before she even had a chance to voice it.
-----
Later that night, Eunbi paced back and forth in her room, her mind racing with everything that had happened. The way you had stepped in with that fan, the way you always seemed to know exactly what she needed—it was starting to feel like too much. How does he always know? she wondered, her frustration bubbling over. How does he do it?
Unable to let it go, she crossed the hall and knocked on your door. When you opened it, your expression was as unreadable as ever, but tonight, she wasn’t going to let you keep hiding behind that calm facade.
“Ms. Kwon” you said, your voice unwavering. “Is something wrong?”
Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past you into the room, her frustration pushing her forward. “How do you do it?” she demanded, turning to face you, her pulse quickening.
You raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”
“You always know,” she snapped. “You always know what I need before I even ask. How do you do that?”
For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze holding a flicker of something darker, though your voice remained steady. “It’s my job to take care of you.”
“That’s crap, you know what I’m talking about,” she shot back, shaking her head. “It’s not just your job. You know things… things you shouldn’t know.”
You stayed silent, eyes searching hers, and then finally said, “I pay attention. I notice things.”
Eunbi’s mind spun with conflicting emotions, a tangled mess of confusion and desire. Is that all it is? Could he really just be that observant?
But she knew there was more to it than that. No one had ever been able to anticipate her needs the way you did. Not her staff, not her fans—no one.
Her thoughts spiraled. How does he know exactly what I want, even when I don’t say it?
Frustration took over. “If you’re so good at paying attention,” she said, stepping closer, “then why don’t you ever...”
She stopped herself, caught off guard by her own longing. Why don’t you ever touch me? Why don’t you ever lose control?
Your gaze held hers, intense and unreadable. Taking a step closer, your presence fills the space between you with a magnetic intensity.
Her breath hitched. She was so close to losing control herself, her body trembling with a desire she’d been fighting for weeks. Yes. Finally, I’ve wanted this since the day I met you.
But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she stammered, “We... we shouldn’t. We’re professionals.”
Your lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Are we?”
Eunbi stepped back, trying to regain some sense of control. “We should keep this... professional. I don’t see you this way .”
You paused, as if weighing her words, and then took a step back as if to agree with her.
Her heart seized in her chest. No. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.
You turned back, eyes dark with amusement. “I think you do want this,” you murmured, your voice low.
Eunbi’s breath caught as you moved closer, your body pressing against hers. All her resistance crumbled.
“You want me to stop?” you asked, your voice low, almost teasing.
Eunbi’s breath caught in her throat as her thoughts betrayed her once again. No, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.
Her heart pounded in her chest as you reached out, your hand gently brushing her arm. The touch sent a shock of heat through her body, making her breath hitch. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was how badly she wanted you to keep going, to let go of that rigid professionalism just for once.
You leaned in closer, your breath warm against her skin as you whispered, “Is this what you want?”
Eunbi’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She knew she should push you away, knew she should tell you to stop—but she couldn’t. She couldn’t fight the desire that had been building inside her for weeks.
Yes, it is. I want this. I want you.
But out loud, she shook her head, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. “We... we shouldn’t, it's wrong.”
Your lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Why is it so wrong?” you repeated, your voice filled with a dark amusement.
Eunbi’s body betrayed her as she stepped closer, her heart racing. Just rip my top off already. I want you to touch me. I’ve been waiting for this.
Your eyes darkened as you heard her unspoken thoughts, and for the first time, Eunbi saw a crack in your calm demeanor. You moved in closer, your hands sliding up her arms, sending shivers down her spine. And then, with a low, dark chuckle, you did exactly what she had been begging for in her mind—your fingers gripped the fabric of her top, and with one swift motion, you ripped it open.
Eunbi gasped, her body reacting instantly to the cool air hitting her skin. She stared up at you, wide-eyed, a mix of shock and thrill coursing through her. “What the hell—” she began, trying to keep her voice steady, but she was too flustered to hide how much she was enjoying it.
Your gaze never wavered as you leaned in, your lips brushing her ear. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” Your hands moved to her chest, teasing her exposed skin, and Eunbi’s breath hitched as the intensity of your touch sent waves of pleasure through her.
“I... I didn’t say that,” she protested weakly, her voice trembling. “You just... ruined my shirt.”
But her mind was screaming a different story. Finally. Oh god, I’ve been waiting for this. Don’t stop. Touch me more.
You chuckled softly, your fingers trailing over her skin. “You didn’t have to say it.”
Eunbi’s breath hitched as your hands moved across her chest, teasing her exposed skin. She wanted to push away, to tell you that this was wrong, that they shouldn’t be doing this, but her body had a mind of its own. Her heart raced as your fingers trailed over her nipples, sending electric jolts of pleasure through her.
“We... we should stop,” she said breathlessly, her voice trembling as she tried to regain some control. “This isn’t... we can’t...”
But your gaze was dark, intense, and you weren't planning on stopping. Leaning down, your lips finding her sensitive nipples, you began to suck and tease, your tongue swirling over them in a way that made Eunbi’s entire body shudder.
Oh my god, she thought, her mind spiraling. I’m so wet. Ugh just take me already... I’m so easy for you.
“Wait, stop...” she said weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t right.”
You could hear her every thought, the conflict raging inside her as her body responded to his touch. His hands slid down her sides, slowly beginning to undress the remaining items. She gasped, her body trembling as his fingers brushed over her waist, tugging at the fabric of her pants.
“N-no,” she protested, trying to hold onto the last shred of professionalism. “We... we need to stop. ”
But you don’t stop. You know better. You know exactly what she wants, even if she can’t admit it to herself. Slowly, deliberately, you undress her, your touch firm yet gentle as you pull her pants down, along with her panties, leaving her completely bare beneath you.
Eunbi’s heart races, her mind spinning with conflicting thoughts. This is wrong. We shouldn’t be doing this. But at the same time, another voice in her head screams louder. I want you. I want you so badly. I’m so wet for you. Just take me already.
You have her on her back now, your eyes never leaving hers as you lower your face between her legs. Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, her body trembling with anticipation as your hands slide up her thighs, parting them gently.
“Fuck” she gasps, her voice shaking as she tries to hold onto her composure. “This is too far…”
And then, your mouth pressing against her most sensitive spot as your tongue begins to tease and explore. Eunbi’s entire body jolts with pleasure, her back arching off the bed as a moan escapes her lips.
“Oh my god...” she gasps, her mind spinning. This feels so good. Too good…
Your tongue works expertly, drawing out wave after wave of pleasure as you move between her legs. Eunbi’s hands grip the sheets, her body trembling with the intensity of the sensations crashing through her. But even as she's lost in the moment, another thought pushes to the front of her mind.
If he starts playing with my nipples, I’ll lose it. I’ll completely lose control.
Hearing every word, your hands moved up her body, tracing the curve of her waist before finding her breast. You gently cupped it, feeling the weight of her fullness in your hand. Eunbi inhaled sharply, her breath hitching as your thumb brushed against her nipple. The sensitive bud hardened under your touch, and you couldn’t help but smile at the involuntary response.
With a feather-light touch, you traced the outline of her nipples, eliciting a soft gasp from Eunbi. Her back arched slightly off the bed, a silent plea for more. You obliged, your fingers now gently twisting and tugging her nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core. Eunbi had unknowingly given you the key to her pleasure—a natural button on her chest that you savored with delicate attention.
Her orgasm took her by surprise, hitting suddenly and with intense force. She couldn’t hold back a loud, involuntary gasp as her back arched off the bed, a testament to the pleasure coursing through her body. Her hips bucked uncontrollably, meeting your touch with a needful urgency, as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook her.
The Idol’s mind went blank, all conscious thought evaporating in an instant as her body trembled beneath your touch. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense up and then release, a violent shudder passing through her with each passing moment. Her breathing became ragged, panting and gasping for air as she rode out the intense waves of pleasure. It was as if every nerve ending in her body was on fire, consumed by the overwhelming intensity of her release.
“Oh my god... oh god...” she moaned, her voice a breathless, broken whisper. Her fingernails digging into your hair as she struggled to maintain some semblance of control. But it was futile, her body was beyond her control now, completely at the mercy of the exquisite pleasure coursing through her veins. Her toes curled, her legs shook, and her whole body trembled with the force of her orgasm.
"This is too much... it feels too good... I can’t stop..." Her thoughts are a mess, her body spiraling out of control as you continue to pleasure her, your tongue never letting up. Every stroke sends another surge of ecstasy crashing through her, pushing her deeper into the abyss of pleasure.
She was helpless, completely at his mercy, and she loved every second of it. Her body trembled, her mind overwhelmed by the intensity of her orgasm, but even in the middle of it, she wanted more. Needed more.
Oh god... I need you inside me..
You finally pull back, your lips glistening with the evidence of her pleasure, watching in awe as Eunbi’s body quivered, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her chest heaved, rising and falling with each labored breath, the pinkened peaks of her nipples standing tall and proud. You had done this to her, reduced her to a trembling, gasping mess.
Standing up, your expression was unreadable as you began to undress, the room heavy with the tension that still lingers between you. Eunbi’s heart races as she watches you, her body still thrumming with desire, even after the intensity of her orgasm.
But then, suddenly, you pause, glancing down at her, and for a moment, it looks like you’re about to step away.
Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, panic seizing her for a split second. No. No,waht are you doing?..
You turned slightly. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming in frustration. Don’t you dare leave. Please. Please stay. I need you to stay.
Her lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. She was too conflicted, too torn between her desire and the thin thread of professionalism she still tried to cling to. “W-Wait” she stammered, her voice weak and trembling.
You turn back toward her, a faint, teasing smile curving on your lips as you slowly undo your belt. You've heard her thoughts loud and clear, and the amusement in your eyes only makes her heart race faster.
“You want me to stay?” you ask softly, your voice a low, teasing rumble.
Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, her body still trembling with need. She can feel the heat radiating off you as you stand above her, your presence overwhelming.
Yes. Yes, I want you to stay. I need you to finish this.
As you undress fully, your eyes never leave hers, the weight of your gaze making her tremble even more. You’re toying with her now, enjoying the way her thoughts betray her true desires, even as she tries to resist.
You move back toward the bed, positioning yourself between her legs. Eunbi’s breath quickens as she feels your hands slide up her thighs, parting them gently. Her body is already responding to you, her core throbbing with need, but her mind is still at war with itself.
A soft chuckle escaped your lips as it trailed down her neck and your hands slid up her body, teasing her one last time before positioning your length at her entrance. Her body tensed in anticipation, her heart racing as she felt you used her arousal to coat your member.
“No...” she gasped, her voice barely audible. “We can’t...”
Hurry up and fuck me, I need this.
As you slowly pressed inside her, Eunbi’s body trembled, her breath catching in her throat as you filled her completely. Every inch of you sent waves of pleasure through her, and even though her mind screamed for her to hold onto control, her body had already surrendered.
Soft protest escaped her mouth as her thoughts were swirling all over the place. Yes, yes, yes. This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Your movement was slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, drawing out the pleasure with every motion. Eunbi’s hands gripped the sheets, her body responding to every movement, her hips lifting to meet his as she completely gave in.
Slap me... slap my tits...play with it. The thought blazed through her mind, a desperate plea for more, for something to push her over the edge again. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.
You hesitate for a moment, teasing her, holding back just enough to drive her wild. Beneath you, Eunbi’s body writhes, her thoughts growing louder, more frantic. Please, please. Slap my tits. I need you to break me.
Finally, you give her what she wants. Your hand comes down on her chest, the sharp sting of your slap sending another wave of pleasure crashing through her. Eunbi cries out, clenching tightly around your shaft as her back arching off the bed, the pressure inside her intensifies.
Oh god, yes. Yes, this is what I needed.
As you repeat the assault on her chest, your movements quicken, each thrust deep and deliberate. Eunbi’s mind is spinning. Her body trembles beneath you, her hands gripping the sheets as wave after wave of pleasure courses through her. She’s lost control, her body responding to every touch, every stroke, as you drive her closer and closer to the edge.
Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I need you.
You don’t slow down. You thrust into her deeper, your hands gripping her hips as you move faster, the tension between you building with every second. Eunbi’s breath comes in shallow gasps, her body arching off the bed as the pleasure overwhelms her.
“We can’t... we can’t do this...,” she whispers, her voice shaking as she tries to hold onto control. You hear her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them, and you don’t stop. You can feel the way her body responds to you, the way she’s giving in completely, even as her lips whisper half-hearted protests.
Leaning down, your breath warm against her ear, you murmur, “Do you really want me to stop?”
For a moment, she hesitates, her lips parting as if to protest. Her eyes search yours, torn between her restraint and the undeniable pull she feels. Then, as her need overtakes any lingering hesitation, she gives in, her voice barely more than a whisper at first.
“Forget it,” she breathes, her voice trembling with raw honesty as her desires spill forth, unrestrained. “Just keep going. Please… just keep fucking me as hard as you can.”
Her words hang in the air, her vulnerability laid bare, yet her gaze remains fixed on yours with unguarded need. In that look, she surrenders fully, giving herself over to the moment. You feel her body respond, breaths coming quicker, her back arching to meet you as she invites each touch, every movement with an openness that only intensifies the desire between you.
With renewed intensity, you fully connected your hips, your hands sliding up her body before resting firmly on her chest. Your fingers graze her sensitive skin, each touch sparking a fresh surge of pleasure that sends her gasping, her body yielding fully to your hold. You use her chest to steady yourself, fingers pressing into her soft skin as you thrust deeper, guiding her into the rhythm that grows stronger with every moment.
As you move with a cadence that speaks of the ancient knowledge of lovers, a gasp escapes her lips, a note in the symphony of pleasure that fills the room. The rhythm is intoxicating, a steady drumbeat that resonates with the very core of your beings. But then, with a swift, powerful slap, you break the pattern, introducing a new sensation that draws a moan from her, a sound that hangs in the air like a delicate promise.
Her body responds instinctively, pressing closer, as if seeking to merge with your own. Each movement is a testament to the raw, urgent energy that flows between you, a force that cannot be contained or denied. Her soft moans grow more intense, a crescendo that builds with each shared breath. You feel her hands slide up, fingers gripping your arms, a silent plea for anchor as the pace grows faster, the dance more frenzied.
"Oh god," she murmurs, her voice a melody that harmonizes with the sound of skin meeting skin. The words are a benediction, a surrender to the overwhelming sensations that course through her. Her breath hitches, a staccato that matches the rhythm of your movements, as the pleasure builds, a wave on the verge of breaking.
With each thrust, the connection between you deepens, a magnetic pull that aligns your bodies in perfect rhythm, as if an invisible thread weaves through you, binding you together. Every touch, every moment, brings you both closer to the edge, the tension between you coiling tighter, a spring wound to the brink of release.
As you continue to thrust, you can feel the heat building between you, matching the desperate need in her gaze. Her nails dig into your chest, urging you on, as she matches your rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
You can feel her body trembling beneath you, her muscles tensing as she nears her own release. The feeling of her, clenching around you, is almost too much to bear. You can feel yourself swelling inside her, ready to release all the pent-up desire that has been building between you.
"I'm so fucking close" she whimpers, her voice barely audible as she gasps for breath. You can see the anticipation in her eyes, the need for that final, shattering release.
“Wait... Pull out“ she gasps, her voice barely audible. ”don’t cum inside me," sounding like she was talking to herself rather than you.
But her mind betrays her, drowning out her own words. Please, fill me up. I need it. I want you to breed me. I’m yours.
You don’t slow down. Your pace quickens, each thrust deep and powerful, driving her closer and closer to the edge of another release. Eunbi’s mind is in chaos, her thoughts a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions.
“Please... pull out,” she whispers again, her voice trembling. “We... we shouldn’t... you can’t cum in me…”
But all you could hear were the relentless and loud thoughts circling in her mind I want you to fill me. I need you to cum inside me. I need you to breed me like the slut I am.
You groan softly, your hands gripping her hips tighter as you thrust into her harder, deeper, pushing her closer to the brink. You know exactly what she truly wants, even as she fights against it with her words.
“No...stop...” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper now. “Pull out...”
But her thoughts scream louder, desperate, begging: Yes. Yes. Please, fill me all the way up.
With one final thrust, you position your hips and penetrate at just the right angle, striking a special spot and sending Eunbi spiraling into a whirlwind of unrestrained pleasure. As the intensity of her orgasm builds, she feels completely enveloped by the exquisite sensations flowing through her body. Her back arches off the bed, a testament to the overwhelming ecstasy that has taken control. The thoughts of professionalism and restraint that once lingered in her mind fade away, replaced by an all-consuming focus on the indescribable pleasure that now captivates her.
A guttural cry escapes her lips as her hips buck wildly, moving in rhythm with the overwhelming surge of release. Her body, slick with sweat, trembles with each wave of pleasure that crashes over her. In this moment she is simply a being overcome by the raw, primal exhilaration of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Every touch, and every thrust propels her closer to the edge of oblivion. Your hands roam freely over her body, finding their way to the soft mounds of her breasts. Cupping them tenderly, your fingers gently knead the delicate flesh, before zeroing in on the sensitive peaks of her nipples.
As you take one taut bud into your mouth, you flick your tongue over the sensitive tip, causing Eunbi to gasp at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Biting down ever so slightly, the delicious mixture of pleasure and pain sends her senses into overdrive. simultaneously, you pinch and tug at her other nipple, eliciting a raw, visceral response from Eunbi's body. Her breath hitches, her heart races, and she is certain she may very well shatter into a million pieces from the sheer force of the sensations coursing through her.
Her mind reels as your mouth continues to work its magic on her aching nipple, while your fingers continue their relentless assault on the other. She can feel each tug, each pinch, and each flick of your tongue as if they are imprinted on her very soul. Every sensation is amplified, every nerve ending electrified, as her body is enveloped in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
And as if you can sense her growing need, her unspoken desire, you give her exactly what she craves. She can feel the throb of your member, filling her to the brim, each pulse sending another jolt of pleasure ricocheting through her body. As you continue to pump into her, she can feel her teetering on the edge of an abyss, the intensity of her impending release building with each thrust
Then, suddenly, she's there. The world around her fades into obscurity as she is consumed by the sheer force of her orgasm. It rips through her like a tempest, leaving her breathless and trembling in its wake. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her, a cacophony of sensations that leave her mind reeling and her body spent.
As you both come undone together, she feels your seed in every crevice inside her, each drop igniting another wave of pleasure that ripples through her. Your breathing, once ragged and urgent, begins to slow, the rhythm softening as your shared climax fades into a quiet, tender aftermath. A moment stretches between you, the intimacy lingering in the warmth of your entwined bodies. You gradually withdraw, and she’s left with a sudden, aching emptiness that sends a shiver down her spine. The absence is palpable, and she fights the urge to reach out, the space between you now filled with a longing that leaves her breathless.
You stand at the edge of the bed, gathering your clothes in silence, each movement careful and slow, as if holding back something heavy. Your gaze remains fixed on the floor, and Eunbi senses the tension in the air, an unmistakable shift between you that makes her stomach clench.
“Hey…” she started softly, her voice edged with worry. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, you didn’t respond, keeping your back to her, shoulders tense and rigid. Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted, pressing down until finally, you murmured, “I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
Eunbi sat up, her mind clearing quickly, though her body was still tingling from the intimacy you’d just shared. “What? Why not?” Her brow furrowed as she watched you, confusion tightening her chest. Does he regret it?
You shook your head, still not meeting her gaze. “I never wanted to… use my powers like this.”
“Powers?” she echoed, her frown deepening. She pulled the sheet tightly around herself, unsure where this conversation was headed. “What powers?”
You sighed, the sound long and heavy, as if you were exhaling something you’d been holding in for a long time. “I can… hear thoughts, Eunbi. I can read minds.”
Eunbi blinked, stunned. “What?” she said, a slight, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “Come on, be serious.”
But you weren’t laughing. You finally turned to her, meeting her gaze with an expression full of guilt and something even deeper, something that looked like regret. “It’s true. I’ve had this ability my whole life. I shouldn’t have used it with you.”
Her eyes widened as she processed your words, her pulse quickening. She wanted to argue, to laugh it off, to tell you that you were joking, but something about the look in your eyes made her stop. Her mind reeled with memories of all the times you’d known exactly what she needed, all the moments when you’d read her without her saying a word.
“Prove it,” she challenged, her voice soft but firm. She watched you carefully, waiting.
You nodded, your tone gentle but earnest. “Think of something. Anything. Just… something random.”
After a slight pause, she glanced around the room and landed on a small object, the orange lamp on the bedside table. She tried to keep her gaze neutral.
Your eyes flickered, and after a moment you said, “Orange lamp.”
Eunbi felt her breath catch, but she quickly raised an eyebrow, refusing to let you see her surprise. “Okay, maybe you just saw me look at it. That’s not enough to prove anything.”
A small smile tugged at her lips as she raised her chin, still feeling the warmth of your seed inside her, a tender reminder of the closeness you had just shared. The thought slipped into her mind without hesitation, unguarded and impulsive.
That was the best that I’ve ever been fucked.
You rubbed the back of your neck, your shy smile growing wider as you looked down, clearly trying not to laugh. After a moment, you met her gaze, the warmth in your eyes unmistakable. “Thank you… it was the best for me as well.”
Eunbi’s cheeks flushed a deep red as her mouth dropped open. “W-What,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. Her blush deepened, yet as she looked up at you, the sincerity in your expression melted her embarrassment, softening her self-consciousness. The air between you felt charged, intimate, as if words were no longer needed. And then, a sinking realization washed over her, stirring a feeling of both horror and shame.
If you could hear everything… then you had heard everything.
Her cheeks flushed with a deep embarrassment, and as her thoughts wandered back to just a few moments earlier, her face burned with the realization. All those things she had thought, the raw and explicit thoughts she’d never voiced. She buried her face in her hands, barely able to look at you. “Oh my god,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You heard all of that, didn’t you?”
You winced, nodding. “Yeah… I’m sorry.”
Eunbi’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of mortification and anger welling up. But beneath it all, she sensed the regret in your voice, the heaviness in your words. Slowly, she looked up at you, studying the anguish etched across your face.
“I shouldn’t have used it,” you confessed, your tone thick with remorse. “I never wanted to invade your privacy like that. I… I got caught up in my feelings for you, and I crossed a line.”
Her initial embarrassment softened as she saw the depth of your guilt, the pain you seemed to be carrying. She could see how much you regretted letting your guard down, how much you wished things had unfolded differently. Instead of feeling betrayed, a warmth of compassion began to swell within her.
Sighing, Eunbi took a deep breath. “I... I don’t blame you,” she said softly, her voice more understanding now.
Your eyes widened slightly, surprise breaking through your guarded expression. “You don’t?”
Eunbi shook her head, her heartbeat still racing but her voice calm and steady. “I mean, yeah, it’s... a lot to take in. But you didn’t do anything I didn’t want. You just... knew it before I could say it.”
You looked at her, as if struggling to believe that she could be so forgiving. "But I—"
She stopped you, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re not a bad person for this. You didn’t manipulate me. I’ve wanted this for a long time. You just... heard what I was too afraid to say.”
Eunbi’s face heated again, the memory of her own thoughts flooding back, but with it came a different feeling. If you had heard her deepest desires and still felt such remorse, then maybe you hadn’t betrayed her. Maybe you were struggling, too.
“I’m not mad,” she continued, her tone soft but clear. “Embarrassed, yeah. But not mad.”
Relief flickered across your face, though the weight of guilt still lingered in your eyes. “What now? I can leave if you want me to.”
Eunbi took a moment to consider, then met your gaze with a quiet resolve. “No. I don’t want that. We can’t change what happened, but that doesn’t make it a mistake.”
She could see the uncertainty in your expression, the way you still seemed to doubt her forgiveness, but there was a hint of hope, a spark of belief.
“I don’t know if I can—”
“We’ll work it out,” she interrupted, her words firm, reassuring. “I don’t want to lose you. Not after this. We can keep it between us. It’s our secret.”
The promise settled between you, and slowly, you nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as you stepped closer. “Okay,” you murmured. “We’ll keep it between us.”
Eunbi offered a small, tentative smile, reaching out to take your hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
-----
Months passed, and the secret between you became an unspoken bond, an intimacy shared in every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment that only you and Eunbi could understand. You had grown adept at living a dual life—professional on the surface, but connected by a private world of shared thoughts and hidden feelings. To everyone else, you were just her bodyguard: disciplined, unyielding. But to Eunbi, you were so much more.
At a sold-out concert, Eunbi danced across the stage, her presence commanding the room as fans cheered and sang along. The lights flashed, the beat reverberated, and in that sea of admiration, her focus was still somehow on you. There you were, standing by the side of the stage, your gaze steady, watching over her with unwavering vigilance. To anyone else, you were the ever-present protector, but she knew the truth hidden in your eyes.
As she danced, Eunbi found herself drifting toward the edge of the stage, closer to where you stood, her heart swelling with a sudden impulse. She locked eyes with you for the briefest of moments, and in that silent exchange, she sent a thought, simple but laden with the weight of everything she felt.
You have no idea how much I love you. I love you with all my heart.
Your reaction was instant. For a split second, your usually impassive expression faltered, your eyes widening in shock. She saw the vulnerability there, the raw emotion that no one else could see. The sight brought a grin to her face, laughter bubbling up as she saw just how deeply her words had affected you.
I finally broke you, she thought with amusement, her smile radiant.
You blinked, taken aback but slowly recovering, and then, as if to return the moment, you mouthed the words back to her, words that resonated in her mind just as clearly as if you’d spoken them aloud.
“I love you too.”
In that fleeting moment, the world around you seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you in a silent, unbreakable connection. Her heart soared as she returned to the center of the stage, her smile brighter than the lights that beamed down on her. The cheers of the crowd, the energy of the performance—it was all background to the quiet words still echoing in her mind. She had heard them, felt them, and knew them to be true.
And as the music played on, those words played in her heart, over and over, a melody just for the two of you.
#kpop fanfic#kpop fanfiction#kpop smut#girl group smut#reader insert#male reader#kinkvember#kinkvember 2024#izone#izone smut#izone eunbi#eunbi#kwon eunbi#izone kwon eunbi#kwon eunbi smut#eunbi smut#izone eunbi smut#eunbi x reader#kwon eunbi x reader
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accidentally confessing to them while you were drunk pt.2
characters: vice housewardens minus ortho. jamil + other overbloat guys are here
You had a rough day. Between classes and Grim's annoying behavior plus the amount of assignment that the professors keep piling up- you were stressed and exhausted. Nothing new, to be honest. When a few students suggested grabbing drinks at the "Mystery Shack" you agreed, figuring you deserved to chill a little. One drink turned into two and before you knew it, you were... drunk and extremely relaxed.
That's when you found yourself face-to-face with him. Whoever it is, the result is the same. A rush of feelings amplified by the alcohol, leading to a embarrassing and honest (accidental) confession.
TREY CLOVER
Trey wasn't the type to go to places like that on his own. But he was there because, as Heartslabyul's unofficial mom, he'd been roped into keeping an eye on his dormmates (and Cater begged him to come along) Someone had to make sure Ace didn't start a bar fight or something similar. He was nursing a glass of simple water, his usual calm smile in place. Then you stumbled over to his table with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes.
"Trey!" you exclaimed, a cheerful smile on your face before plopping down across from him with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. "I didn't...expect to see you here. You're so… so nice. Too nice. It's your fault that I am totally.... you're too good!"
He is somewhat surprised to see you so intoxicated, your words not even making sense. But kind of found it cute honestly. He raised an amused eyebrow. "Is that so? I think I'm just average."
"Nooo!" you protested, leaning forward so fast you nearly knocked over his drink. "You're like… a warm cookie! Fresh from the oven. All soft and perfect and....and...and I love you okay?! And you smell like cinnamon" you leaned forward towards him then sniffed him. "...And I wanna kiss you and all that!"
The table went silent. Trey’s smile froze, his glass halfway to his lips. The students nearby choked on their drinks, and Ace let out a low whistle. Your confession hung in the air like the elephant in the room, loud and gloriously mortifying. Before Trey could respond, you decided the best course of action was to drape yourself across the table, grab his hand, and press a sloppy kiss to his knuckle. "I think I really really really like youu..."
Trey brain short-circuited. He was used to handling chaotic situations, but this? This was uncharted territory. His ears turned pink and he let out a nervous chuckle. He gently sets his hand free. "Okay, let’s… slow down there. You’re probably gonna regret this tomorrow."
You didn’t hear him. You already passed out with your face smushed against the table, snoring softly. Trey sighed with a hand running through his hair. He couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in his chest at your words even if they were fueled by alcohol.
Though he did not think he would ever admit it. He always thought you were cute. Your determination, the way you devour his desserts with that big grin... and well everything.
But he is practical, always putting duty first. So he never let himself dwell on it. Your confession whether drunken or not, hits him harder than he expects. He feels torn between dismissing it as alcohol-fueled nonsense and hoping there's some truth to it. Either way, he isn't going to let you stumble home alone.
He gently pries you off the stool, slinging your arm over his shoulder. "....Well, let’s just get you home before you confess to the bartender next," he mutters. He carries you back to Ramshackle.
He tucked you into bed, left a glass of water and some painkillers on your nightstand. And tried not to overthink the way his heart skipped when you mumbled his name in your sleep.
You woke up with a headache that felt like a stampeding wildebeest and vague memories of humiliating yourself.
Trey isn't one to make a big deal out of things, so when you run into him he's casual as ever. And when you stammer, obviously mortified about last night, he simply chuckles. "You were pretty talkative," he teases a little leaning closer to you. Your face burns.
"Don't worry, I won't hold you to it. Unless you meant it." He leaves it at that. His tone was gentle, leaving the door open without pushing it. You nodded, face burning. Trey wasn’t going to let you drown in embarrassment. He was giving you a chance to figure out what you really felt, one batch of cookies at a time.
RUGGIE BUCCHI
The Mystery Shack was a goldmine for Ruggie Bucchi.
Ruggie is here for one reason: free food. Some Savanaclaw upperclassmen were bragging about sneaking snacks from the Shack's kitchen. And of course Ruggie wasn't one to miss a hustle. He tagged along to supervise. He's got a plate of pilfered chicken wings and a smug grin, dodging the bartender's suspicious glares while scoping out any unattended drinks.
You were meanwhile drowning your sorrows in a third glass of something sparkly and purple. Your head is spinning. Everything feels dreamy.
You’re leaning against the bar, laughing too loud at a bad joke. When he notices you Ruggie slides up with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. "Yeesh, Prefect, you’re a mess," he teases with a smirk. "How many of those fruity things you had? You look two seconds away from faceplanting onto the ground. That will be a sight to see."
Your brain is swimming, and Ruggie’s sly grin is doing weird things to your heart. You completely ignore what he's talking about. Before you can think (well you aren't very thinky right now) you grab his sleeve and blurt, "Ruggie, I like you. You're so cute."
Ruggie's eyes widen at the unprompted response that you just gave. He nearly chokes on his sandwich. "H-Huh?! What's that supposed to mean?!" He laughs, but it’s nervous, his tail flicking behind him. "You're drunk as a skunk, aren't ya? Dont go saying weird stuff."
"No, I mean it." you insist, swaying closer. "You're always helping me out even though you act like you aren't. And your laugh's all… hehe… I love it. You're a scrappy little hyena who steals my heart along with snacks!" you giggle like the fool you were currently. Leaning forward to clumsily hug him, you almost fall. He barely catches you because he's caught super off guard.
Ruggie's brain has been frozen, ears twitching as his brain processed your words. The nearby Savanaclaw students snickered. Leona who was lounging in a corner, raised an eyebrow with a smirk like he was watching a particularly entertaining soap opera.
Ruggie is so flustered. Scratching his cheek to hide the blush. "Tch, you’re gonna make me lose my appetite," he grumbles, but he doesn't pull away when you lean on him. "C'mon, let’s get you somewhere you won’t embarrass yourself worse. And, uh… maybe we'll talk about this when you're not three sheets to the wind, yeah?"
You're already all over him. Throwing your arms around his shoulders and ruffling his hair, cooing about how soft his ears are. "So fluffy!" you squeal, trying to pet them while he squirms, half-laughing, half-protesting.
You passed out thanks to being too intoxicated, slumping against his shoulder with a contented sigh.
Ruggie is a pragmatist. He doesn’t trust easily. And feelings are a luxury he rarely affords. But you've always been different, someone who matches his hustle without judgment. Your confession while sloppy, makes his chest feel weirdly tight. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol talking or if you actually mean it. But the thought of you picking him over everyone else? It's got him feeling really giddy. He’s not falling head over heels just yet. But he’s definitely very intrigued.
With a muttered curse, he slung your arm over his shoulder and hauled you back to Ramshackle, grumbling about extra work the whole way.
When you ran into him at the cafeteria next time, he was his usual cheeky self. He snagged an extra donut from your tray with a grin.
"Yo. You look like death warmed over." he said, his eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual. When you mumbled an apology for last night, he waved it off.
"Eh, you were drunk. Happens. But, uh… you meant any of that? Cause I ain't opposed to a partner in crime, just so you know." His tone was casual, but you can see his ears are perked. Waiting for your answer.
You stammered, blushing because it was pretty embarrassing. His grin told you he wasn't going to let you off easy. Ruggie wasn’t one for mushy stuff, but he was giving you a chance to figure out if your drunken confession had any truth to it. And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping it did.
JADE LEECH
The Mystery Shack wasn’t Jade's usual scene, but he was there on business. Floyd had dragged him along to scope out the competition. Apparently, the Shack's signature drinks were cutting into Mostro Lounge's profits.
Jade is observing the crowd AKA gathering intel for Azul. The bar's a for gossip. And he's sipping something non-alcoholic. All polite smiles and sharp eyes. He notices you're there and decides to "check in" for his own amusement.
You're wobbling near the dance floor, humming off-key. Then Jade appears like he materialized from thin air. "My, my, you seem to be enjoying yourself," he says with that smooth as ever voice. "Do take care not to overdo it, hmm?"
His teasing tone and that infuriatingly perfect smile hit you like a tidal wave. The alcohol loosens your tongue, and you blurt out of the blue "Jade?? You're....ugh, I... Your creepy charm has got me all messed up!"
Jade's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his smile sharpens, delighted. He's thinking you're obviously speaking bullshit stuff without any thought. But it's entertaining so he pushes further. "Oh? What a fascinating development," he purrs, leaning closer. "I must say, I didn't expect such words from you. How terribly intriguing."
"I’m serious!" you hiccup, pointing at him. "You're all polite BUT scary and… it’s so damn hot. You're a low-key terrifying dude. But hot terrifying. I like you. I wanna go mushroom hunting with you and..hic..maybe kiss you in the woods or something." You laugh, spilling a bit of your drink. Oblivious to the way his eyes glint and his smile widens.
He chuckles, low and dangerous. He's clearly enjoying this far too much. "Dear me, such bold words. I wonder if you'll feel the same come morning." He gently steers you toward a quieter corner, his hand on your back. "Let's ensure you don’t make any more reckless declarations tonight. Though I must admit, I'm rather curious to see if this confession truly holds water."
You weren't listening. You leaned closer, nearly tipping over. You’re touchy like never, leaning against his arm and tracing the edge of his glove, looking fascinated by the texture. "So fancy..." you mumble. Then try to hug him only to almost fall miserably.
Jade catches you with ease. Chuckling as you babble about how and why you like him. He's enjoying it, somehow it's more entertaining than anything else even if he mostly thinks you're just saying such things cause you're drunk. He lets you cling while steering you away from spilling more drink on him.
Steadying you as you swayed, he said, "Such bold words. I'll have to hold you to them when you're sober."
But you were already out, slumping against his chest with a soft snore. Jade sighed, a mix of amusement and exasperation. He carefully lifted you, carrying you back to Ramshackle with Floyd trailing behind, still snickering. He left you tucked in with a glass of water and a single pristine mushroom on your nightstand. A strange Jade-like token so you know Jade was here.
"What a fascinating evening," he smiles cryptically after tucking you in with much care, looking at you one last time before leaving.
You woke up with a pounding headache and a mushroom staring at you accusingly. You remember you probably bothered Jade last night. And some memory that feel like a dream. Anyway you went to see him soon. When you ran into Jade at the Mostro Lounge, he was infuriatingly composed, polishing a glass with that same enigmatic smile. He tells you to take a seat first.
He brings it up because of course he isn't letting you get away with that. His smile is sharp. "You were quite the spectacle last night. Care to clarify your sentiments?"
You tilt your head. The night was a foggy mess that didn't feel real.But all you can think is that you probably humiliated yourself to an extent. You haven't confirmed them yet. "Sentiments?"
He leans onto the table, coming face to face with you, voice smooth as silk. "You expressed such great admiration, I am quite hurt you can't remember," but he is smiling like always.
The memories crash in or well, they're now confirmed. And you cringe. "I didn’t mean to- okay so" you sigh, deciding since you've come this far might as well... "I do.. like you, but I didn’t want to say it like that! Can we just forget it?"
Jade's smile widens, a hint of genuine warmth beneath the menace. "Forget? Oh, but I’m far too intrigued. Shall we discuss this further… privately?" You have this eel hooked, but he'll toy with you first, savoring every flustered reaction.
ROOK HUNT
The Mystery Shack was the perfect hunting ground for Rook Hunt, who was there observing beauty (people-watching with unsettling intensity). He had been invited by some Pomefiore students who wanted his poetic input on their new cocktail recipes, and Rook couldn't resist of course.
You were trying to forget your miserable life with a fourth glass of something glittery and alarmingly sweet. And it was too good that you kept drinking even though you started feeling dizzy.
You spotted Rook perched on a barstool saying poetic stuff about the whatever.
"Rook!" you called, stumbling over with a dopey grin. "You’re so weird! But good weird! Anddd! I love you! You're like a sparkly arrow that shoots right through my heart! Hehe!" You giggle like an excited child.
His reaction is super accepting. Rook's eyes light up and he claps like you've just performed a Shakespearean soliloquy. "Mon tresor, what passion!" he exclaims, absolutely enchanted.
His enthusiasm made drunk you even more enthusiastic. "I wanna...hic...write cheesy poems together." You grab his hand, looking up at him with starry eyes and a shy smile.
He so thrilled by your raw emotion, even if it was fueled by cheap vodka. The idea of you as his poetic muse is already spiraling into a dozen romantic fantasies in his head.
"Such raw, unfiltered beauté!" You threw your arms around him, nuzzling his shoulder and mumbling about how he was too pretty for this world.
Rook is over the moon. He lives for grand gestures and heartfelt declarations, and your confession is like a gift wrapped in glitter. He always admired your authenticity, your ability to shine despite everything. This just seals it. You're his muse, his star, his raison d'être. He’s already planning a forest picnic to celebrate your "heart's truth".
"Alas, my dear, you are far too radiant for your own good!" he said. But you weren't awake to hear it because you passed out in his arms with a blissful smile. Rook carried you back to Ramshackle like a knight bearing a sleeping princess. He left you tucked in with a handwritten poem on your nightstand. About how beautifully you have expressed your feelings. (too much credit lmao)
When you you next saw him you wanted to hide in a bush. "Rook, I was drunk. I am so sorry for the trouble-"
"Non, non!" he interrupted, leaning forward and pressing a finger to your lips. "There is no shame in truth. I am enchanted, and I await your next verse- sober or otherwise." He winked, leaving you flustered but oddly charmed. Rook wasn't going to let this go, but he will give you time to decide if your feelings were real. He sure hopes they are!
LILIA VANROUGE
Lilia was at the Mystery Shack for fun of course. He's flitting around, and trying all the dangerous and hardcore drinks. Being a fae and being as experienced as he was of course he wasn't getting drunk or anything. He's just chatting with students like he was one of them.
You you were on your first drink. A a student said it was light. Spoiler, it wasn’t. Your head was a carnival ride.
You're just lazing around on a couch, giggling at the ceiling for no particular reason. Lilia plops down beside you cause he noticed you were here! And what else to do than bother his favorite human? His grin is in full force. "Khee hee, you’re quite the sight tonight, little one" he teases. "Had a bit too much, have we?"
His playful energy is infectious, and in your drunken haze you grab his sleeve and blurt "Lilia, you're so cool. How can you be so old yet so cute? I like you."
Lilia cackles, nearly falling off the couch. "Oh, my! Such fervor!" he says, wiping a tear from his eye. "You're a bold one, confessing to an old bat like me. But I must warn you my heart is a tricky thing to catch." His tone is light and amused.
"I'm serious! Don't take it as a joke!!" you slur, poking his cheek. But who could really take you seriously in this state? "I really like you. I wanna be around you foreveeeer!"
"Khee hee, forever's a long time, Dearie," he says, patting your head. "Lets get you sobered up before you pledge your eternal soul, hmm?" He is mostly just finding it funny.
Lilia has lived centuries, so he's not easily swept off his feet. But your drunken confession is certainly adorable. He's always liked your nature. Your honest heartfelt words make him feel oddly fond. He’s not falling in love yet but he's definitely attached. He lived long enough to know genuine affection when he saw it. And yours was as real as it was hilarious.
As expected you passed out soon. Head on his shoulder as you drool slightly. Lilia chuckled and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. Lilia floats you home (literally) while humming a lullaby.
The next day he’s at Ramshackle, dangling upside-down. You almost became a Ramshackle ghost out of scare. He laughed when you screamed.
"Khee hee heee, Good morning, my dear!" he chirped. "You were quite the love drunk last night? I’m flattered, I must admit!"
You groaned, hiding your face. "Lilia, I’m so sorry. I was drunk-"
"Nonsense!" he interrupted, floating over to pat your head. "It was delightful. And not entirely unwelcome! Shall we explore this 'forever' you spoke of, hm?" His tone is teasing but the smile he gives you is warm, leaving you flustered but hopeful. Lilia wasn't going to push, though will tease you. But he is definitely intrigued and he will make sure you knew it.
#twisted wonderland x reader#lilia vanrouge x reader#jade leech#jade leech x reader#twisted wonderland#twst headcanons#twst imagines#twisted wonderland scenarios#lilia vanrouge#twst lilia#rook hunt#rook hunt x reader#rook twst#twst#twst x reader#Twisted wonderland scenarios#trey clover#trey clover x reader#trey x reader#trey twst#ruggie bucchi#twst ruggie#ruggie x reader#ruggie bucchi x reader#twst rook#twst jade
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𝓣𝓦𝓢𝓣 !𝓝𝓢𝓕𝓦! 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 !
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DNI If you’re uncomfortable with these topics !
𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓫𝔂𝓾𝓵 𝓿𝓮𝓻 !
~~~~~~
𝑅𝒾𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒 𝑅𝑜𝓈𝑒𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈
mommy kink
Tries his best to top, but ends up bottoming almost every time
The reason he’s bad at topping is because: 1, he’s very stiff, he’s too overwhelmed. 2, he literally tops by the book
Before his first time, he read a book on tips and bases everything he does on that
He is trying his best to get better though
Serious praise kink. Degradation will actually break his heart
Riddle has surprising stamina so he can go a decent number of rounds, although he doesn't last as long
He's prone to overstimulation, this is all very new to him
Mostly liquidy, and tastes ok. Somewhat sweet.
Kind of loud, but he tries to muffle most of it because he considers it "indecent"
𝒜𝒸𝑒 𝒯𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓁𝒶
Ass man
Eating ass, looking at ass, cumming in ass, fucking in ass. Completely ass drunk
Lots of foreplay for him. Even teasing can count as foreplay for him when he's in the mood, which is quite often
He's really mean. He'll deny you orgasms and will tease you the entire time about it.
He loves reverse cowgirl and doggy for obvious reasons aforementioned, but he likes seeing your spine arch as well
Personally I hc Ace specifically being either Bi or Pan. I feel like he'd also be open to poly relationships or simply bringing a 3rd person into the bedroom
A little bit of degradation on both ends will really get him going
Ace is a switch but prefers to be the one in control. He's super athletic, of course he'd have good stamina too.
Thicker consistency, and kind of sourish. A little harder to swallow.
So whiny and he curses so much
𝒟𝑒𝓊𝒸𝑒 𝒮𝓅𝒶𝒹𝑒
Deuce is very sweet and very gentle
Would never do anything to hurt you
It would be pretty chill with him, very sweet unless you propose something else
Deuce thinks of intimate time as a private thing between the both of you, so he takes it very seriously
Your pleasure above his. His priority is to make sure you feel good all throughout
This by consequence also brings about some of the sweetest aftercare. He’ll make sure you know how loved and appreciated you are <3
For that reason, I think he’d be very open to experiment with kinks and positions, as long as it doesn’t involve hurting you or potentially putting you in a dangerous situation
Seeing your blissed out expressions fuels him to keep going further
Sometimes a few curses slip up, but he tries to hold them back
Tastes as decent as cum can taste like. Not watery, but not super thick either, it’s not particularly difficult to swallow
Cuddles afterwards always. Or at least expect him to end up falling asleep cradling you in his arms
𝒞𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒟𝒾𝒶𝓂𝑜𝓃𝒹
He films the whole thing on his phone and has a whole album dedicated to it. And he’s sneaky about it too, you can hardly tell when he’s filming, unless he’s blatantly doing it which also adds to the excitement
Asked for nudes way too quickly
Sexting (shocking)
He’d have no reservations using his unique magic. Are both of his hands busy? No problem, he’ll use Split Card for another pair, sometimes several
Taking advantage of his unique magic, he’d try all sorts of things to push you over the brink.
I feel like he'd test to see how much stimuli you can stand with all his clones
He’d put your hair up if it’s long enough, and pull on it
Cater would also have an obscene amount of toys from the most popular ones to the most niche.
He’d also be down for pretty much anything, at least once
A little thicker, with a little more sour and salty taste.
𝒯𝓇𝑒𝓎 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇
He'd definitely use doodle suit to make his and your cum taste like whipped cream
For this reason he loves eating you out and vice versa
Trey sucks on whatever he can. Your shoulder, your neck, your tits, your fingers. Treating them like sweet candy
He loves to have you clawing at his back and leaving scratch marks all over it, so he really likes missionary
He'll help you brush your teeth after giving him head
Best aftercare ever?? Like he'd whip up anything you'd like, run a hot bath for you, and tuck you in afterward, maybe even cuddle if you feel like it
Although Trey is very usually mild-mannered, this switches around with you. He can become quite rough as a way of stress relief if you give him permission. He'll slap you, yank on your hair, keep a sharp grasp on your hips and wrists
Trey is vocal, but not too loud.
He can make it taste and smell like anything, but it does have a thicker consistency
He'd often incorporate real food, as a form of temperature play and sitophilia. He'd pour a chilled drink over your body to lick it all up or place something sweet between your legs to eat you out
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#twisted wonderland#disney twisted wonderland#twst#twst imagines#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#twst x you#twst x yuu#twst headcanons#riddle rosehearts#riddle x reader#riddle x yuu#twst hcs#twst smut#twst smau#twst riddle#ace trappola#ace x y/n#ace x you#ace x reader#ace smut#ace twisted wonderland#ace twst#deuce twst#deuce spade#twst deuce#twisted wonderland deuce#deuce x yuu#deuce x reader#cater diamond
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Note: I had received two asks that were pretty similar, so I figured merging them together was the best way to go! Also, I just wanted to say how much I really dislike the misconception that losing your virginity is something that is supposed to hurt. It’s absolutely not true…Is it a possibility? Sure. But with the right preparation, care, and patience from the one who is going to be penetrating you (if that is the route of intercourse you choose to take), depending on the person, the most you may feel is slight discomfort from experiencing something you never have before. We have to stop making pain an expectation for individuals with vaginas irl and in the things we consume!!! Anyways, I hope you luvlys enjoy! 😚
Click to read ➜ Ask #1 • Ask #2
Warning: Smut, you and Zayne lose your virginity to each other, kinda slow (Zayne is undoubtedly a man who takes his time, so I hope it taking a little bit to get down to the do is okay), mentions of you having a brother with a heart condition
Rating: Explicit - !!MDNI!!
Word Count: 3.6K (literally didn’t expect this at all)
Summary: You invited your boyfriend over for dinner and as the night progresses, a simple date turns into you two learning and exploring one another in ways you never have before.
Virgin!Zayne/Virgin!Reader
You were trying to keep yourself calm as you began to baste the nearly ready ribeye steak after reading Zayne’s text message.
I’ll be there in five minutes.
You were incredibly nervous, wanting to make sure that you prepared the best meal possible for the man you intended to show your gratitude to. When you met Zayne, it was almost two years ago. He was the saving grace you’d been hoping for, becoming the doctor taking care of your little brother Andrew who has been suffering from a heart condition. It was only getting worse as other treatments and surgeries offered no positive results, so putting all your faith in Zayne required you to surrender your last bit of hope.
You fell in love with Dr. Li the moment your eyes landed on him and even more so when you saw the way he treated your brother. He was so gentle and attentive with him in ways you’ve never seen offered by any of the other medical professionals your family tried to turn to for help.
He had specifically made sure to make time for your family when he had gotten ahold of the paperwork because Zayne has always had a soft spot for helping children in need. It was with zero hesitation on his part that he contacted your parents directly and had them bring in the ten year old little boy who wouldn’t let his condition break him no matter how hard it’s tried.
You knew Zayne was a stupendous doctor, but the rate in which your brother began to improve always brought you to tears no matter how many times you thought about it. Everything he did and continues to do is the reason why you could actually stop worrying as much as you have been and why your family could finally take a breather for the first time since Andrew was born.
Your daily visits to the hospital and conversations led to you and Zayne becoming friends—very much to his surprise—and while you may have been the one to fall first, Zayne fell infinitely harder over time at a pace that was foreign for a man like him. The day he asked you out for what he called a “friendly lunch”, quickly turned into a month and a half of dating before he asked you to be his girlfriend. Obviously you were bouncing off the walls with joy when you told him yes over and over again until your cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
And now, even if you’ve only been official for a short amount of time, you wanted to cater to the man you’ve fallen hopelessly in love with as a way of saying thank you despite having had said it so many times already.
At the same time that you cut the stove off, three soft knocks rapt against the front door of your apartment. You quickly washed and dried your hands, running barefoot to answer it, but not before you got a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror beside the entrance. You’re proud of yourself for not getting your cherry red dress dirty, smoothing it out with a small huff.
No matter how long you’ve known Zayne, seeing him always feels like the first time with the way your insides flutter with rampant emotions.
Finally pulling the door open, you smile at your boyfriend who has a bouquet of red peonies in his hand. His eyes soften when they land on you and you’ve always found it so cute when he uses his knuckle to push his glasses up like he does now.
“You look beautiful,” he says softly. You silently fawn over his simple attire of a black dress shirt and slacks that he makes look sexier than what it should be.
Before you speak, you wrap your arms around his neck for a tight hug, to which he gladly reciprocates by encircling one of his own around your waist. You pulled back to press a quick kiss to his slender nose.
“Thank you, babe...These for me?” Your eyebrow raises playfully as he steps inside.
“Of course.” He faces you once you’ve locked the door to look you over again. “What kind of guest would I be to come empty handed?”
“You’re more than just a guest, Zayne.”
“It still applies, nonetheless. Two things can be true.”
You take the bouquet, making a note in your mind to have him trim the stems with you tonight before putting them in one of the vases he’s bought before. He watches with adoration at how you inhale their sweet scent, humming at the calming aroma.
“They’re perfect,” you exclaim, letting your fingers trace the soft petals before putting your attention back on him. “Ready to eat?”
“I am. I must say that whatever you’ve prepared smells quite good. As I assume the taste to be just as impressive, I’ll have a lot more eating to get around to, won’t I?”
You grin as you take his hand, guiding him to your small dining table. “Let’s find out.”
Not only was dinner a success, but the entirety of the night so far has had you on cloud nine. You and Zayne talked about any and everything as he praised you and your cooking. This was the first time you’ve ever prepared a meal for him and with the way he devoured it, you knew it wouldn’t be the last. You’ve never been a woman to seek validation but when it came to him, every opinion he had was important because of how much you valued and respected him.
To see how much he enjoyed the steak, crispy potatoes, and broccolini, made you feel a sense of pride because this beautiful man was yours to feed forever—if you were granted such a gift.
He and you slow danced to a classical song you showed him since you knew music like that always calmed him during times where work got a little stressful and his mind needed something to mellow it all out. It was a scene straight out of cheesy romance flick but instead of being the watcher, wishing it was you who got to experience that corniness, you were actually living it and it couldn’t be more surreal.
One song had turned into four, and you can’t stop giggling the whole time as he holds your hand and sways your bodies to the gentle instruments working together to create a lovely symphony.
And to your liking—admittedly with a little bit of hesitation in your gut—Zayne began to get more handsy.
“This night is supposed to be about you,” you whisper as his hand presses you closer to him by your lower back.
“Anywhere you are is all there is to me.”
“Hm…Aren’t you quite the poet?”
He chuckles at that. “You see my truth as poetry?”
“Everything you do is poetic to me,” you shrug. “You’re so effortlessly intense in your emotions, but it’s not in a way that overwhelms. It…surrounds you instead. Protects you.”
“You haven’t had all of me just yet to know how much my intensity can burn.”
That sends shivers down your spine because you know exactly what he means. You can feel how your heartbeat increases.
“Really? And if I wanted to see?”
“You would be the first to and I’d be more than willing to show you.” The way his tone lowers and the suggestiveness of his statement makes every single goosebump possible dot along your skin.
Your eyes slightly widen, too. There’s no way. A man like him? You stop your movement, forcing him to do the same.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“What exactly do you assume I’m saying?”
“Zayne!” you say in playful disbelief at how he seems to joke about some crucial information he’s never shared. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” He smiles with mischief, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip. “No matter how well I can read the expressions on your face, I unfortunately can never read your mind.”
“You’re so…” you groan. “You’re telling me the youngest, most handsome and talented cardiac surgeon in the country, has never had sex with anyone?”
“Never,” he says plainly.
“Why have you never said anything? You seem like someone to share a fact like that pretty early on.”
“While conversations pertaining to intimacy is inevitable in romantic relationships, because I did not want to intimidate you—and simply because it never became a topic of discussion—I never felt it was necessary to mention.” He gazes into your eyes. “Until now.”
“What’s different?”
“Well, it’s become a reality that I wouldn’t mind changing. If you were to give me the permission to do so, of course.” His hand cups your face and his thumb caresses your cheek. “I’ve dated before and I’ve had moments where the opportunity would arise, but sex has never been a casual exchange in my eyes. There’s nothing casual about us though, is there?”
You’re dumbfounded and more than willing to, but there’s just one thing. You briefly respond to his question with a shake of your head first before announcing your admission.
“I’ve never done this before either,” you breathe out, feeling immense relief about revealing something you shouldn’t have been embarrassed to say, but you knew it was the expectations of society that made you feel that way. But now, learning that Zayne is exactly the same brings you so much comfort, even if your reasonings for why may be different.
You’ve only been dating a little over two months and miraculously, sex has never happened nor has it been talked about. Similarly to him, you didn’t want to rush it or to make him feel obligated about something you weren’t sure he was ready for. Despite how much you wanted to jump his bones on all your dates and times together, you spent more of it appreciating and learning the complex man that is him.
But all that complexity is dropped as you can clearly see the lust that clouds his beautiful eyes and the need that continues to grow in the way he touches you.
“Maybe we were always meant to be the ones to find and teach each other. Would you like to test that theory?”
It’s like your body gravitates towards him and becomes incapable of forming a sentence to answer, so it takes the next best route and uses itself to respond for you. Your lips make contact with his soft ones, tasting him like you’ve done before, but there’s a different air to this kiss.
Your body presses into his as he keeps you in place by the back of your neck, the brief chill of his silver watch cooling the fervent heat burning along your skin. His tongue slips inside your mouth—not taking control—but working with yours in tandem to show you how mutual the craving for one another is.
The way he takes only a millisecond to separate from you to remove his glasses makes your pussy clench as he discards them on your kitchen counter. He returns to you immediately, holding your face in his hands this time while yours work frantically to unbutton the shirt that’s keeping you from seeing him.
You moan when he kisses down the side of your neck, your breath unable to stabilize because of how hot he’s gotten you.
“Your room,” he mumbles into you. “Let me do this right.”
You nod, but Zayne has you in his arms effortlessly like you’re made of paper before you can try and take him there. The dishes you haven’t washed become a problem for another time when you feel his bulge press against your hungry pussy through your panties on his trek.
He turns your light on so that he can see you clearly, his disheveled look making you think every filthy thought possible. It’s a sight to see compared to his usual put-together image.
“Even if this is new for us both,” he approaches you again, looking into your eyes for permission before he begins to slide the thin straps of your dress down your shoulders after you grant it. “You’re in control. You tell me what will and won’t happen and that is what it will be.”
Left in your bra and panties, you feel so grateful to have a man like him being the one to walk into this world pleasure with. But despite how comfortable you are with him, you’re still nervous. It’s with slightly shaky hands that you continue to undo the rest of his buttons, feeling his eyes on you as his hard body is revealed.
You can’t stop from how you clench over and over around nothing, knowing that you need him to fill that emptiness inside you so desperately that it’s becoming uncomfortable. The clink of his belt makes your nipples tighten and you watch how the veins disappear into his pants like they’re a pathway to where you need to be.
He lets the silence rest, allowing for you to move at your own pace. For that, you’re incredibly thankful because you know that by the way his abs flex every time you graze his skin, the desire to be all over you is strong.
You gulp as you get the pants completely undone, looking up at him. He doesn’t waste a moment nodding for you to keep going, the need to be released from his confines becoming overwhelming. He strains so deliciously in his black boxers that cling to his thighs and it shouldn’t be such an erotic image, but it is.
“Fuck, Zayne…” you exhale when his erect cock springs out and briefly smacks against his toned stomach. Like the rest of him, it’s absolutely perfect. Long but not too long, thick but not too much girth that it makes you wince at the mere thought of it inside of you, and curved ever so slightly that if you weren’t taking the time to admire it, you wouldn’t notice.
There’s a tingle that you can no longer ignore, forcing you to press your thighs together. You’re so wet that you can feel your pussy lips slide against each other every time you shift your hips to suppress the ache.
You grasp him in your hand and the way he borderline falls apart has you gushing. His mouth is slightly parted and his face flushed as you stroke him enough to give his cock some relief.
“Does that feel good?” You swipe your thumb over the tip like you’ve see so many times in videos before and the reaction he has is breathtaking. He nods frantically, his heartbeat pulsing rapidly in his strong neck.
“Please let me touch you,” he begs. “You’re supposed to be feeling good, too.”
“I already do.” You start to jerk him off, feeling the weight of his dick in your hand as you use his precum to get him wet. “I’m yours, Zayne. Touch me as much as you want.”
What kind of man would he be to not listen to his woman?
He quickly makes work of your tedious bra, getting it off of you and immediately sucking on your tits like it’s all that was on his mind during your teasing. You cry out when he gently bites your sensitive nub before switching over to the other to give it some attention. At the same time, he snakes his hand into your panties.
You instinctively raise your leg to give him room as he works your clit, your hips bucking against him while he circles you beneath his fingertip. Together, you use your hands to stoke each other’s raging fire.
“Baby, that feels so good,” you whine when his hot tongue lays flat against your peak before licking around it like it’s a skill he’s had all along. His fingers keep their steady pace as you continue to drench them in your pleasure. Then he slides one finger inside, the feeling of him infinitely better than when you do it to yourself.
“Lay down,” he mumbles, getting one more quick suck before you pull back to get into your bed. You watch him pull his clothes off all the way, your legs spread as your panties dig in between the plush lips of your cunt.
Zayne picks up his pants briefly to dig into his pocket and when he pulls out a condom, you can’t help but smile.
“I’ve never carried one before until I met you,” he admits, tossing it on your end table for easy access when it’s time. “I always knew it would be you and humans are spontaneous creatures—as we’re proving.”
He climbs into the bed, getting in between your legs and caressing the outside of your thighs as he admires the dampened fabric of where your juices have soaked your underwear. “I just wanted to be prepared for when it happened.”
Irresponsibly enough, you were ready to fuck him raw, but you won’t admit that out loud.
“I’m ready for you, Zayne,” you rest your hand on his jaw, running your finger across his lips like he always does to yours. He shudders at your touch. “But if I said that I wanted to be on top, would you let me?”
“You don’t need my permission. I already told you,” he leans down to kiss you. “You’re in control.
You get up and he doesn’t need you to tell him to sit so that you can get ready to climb in his lap. While you work your panties down your legs, he rips the packaging of the condom with his teeth and you nearly drool as you watch him work the rubber down his hard cock.
Riding Zayne has been a fantasy you’ve had for far too long. You’re more than confident that you can take him like this—it’s like your body is screaming at you to not let the opportunity pass when it’s right there for you to take.
“Look at me,” he commands you gently as your knees rest on either side of him. “Don’t hesitate to stop or tell me to if it gets too much. Your safety and comfort comes first.”
“Okay,” you breathe. With one more look into your eyes, he guides his dick to your quivering hole and the pleasure is instantaneous.
The moment the crown of his cock pushes inside you and you begin to sink your hips down, you and him are moaning like you’ve never felt anything so perfect and if you were to ask each other, your answer would be the same—you haven’t.
There’s no pain, no resistance—nothing that makes you want to stop when he starts to become familiar with the way you feel on the inside.
If he feels this good with a condom on, you’re convinced that the day you have him without one will be the day you conceive your first child.
“Zayne..” you pant, looking down to watch how he disappears completely into your heat. The first time you grind your hips and your clit gets that spark of friction, you have to pause before you lost yourself completely.
Below you, your boyfriend is unable to think straight and for the first time in your life, you’re witnessing your man have no semblance of control. When your tight walls sucked him inside, he was so sure that he was close to coming, but he refused to end something so good, so soon.
With his hands on your hips, he holds you firmly while you start to find your comfort zone, your movement becoming consistent as you work towards giving him and you the satisfaction you’re looking for.
You never expected Zayne to be so vocal and it encourages you more than it shocks you. With hooded eyes, he whimpers without a care in the world the more he pulses inside of you, his grip shifting in strength as he tries his hardest to make sure you get there first. You press yourself closer to him, letting the squelching sounds of your pussy suffocating him be all the reassurance you need that you’re doing it right.
“I’m close, love,” he warns you, sweat beading at his hairline the faster you go. Your thighs burn, but it only adds to the bliss.
You’re right there too, feeling that familiar coil in your stomach that’s grown tenfold when you share this kind of moment with the man you love. You rock yourself faster as his strong arms hold you tight, giving his cock no room to breathe the closer your orgasm approaches.
“You’re….oh fuck, ‘s so good,” you cry. “I’m gonna…Zayne, ‘m coming—” You bury your face in his neck when you start creaming around his length, your hips slowing but still going as you feel the condom swell inside of you when he spills his load into it. Briefly, you wished you could’ve felt it leak out of you instead.
You feel how his chest rises when yours falls as you kiss down his shoulder after you take the time to settle and relish in the feeling you can’t quite name, but you want to have it all the time.
“That was nice,” you hum. “Really nice.”
“It was.” His hands smooth down your back tenderly. “How do you feel?”
“Amazing.”
“Good. On that we can agree.”
You sit back to look at him, biting your lip with a grin. “You…have another condom?”
“No, unfortunately.” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “But I can make a trip to the store for a box.”
“Are we being greedy?”
“Greed implies that we’ve selfishly overindulged ourselves. That was our first time, love.” He kisses the corner of your lips. “We are far from being finished.”
You repeat his words, knowing that he’s absolutely right.
“On that, we can agree.”
A/N: I wanted to ask you guys: Do you like when I give you a whole bunch of plot/backstory before I start jumping into smut or do you just want smut? I think it’s the book writer in me that’s always trying to give something before I dive into the sex LOLLL!! Also, let me know what you think about this one (if you’re comfortable). I’m sure you noticed there wasn’t as much dialogue because as two inexperienced people having sex for the first time, I’m sure dirty talking/actions wouldn’t really be happening, so this fic is really vanilla & mainly based on visualizing. I hope I wrote it vividly enough. I talked a lot on this post, didn’t I? LOLLL OKAY, I LUV YOU! BYE!
#love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#love and deespace smut#love and deepspace zayne#zayne smut#zayne x you#zayne x reader#lads x you#lads smut#lads zayne
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𐔌 . ⋮ studying for finals .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
☓┆ Third Years x gn! reader
𓏵 930 words
ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff, once again, pardon the French in Rook's part; I just used a translator TT
In honor of finishing my finals hehe >< First Years are done! Second Years are done, too! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!
ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist
Cater’s cheerful on the outside, but you can tell he’s not super thrilled about studying, he’s more into vibes than vocab drills. Still, he sticks around because he wants to help.
He’ll suggest making colorful flashcards or recording voice memos to make memorizing more fun. He’s surprisingly organized when he has structure.
“Ughhh, do we really gotta go over this section again? Wait, no no—I'm not ditching! Just…brain break time?”
He encourages you with lighthearted jabs that never feel mean.
“Hey, look at you go! If you keep this up, I might have to start copying your notes!”
You’ll catch him checking your focus sometimes, because if you’re serious about passing, then he will be too.
Later he might post a vague Magicam story like “Studying with real ones hits different.” (It’s about you. You just don’t know it.)
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Trey’s the ideal balance of calm and productive. Studying with him feels like sipping warm tea; you feel focused, safe, and cared for.
He’s great at helping you memorize, especially if it’s related to logic or patterns.
If your stomach growls, he’s already reaching for a snack box.
“Take a break. A fed brain is a smart brain.”
When you thank him, he smiles softly.
“Of course. I don’t mind helping you. You work hard, and that matters.”
You leave the session with a full mind and a fuller heart.
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Leona acts like he’s so bored to be studying, but he’s sharper than he lets on.
The two of you probably end up studying while lying in the sun somewhere, textbooks propped open lazily.
He explains things with blunt efficiency and grumbles if you miss easy questions, but never actually leaves.
“Tch. I already told you how to do that. C’mon, you’re smarter than this.”
But the moment you get something right?
“... Heh, See? Knew you’d catch on.”
He never says it, but studying with you keeps him grounded. He’d rather be here than anywhere else.
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Studying with Vil feels like an academic runway—organized, composed, and elegantly intense.
He has high expectations, but he’s not cold—he wants you to shine.
When you struggle, he gently adjusts your notes or posture, never harsh, just… precise.
“Hold yourself with pride. Intelligence and beauty go hand in hand.”
If you impress him, he offers genuine praise, touching his chest like a pleased director.
“Very good. See? I knew you were capable of excellence.”
You leave feeling like you just passed a personal trial. You want to be better around him.
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Studying with Rook is an experience. He romanticizes everything; he calls your learning process “sublime,” your confusion “a poetic struggle,” and your notes “a canvas.”
He watches your face intensely as you read, commenting on how you furrow your brows in thought.
“Magnifique! Such raw focus—c’est inspirant!”
Somehow he knows random facts that are on the exam, and he quizzes you with flair.
He’ll dramatically recite questions like they’re lines in a play, then wink when you answer correctly.
It’s weirdly motivating… and kind of fun.
─────────────────────────
When you first ask to study with Idia, he panics. “W-Wait, like, in-person? Together? In the same room??” You can practically hear the error sounds in his head.
But he doesn’t say no. After a few awkward silences and you settling in quietly, he lets you stay.
Idia doesn’t really “study” in the traditional sense—he breezes through calculations and logic-based subjects like he’s speedrunning a strategy game.
He’ll mutter explanations more to himself than to you, but when you ask questions, he’ll blink and repeat it more clearly (and slowly).
“Oh. Uh… right, okay. So if you think of the equation like cooldown rotation, then this variable's basically your setup move…”
He never expects praise, so when you do praise him, he just about bluescreens. His hair flickers pink for 0.3 seconds before he turns away with a rushed “N-Not really… It’s not like I did anything cool…”
The study session ends in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Before you leave, he says, without looking up, “If you… ever need help again… I guess I’m around.”
It’s not an invitation, not exactly. But you both know you’ll be back.
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Studying with Malleus is quiet, focused, and oddly soothing. He asks questions that feel more like philosophical riddles, and you both end up tangenting into historical lore.
He’s incredibly patient. If you stumble, he waits for you to find your footing.
“Take your time. Knowledge is not a race.”
He listens to your thoughts with full attention, occasionally giving this small, amused smile when you think aloud.
If you fall asleep mid-study, he quietly watches over you like a protective shadow.
You always leave feeling like you learned something deeper than academics.
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Studying with Lilia is unpredictable. Sometimes he’s wise and composed, helping you connect concepts like a veteran mage. Other times, he’s humming pop songs and offering “ancient” study tips that are 500 years out of date.
“In my day, we wrote essays with quills made from wyvern feathers! So much character…”
He makes learning fun, even if he occasionally leads you wildly off-topic.
He praises your efforts with a proud chuckle.
“You’ve improved so much! I’d say I’m proud, but I’ve always been proud of you.”
You never know what to expect—but it’s always a lovely time.
#۶ৎ qka daydreams!#twisted wonderland#twst#disney twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#cater diamond#cater diamond x reader#cater diamond x you#trey clover#trey clover x reader#trey clover x you#leona kingscholar#leona kingscholar x reader#leona kingscholar x you#vil schoenheit#vil schoenheit x reader#vil schoenheit x you#rook hunt#rook hunt x reader#rook hunt x you#idia shroud#idia shroud x reader#idia shroud x you#malleus draconia#malleus draconia x reader#malleus draconia x you#lilia vanrouge#lilia vanrouge x reader#lilia vanrouge x you
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𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬|𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐮𝐥 !
contexts: just some adorable headcanons about the Heartslabyul boys
— Riddle : Trey : Cater : Ace : Deuce: x gn!reader. no cw/tw. cute headcanons. pt1! Pic: Leo08ph on twt, dividers: uzmacchiato
riddle rosehearts ༉⋆。˚
First, I don't think this is a surprise to anyone but he gets flustered very easily. he doesn't know what to do with his hands when you hold them. practically going into full shutdown mode if you kiss him on the cheek.
Riddle tries to come off as strict and respectable, but when he relaxes, he says things like, “You did well… I’m proud of you,” only to instantly stiffen as if to say, “Oh no, was that too much?”
He makes tea for you every morning and you can bet he'll pack you snacks. He'll give you some excuse like, “I thought you might need a boost today,”
He organizes perfect tea parties with fresh scones, fruit tarts (thanks to Trey), and your favorite tea at just the right temperature. preparing everything and acts like it’s no big deal.
He overthinks everything you do. If you brush his hand while walking together, he’ll spiral for the rest of the night wondering, “Was that on purpose? Were they cold? Should I have offered my coat?!”
He’s not so big on PDA. He will probably allow hand-holding but only that. If it's inside then he will give you all the affection you want.
You might be his S/O but you aren’t exempt from being punished accordingly if you break any rules but maybe he’ll go a teensy bit soft on you.
He will be on you 24/7 to make sure you are doing okay in classes. He’s only strict on you because he loves you and wants you to succeed.
trey clover ༉⋆。˚
He makes special desserts just for you based on your preferences. If you casually mention liking strawberry shortcake once, congratulations! That’s now your official treat.
When he's flustered or stressed, he bakes to calm down, and you're always the first person he shares the “test batch” with.
His touches are so gentle and sweet, like the lightest caress, as he playfully brushes crumbs off your face or gently pats your head in a quiet moment.
He notices when you’re tired or when you just need a break from people—he'll helps you without making a fuss.
His gaze lingers longer than you'd expect; he looks at you as if memorizing every detail for later—your eyelashes, your smile lines, all of it.
He quietly does things to make your life easier, like carrying your books, adjusting your schedule, or making your snacks. Yet when you thank him, he just shrugs it off with, “I don’t mind. I like doing things for you.”
He’s like a pocket-sized survival kit, always prepared with tissues, bandages, or spare pens; essentially, he's a walking “prepared boyfriend.”
He listens incredibly well; you mention something just once, and he remembers it months later.
He always walks you home after late club meetings or dorm activities—always.
cater diamond ༉⋆。˚
Deep down, he’s a bit worried about being forgotten or replaced, so when he falls, he falls hard.
At first, he flirts casually, but when he realizes his feelings are real, he pauses for a moment and then says, “You… really mean a lot to me. Like, seriously. A bit scary, huh?”
If you tell him he doesn’t have to put on a show around you, he’ll show you his softer side, resting his head on your shoulder in comfy silence.
He’s somewhat into PDA, he’s not necessarily against it and he wasn’t one to deny you whenever you get the urge to touch him. Holding hands? Okay! A kiss on the cheek? Okay! Hugs? Also Okay! He would accept all of that with open arms. And maybe he’ll put in a little kiss here and there when he can, he can’t help but feel a little bit mischievous whenever you’re near.
Sends you sweet random texts like “Thinking of you right now” (Translation: he’s missing you and hoping you’re having an great day!)
He created entire playlists and claims it’s just for fun, but you know it’s special!
Surprises you with flowers or little trinkets saying, “Saw this and thought of you~!” because he loves making you smile.
Personalizes your contact in his phone with cute hearts, sparkles, and a picture of you laughing—his absolute favorite, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
Always capturing candid moments of you—your camera roll is filled with adorable shots labeled “cutie caught off guard!”
ace trappola ༉⋆。˚
Constantly teasing you, dropping half-hearted pick-up lines just to see you roll your eyes—but if you ever return the energy? He short-circuits. “You’re blushing!” — “No I’m not, shut up!!”
Give you snacks he “just happened to grab two of” even though he clearly picked them because you mentioned liking them once.
He secretly sketches cute little doodles of you in his notebooks—but denies it if you happen to find them.
He'll lend you his hoodies saying, “Just make sure to give it back!” But deep down, he loves seeing you wear them.
If you’re having a bad day, he won’t make a big deal out of it—he’ll just find some dumb ways to make you laugh.
He’ll argue with you over stupidity things like “who gets the last cookie” just to be bratty… and then sneak some cookies into your bag later.
Loves inside jokes. He’ll start referencing that one moment from two months ago just to make you smile when no one else gets it.
Late-night convos while lying upside down on a couch, Sneaking snacks into class, Mock arguments about who’s cooler (he always says it’s him—but still smiles when you insist it’s you). Him doing dumb magic tricks with cards just to impress you, Secret, soft forehead kisses when you’re half asleep.
He tries. Like, he really tries. And sometimes he messes up because he’s immature or overthinks it, but he always owns up to it. “I was being kinda dumb earlier, huh? …Sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
He cares a lot about you! SOS him and he’ll come running as fast as he can to help you with everything you need. He wants you to rely on him whenever you need help.
deuce spade ༉⋆。˚
Not much changes after you start dating. You still hang out with friends, go to classes together and still get into some trouble together just like always. However, he feels happier and more at ease now that you two are dating.
He's excited to explore all the romantic couple activities he's seen in films or read about, enjoying them with you without Ace and Grimm around.
Will walk you to class like it’s a knight’s duty, even if it makes him late.
Tries to act chill when he’s flustered, but ends up stumbling over his words and laughing awkwardly. It’s adorable.
He enjoys hearing you talk about your interests, even if he doesn’t grasp every detail—he loves seeing your excitement and energy.
Loves doing small favors for you. most of the time, he shows his care through acts of service. Carrying your books, walking you home, making sure you eat—but always brushes it off with, “It’s nothing, Just being helpful.” (But then he glows the rest of the day.)
Gets ridiculously excited over small thank-yous or praise—it fuels him for the whole week.
He’s incredibly soft with animals. He’ll crouch down to help a baby bird or carry a caterpillar off the path so it won’t get stepped on.
#twst#twst wonderland#twst x reader#twisted wonderland#twst headcanons#twisted wonderland x reader#riddle rosehearts#riddle rosehearts x reader#riddle x reader#trey clover#trey clover x reader#trey x reader#cater diamond#cater diamond x reader#cater x reader#ace trappola#ace trappola x reader#ace x reader#deuce spade#deuce spade x reader#deuce x reader
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The Tattoo (part one)
After scarabias overblot, and seeing what ace and Deuce were willikg to do for you, you were so touched that you decided ro get them tattooed on your body as a small heart and a spade. After that chaos ensues-
I'd you wanna read the while prolouge, then it's here
Ace is oh so smug! What's this? You chose him?? Of course you would! he was your first friend here in twisted wonderland, and he will continue to be your first in everything else... <3
He cant stop bragging about the tattoo, landing him in several collars from an enraged riddle and in frights with equally enraged students, but they can't do anything because you chose him of course! (Keep speaking like that delulu man and you will end up seriously hurt).


He cant stop thinking of the tattoo, loving how it matches his red heart on the eye to a T. As soon as he has enough money he's getting a tattoo of you, he promises himself that. He might ad well also get you a wedding ring right here right now-

He wants you to fill in the heart, as to show you chose him and not that goody two shoes Deuce! Pleaee please please do...

Deuce wants to cry out of happiness. You, the most beautiful and amazing and awesome and loveable and most godlike (crush) friend he could have, you have a tattoo of something referring to him..? He cant believe it. He feels his eyes well up in tears, it's too good to be true.

But he sees the tattoo etched into your skin, and he cant help bur he of so mesmerised with it. He cant stop staring, stop touching, stop csressing the scarfed skin where the ink is. He truly is Lucky isn't He...

He has already called his mom and told her EVERYHTING (well, everything this he has "seen" (delusional boy)) that has happened, and started taking about ehat wedding ring to give you with her. She is so exited her little boy is having such a beautiful relationship, you cant break her heart now can you..

Like Ace, he wants you to fill in the spade, to show that you chose him! Not that meany yucky Ace! He will always be the better option after all- he knows how to take care of you (and how to beat up the others!)

Cater feels awful. He wants to cry, he wants to sob, he wants to go lie in a hole and pass away. He thought you two were such great friends (he wants that friends to lovers arc)... why, why did you only get Ace and Deuce?? Is he not goof enough for you? He will change, he promises! Just please love him, chose him...

He will plant small hints. Oh this cute trend about matching tattoos, oh look this design looks amazing, yada yada yada... he will have a matching tattoo with you, and he will pull any strings to make it happen.


Trey feels off. He knows he isn't too close to you like those two Ace and Deuce, bur he knows you value him. Why did you only chose those two then? You csnt just get half the deck like that, its all or nothing. He tills you this only to have a chance of you getting his symbol on you. He would do anything for it.

He decides to do it himself, to show you how good it would look on you. You would look simply divine with that clover on you, you both know it. Please, please chose him, he will take care of you oh so well...


Riddle is furious. Red on the face, voice pitched up a notch, his hand reaching for his pen. This is unacceptable!! How DARE you marr your beautiful skin with these RULEBREAKERS symbols??!?!? He has to tlak some sense into you.


He expects a 10k word essay on how you were wrong and that you're sorry, along with a tart or two and a matching tattoo with him (that is bigger than both Ace and Deuce's tattoos combined-)

Jack is conflicted. He is in your close circle of friends. He hangs our with you everyday, he takes care of you (unlike those two dumbass cards), why did you chose them over him? It's unfair.

He will be way more protective of you. He has to show you he's the best for you, your one true mate, for life.. it can only be him, no one else. He would scent you as well, just like ruggie.


Ruggie wants to sob right in front of you. Why would you chose someone over him? He knows he isn't the smartest, the richest, bur he sure loves you the most! He will fight tooth and nail for that title!-
He will show it to you, he will show how he is the nest husband for you that there is, the most attentive! He will show you...

He also cannot afford to get you a tattoo, so instead he scents you, be that with his clothes, his cologne, anything that works he sure will do- for you, for your relationship..


Leona feels sick. You, chose someone over him? He is supposed to be your number one, you only.. just like how he is to you! This is unfair, he feels himself ger angrier and angrier the longer he thinks about it. He WILL have you and he for sure will have matching tattoos with your..


He is incredibly protective of you even after the chaos dies down, curling his tail around any of your available limbs and holding his hand right over the tattoo you have of those two dumbasses..

He even gives you some super expensive bracelets out of pure gold just to cover up that damn tattoo (he doesn't wanna hurt you but he still wants to rip that thing off of your body, only he gets to mark you)

I am incredibly sorry for the long wait, I got sick and have been so busy with everything else I couldn't get it done until now, bur I hope you all like the first part of the tattoo!!
Ily all and I wanna especially thank @yanknowalready for their beautiful writing in my comments, i would've made this post sm smaller if it weren't for your amazing ideas!- if anyone has ideas for tattoos for the other charas, ro tell in the comments I would love to hear them! <3
#yandere twst#yandere twisted wonderland#yandere twst art#yandere twisted wonderland art#yandere twisted#yandere twisted art#yandere ace#yandere ace trappola#yandere deuce#yandere deuce spade#yandere cater#yandere cater diamond#yandere trey#yandere trey clover#yandere riddle#yandere riddle rosehearts#yandere jack#yandere jack howl#yandere ruggie#yandere ruggie bucchi#yandere leona#yandere leona kingscholar#the tattoo series
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pink stationery ❤️🩹 w.jh
synopsis: everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other. genre: co-workers to lovers ; angst, fluff. pairing: office worker!wen junhui x fem!reader word count: 7.9k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: it's stupidly vague and i'm sorry for that. minimal swearing, i guess? mentions of eating and food. they're just stupid what to listen to: starstarstar - dosii ; take me - miso ; say yes - seventeen ; heart burn - sunmi ; i was made for lovin' you - kiss. author's note: i'm going to be honest, i've been having a really hard time with life and i just wanted to write something regardless of deadlines and expectations. i also don't care if it makes sense, i just wanna write. i love my collabs, though, and they will get done. i just want to be vague and mysterious and stupid for a moment in time and not worry. welcome our beloved junhui to the haologram blog <3 i've missed him so dearly. [star dividers] by @/saradika-graphics here on tumblr, and thank you to cam for the bar name! enjoy!

HE SMELLS LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.
He smells like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and he picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to your desk by lunchtime on Monday afternoons.
That was the extent of your relationship with him, and really, any of your co-workers. He’d never spoken a word to you (not that you could remember, anyway) but has somehow figured out that you like pinecones. Particularly not ones that smell like cardboard boxes from the home section at Marshall’s.
No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you as a person.
No invitations to drinks after work – you see them enough as it is. You hang up on remote meetings without saying much of anything, and you’re usually the first to leave the call without so much as a goodbye. Your emails and short and dry, signed off with only your name. You avoid the catered lunches provided by whatever restaurant your company paid out and stick to wedging yourself into the sixth-floor storage room with your package of fruit snacks and a sad turkey sandwich. There was a pink chair in the corner that you liked and tried multiple times to convince Mike (the janitor) to let you have but he refused.
You do not make eye contact during breaks, and you don’t stop by the break room for coffee or complimentary muffins. You lied about why once, when you were asked by a coworker – and absently claimed a gluten allergy, only to be seen eating bread a few hours later. That coworker hasn’t spoken to you since, and you don’t think she plans to.
But him?
He started talking about two years ago, a year after you joined the company. He started talking too much, you could argue, but he would say it’s just enough.
He’s too friendly, you thought. He dropped by your desk with a warm cup of tea every morning, if not your precious Monday morning pinecone. He slid a soft, lemon-blueberry muffin under your nose with a soft smile every once in a while. He asked you to lunch, to drinks, and he always sent you a separate follow-up email after remote meetings when he could very well just add your tasks to the bottom of the mass list he always sends in the group mail.
He was just above you on the corporate ladder, but you felt no pressure to answer him in terms of social interaction. He didn’t make it a point, either – he just existed in your vicinity, and only came into your space when you allowed. Quite like a cat, you are.
He told you about his life, quietly, calmly. He told you about how he learned wushu growing up, and how he played piano. He told you about how he got the cabin as a gift from a friend who was moving abroad, unlikely to return and much less spend time in the quiet woods surrounding your town. He told you about his late-night snacking habit, about his cat, Luna. He told you about his best friend, Minghao, and how he was the best man at his wedding a few years ago.
But above all?
He listened to you.
He looked at you like every word from your mouth held weight, carefully nodding along to your mumbled stories of troubled childhood. He listened to you talk about your favorite dish, your favorite color, even your theories about how middle children suffer the most. He laughed at your wry jokes, the dry humor – though he would bite it back at the deadpan comments you’d make during department meetings.
He always sat next to you in those department meetings. His knee was always just barely brushing yours, the soft material of his slacks making your skin prickle as it touched your bare thigh. He’d pass you doodled notes on his pink stationery with My Melody on the edges. He always adjusted the hem of your skirt down subtly when you stood up and pushed your chair in after you skirted around it. He waited until you’d gathered all your materials to leave, walking alongside you back to your desk even if his was across the office.
And it made people wonder what about you had his attention so deeply.
You’re not interesting to any of them, you never had been. You’re a liar (about a gluten allergy, of all things) and the kind of quiet that made them feel stupid if you looked at them for too long. They felt like you were judging them, when really – you were hoping they’d speed up their long-winded questions to end the painfully awkward social aspect of you fixing their problems.
Sometimes, he’d send you home early to help you escape their judging eyes.
He’d send you an email – the subject line usually only taken up by “🏠?” The body usually contained nothing more than a new picture of Luna, but you always appreciated it.
He’d be looking over the edge of his monitor to watch you hear the dreaded Outlook ding, your eyes slightly lighting up at the sound before really brightening the moment you saw it was him. You’d look over the edge of your monitor, raising a brow that didn’t hide your shy smile as you sent him an email back before quietly packing your bag and slipping out of the office.
It was always just a meme you’d found during your lunchtime Pinterest scroll – one you’re sure he’d seen you add to your shared board.
Because, of all things, he’d chosen to first share his Pinterest with you. You saw his dream home, vintage cars, cool jewelry and the stupid memes he liked you send you in the middle of the night when he was thinking of you.
You still reread that text, he sent it over a year ago.
MESSAGE FROM: Wen Junhui ♡ [2:32AM] of course i think about you. [2:33AM] i think about you all the time. after breakfast, when you try to sneak out of the office to hide in that storage room upstairs. even outside of work, sometimes i see things i think you’d like. but i mostly think about you now. [2:34AM] i think it’s a comfort that you pass my mind before i go to bed. or maybe just an association i've made with the fact that i check our board every night to see if you’ve added anything. [2:35AM] but...i prefer the former, honestly. goodnight, y/n. sleep well. ♡
You added the little heart to his contact name that same night.
Granted, things between you and him never went further. He talked to you, he walked with you around the office, he gave you many ways to contact him outside of work even if you never texted him first. He shared moments of his day with you if you missed work or worked from home – which was rare and always worried him. He would send pictures of a lone pinecone sitting on your mousepad if you weren’t there when he delivered it, followed by whatever random emoji he felt fit the mood. Sometimes it was a hazelnut, sometimes it was a cat.
Sometimes, it was the heart wrapped in a bandage.
You tried not to overthink it.
But it was hard not to notice the whispers about him.
How a lot of your coworkers talked about him, and how cute he is. How sweet, smart, gentle. How he’s soft-spoken until he’s around his friends, even though you knew that his best friend was just as soft spoken. He worked two floors down, Xu Minghao.
You met Minghao and his wife (and the rest of their shared friends) the first time you were ever invited out for drinks – and the first time you ever hesitated to say no.
Junhui managed to get you right in the nick of time, too – right as the clock struck five. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to log out of your programs when he leaned over the wall of your cubicle with a twinkle in his eye that made your chest ache.
“Have a drink with me. My friends are coming, too, but you know. I’ll be there.”
And you had more than a drink – you had a good time. You had three blood orange margaritas and a sip of his beer, but it was like you were shining brighter than a million suns. You let yourself sink into the soft vinyl of the booth, surrounded by him and his scent and his friends. You let yourself talk, out loud and with gusto about everything. You were uninhibited, and you remember how they all warmly smiled as Junhui pushed your hair out of your eyes as you talked about how there was no way the megalodon shark was extinct.
He walked you home that night, the two of you a little too tipsy to navigate the train or drive. He walked on the sidewalk closest to the street and held your pinchy heels in his fingers, letting you skip around and complain about the humidity. He only smiled, his hip bumping yours every once in a while, when you swayed a bit too far.
When you got back to your apartment, he waited against the railing in front of your doorstep to watch you step inside. You remember hesitating before asking him if he wanted to come in for a nightcap.
His eyes widened, and for a moment – he considered it. You saw how his eyes flickered to your lips, before he cleared his throat.
“Maybe another night. Thank you for coming out with me tonight, I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming.”
It hadn’t been, but his soft rejection was certainly disappointing. You shook your head then, staring at him for a split second more before speaking.
“It was nice. I’d...I’d like to do it again, sometime. Just us.”
You smiled softly, before giving him a curt nod and slipping into your apartment before he could respond. You leaned against the door, sliding down the cool wood before hearing him utter a soft goodnight.
Since then, the two of you had gone for drinks over and over again – just the two of you, and with his friends. When it was just you, he’d talk about everything and anything under the sun. But when it was with his friends?
They really liked you, enjoying the excitement that they never saw in the office. One of them, Kwon Soonyoung in finance, offhandedly mentioned that they hadn’t known you and Junhui were friends until he started mentioning you at random moments. Your face had felt hot as the rest of them giggled and agreed, with Minghao’s wife letting it slip that ‘random moments’ meant any time he could.
“Yeah, he brings you up a lot. Oh, Y/N likes this. Y/N would love that. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. It’s so cute.”
You don’t remember Junhui refuting it, but you remember the flustered blush that settled in his cheeks after that. Things between you and him didn’t change, though.
Until they did – one month, three days later, Junhui got a girlfriend.
It was like he had vanished entirely – gone were the warm cups of tea on your desk, the muffins, the pinecones. No more invites to lunch or drinks with him or his friends. No longer did you receive emails asking if you wanted to go home early, no more pictures of Luna, no more separate follow-up emails outlining your tasks after remote meetings.
None of it really bothered you, until you realized that your shared board hadn’t been updated by him in a while. Then, you noticed it, truly – he'd unfollowed you. Pinterest, Instagram, even Spotify. Spotify!
He didn’t sit next to you at department meetings, either. No more passed notes, no more pushing your chair in. And he rushed out right after, not bothering to even speak to you.
And people noticed.
You hadn’t realized that by allowing yourself to associate with Junhui and his friends, you became more than a blip on people’s radar. People knew your name; they knew your face. The girls gossiped about what he could possibly see in you, unaware that you were reapplying deodorant in one of the stalls. Men speculated about your relationship status, wondering amongst themselves if you were open-minded – while they stood outside for a smoke, making you scrunch your nose in disgust at them for more reasons than one.
People knew you – his friends, still said hello in the hallways. Minghao, gave you warm smiles and extended invites to drinks that you’d swiftly decline – with excuses of working late, of being tired, or whispering that time of the month. He always nodded, smiled...but you knew he didn’t believe you.
Once you realized Junhui was avoiding you for what you believed was a girlfriend, it took you less than twelve hours to get back to your reserved demeanor. As long as you didn’t make noise in your cubicle, no one came around – and people realized then that your gaze wasn’t mean to intimidate or judge, but to time. You didn’t want to talk to anyone you didn’t have to, more than you needed to – and that was bothersome to most of them.
Of course it was; in their minds, they’re great.
They’re a catch, they’re fun to be around.
But they’re not him.
They’ve never cared to ask you a single thing about yourself beyond your relationship status and where you got your shoes. You always just stared until they left or mumbled something about the local DSW.
Things with him never returned to the easy friendship you thought was starting to form, even as you rung in the new year at the company party. It made you sad.
Maybe because you had a bit of a crush on him, actually.
You thought a little too hard about the meanings behind his messages, the pictures of his weekend retreats to his cabin that he insisted you were always welcome at, especially if his friends were there. You missed the shared memes, the shared playlists, the way he’d sometimes find you inside the sixth-floor storage room, sitting on the dusty pink chair that always made him smile a little too fondly.
You liked Junhui, more than just a cubicle crush that you could discuss with your girlfriends that you didn’t have.
But he had one. One that meant more to him than you ever would, even with the way he opened his heart to you.
You thought about what he shared with you – videos of him playing the piano at Minghao’s wedding for his first dance with his wife. He shared his presence and comfort, often walking you home and your hands always brushed. You felt like a schoolgirl every time you’d tuck your hand into your pocket. You once got caught in the rain together and stood under the bus stop before he fished his headphones out of his pocket and gave you one.
He played starstarstar by Dosii as he pulled you out from under the safety of the bus stop, and the two of you walked to your apartment instead. Hand-in-hand, soaked to the bone, with the string of his headphones forcing even more proximity that made your cheeks heat.
You don’t remember who interlaced your fingers. If it was you...you’re still happy. It means he was okay with it, maybe he wanted to.
If it was him?
He definitely wanted to.
However, it’s all filed in your memories now – because you look over your monitor to see his brows fixed in concentration as he types across his keyboard, with you not even a blip on his radar. You watch carefully as he reads his own words over and over, before his eyes flicker up and meet yours.
You’re not surprised when his shoulders sag for the umpteenth time, and he looks away.
Like he wants to say something. Like he wants to talk to you, but the words get caught in his throat and he can’t seem to get them out. It’s been a year since you’ve spoken, and you would’ve forgotten the sound of his voice if he wasn’t your co-worker – but you never forget that night last spring, drenched in the rain.
You would’ve kissed him; you could have kissed him.
It’s spring, again.
You walk to the train station after work in silence, with nothing playing in your headphones for the first time. You sit in between an elderly couple and a lone high school girl absently staring at a long thread of messages on her phone. They’re all left unanswered, and she repeatedly fills the text box with words before deleting them and starting over.
You feel like that girl – except she’s brave enough to ask for answers and you’re gripping your purse in a claustrophobic panic.

It’s a Wednesday in summer when you finally get tired of waiting for answers. Almost a year to the date when he first asked you to get drinks with him, you get an idea.
Have a drink with me tonight.
That's all it says.
You stand over the copy machine, the sticky note you scribbled on moments earlier folded neatly in your hand. You wrote and rewrote it at your desk, your hands trembling and smearing the ink. You had to walk past his desk to submit the paperwork you were making copies of, and you planned to slip it onto his mousepad on the way back to your own.
You don’t get a chance to do that, though.
Your eyes are closed when you hear the copy room door open, but you don’t bother to look up as that same woodsy smell fills your nostrils.
He doesn’t speak, but you know it’s him.
You know, from the smell of lumber and the click of his shoes and the tension that makes you feel suffocated as you peer over your shoulder. He’s silent, thumbing at his own paperwork. He only glances up when he feels your eyes on him, but this time, you don’t look away.
His jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie slightly loosened. You’d stare if it wasn’t against girl code to ogle someone else’s man.
You turn, fully facing him as your last copy gets stapled by the machine and slides out. You gather them in your arms, before holding them to your chest and holding the sticky note out to him between two fingers. He glances at the hot pink paper, swallowing carefully before reaching for it.
You give him a soft smile, before spinning on your heel and heading out of the room without a word.
You’re moving at lightning speed to get out of the office before he can get a chance to catch up with you – shoving your copies into your manager’s hands with a rushed run-down of the day’s events and outages. You thank her with a bow, before beelining for your desk and yanking your purse out of the bottom drawer.
You make it to the elevator without him noticing you, your eyes catching a flash of his white shirt and the hot pink paper unfolded in his hand.
You feel your phone buzz in your hand as you reach the lobby.
NEW! Message From: Wen Junhui (WORK) [5:32PM] where?
It’s nearing seven when he finally has the courage to get out of his car.
He’s been sitting in front of the bar for ten minutes, hoping to see you walk by. If you’re late, you won’t notice that he is.
Message From: Y/N ♡ [5:35PM] at dizzy’s [5:35PM] 6:30?
He waits another three minutes, watching the corner before his hand finally grabs the door handle and pulls.
He sees you almost instantly, sitting quietly at a booth in the back. You’re not in your work clothes anymore, instead wearing a soft red dress and your hair is pinned back. You’re smiling at the waiter, who seems to be really interested in talking to you as he slides a margarita on the table. He holds the menu out, only for you to shake your head.
He watches your glossed lips shape around the words: I’m waiting for someone.
Him. He’s the someone.
He wants to be the only one. Ever.
He tongues his cheek as the waiter nods, patting the vinyl of the booth above your head. You lean your head back slightly, closing your eyes as your forefinger picks at your thumb’s cuticle. A nervous habit of yours, one he’d picked up on the first time he spoke to you.
About pinecones, actually – but you don’t remember that at all. He doesn’t know what possessed him to bring them up – but he learned, through your hushed whisper in the elevator that morning – that you liked them. You like pinecones, because they are so diverse while all still being the same thing.
He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now – albeit differently.
He was like the pinecones, because he tried to show you that he liked you in so many ways...through the invites to drinks, the lunch, the shared memes.
The pinecones.
Sliding warm tea on your desk and lemon-blueberry muffins, to cracking jokes and passing notes to you on his pink My Melody stationery. To pulling your hair out and brushing your hair out of your face, to letting his friends embarrass him by practically outing his interest in you every time they got together with you and him for drinks at this very bar.
To walking you home, even in the rain, just to spend a little more time with you.
Only to realize that it was futile, because you didn’t see him that way.
You didn’t see him as more than a friend, but he’s not brave enough to tell you why you should.
“Hi.”
Your voice is smooth as he finally slides into the booth opposite you, his skin warming at the sound of it. He clears his throat, giving you a curt nod as he adjusts himself in his seat. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it to the side before feeling guilt begin to settle in his stomach.
“Sorry. I was...”
He gives up on coming up with an excuse, only running his hand through his hair as you nod. Your manicured fingers stir your straw in figure eights, the flash of an heirloom ring you never take off catching his eye. “I’m sorry.”
“For?” Your eyes are curious, before tilting your head. “Being late? It happens.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t know, before clearing his throat again when the waiter swoops in to save the day. He internally thanks whatever God is out there as he asks for a beer, earning a scrunch of your nose as the waiter nods and leaves once more.
You don’t say anything as he shifts, only stare. Maybe through him, maybe into him.
He doesn’t mind the warmth of your gaze. He never has.
“I didn’t know getting a girlfriend meant you’d treat me like I never existed.” You start softly, his eyes widening as you purse your lips. “I understand creating distance, because there is someone new. Someone who could perceive you and I as something more, when it’s not.”
“I...I don’t know what to say.” He admits lamely, the shock of you thinking he has a girlfriend not yet settling into his bones. “Who told you I have a girlfriend?”
You only shrug, taking a quick sip of your drink before shaking your head.
“Does it matter?”
He blinks, when the waiter slides the beer bottle on the table as he passes by. He touches it, the glass cold as he tongues his cheek.
If this is a way to get over you, by getting you believe there is someone else when there isn’t -- he’ll take it. He’ll take it because then it means he never has to tell you how he feels, and he’ll never have to face the way you reject him so kindly.
“I guess not.” “Mmh.”
You trace circles into the side of your glass with your thumb, before another smile graces your lips.
“Are you happy?”
How could you ask him that?
Of course he’s not happy.
He hasn’t had a proper conversation with you in an entire year, and he’s been too much of a coward to admit that he wants more. He wants to kiss you in the elevator, in the break room, in the storage room on the sixth floor during your lunch break. He wants to hold your hand on the way to department meetings, under the table at drinks with your friends, on the walk to your apartment before you pull him in for a good night kiss. He wants to come into your apartment for a fucking nightcap without knowing he’ll say too much and lose any chance of ever being more to you.
So instead, he pulls away.
He stops talking to you, he removes you off every social media platform he can think of, so he doesn’t have the urge to peek at your dream home board on Pinterest, or the way your dream wedding is so similar to his. So he doesn’t have to be subjected to the cute outfits you post on your Instagram story before you leave your apartment for work, even though he’ll just see it when you arrive and he’ll have to take a deep breath so he doesn’t scream about how nice you look.
So he doesn’t have to know that you’re listening to the playlist he made for you to stay calm in the packed morning train on the way to work.
On the way to him.
“No.”
Your eyes soften, your brows scrunching in that same worried way they do when you’re listening to someone explain their problems to you at work. You nod, that comforting look of understanding glazing over your eyes.
“Can I ask why?”
He doesn’t bother responding, his mind racing as he thinks about all the pinecones sitting in his car, the ones that he’s deemed perfect enough to place on your desk but hasn’t been able to. He thinks about the way you slip out of the office and how your heels sound as you sneak upstairs to the sixth floor during lunch. He thinks about when Mike caught him off-guard by coming down to his desk and saying that you liked a pink chair that was in the storage room and kept asking about it.
A pink chair that used to belong to him, when he first got the company a few months before you did.
He sighs, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and sliding two twenties on the table.
“No. It’s better if you don’t.”
He doesn’t allow himself to look at you as he slides out of the booth, his hand gripping his suit jacket much too tightly for it to go unnoticed. You don’t stand, only nod as you take another sip of your drink.
“I hope it gets better. Have a good night, Junhui.”
He fights back tears as he makes his way out of the bar, your understanding look stuck in his mind as he drives home. He doesn’t bother looking at the pinecones in his backseat or changing the playlist that blares through his speakers when he connects his phone – a playlist you made for him, for his long drive home from work.
You’re in everything he holds dear to him. The music, the cabin – even if you’ve never been there. You know him, everything about him that is worth knowing in his eyes.
Except the fact that he’s in love with you, and that he’s a liar.

JUNHUI ISN'T AT HIS DESK ON THURSDAY. OR FRIDAY.
The whispering starts on Monday, with lots of wayward glances towards you and you almost want to go down to Minghao’s desk and ask if Junhui is okay.
But you don’t -- you glue yourself to your chair until lunch time, only to see that the pink chair you loved is no longer in the storage room. Mike tells you that the original owner took it out on Wednesday night and offers a soft apology. You shake your head and say it’s okay, before turning around and going back to your desk.
You arrive at your desk on Tuesday morning to your desk chair missing. There is a warm cup of tea on a coaster, and a cranberry orange muffin in front of your keyboard – but none of it distracts from the sudden pop of color next to your mousepad.
A plastic pink storage box.
You don’t bother to put your purse down as you crack the corner up, and your eyes widen as you realize it’s full of pinecones. There’s an envelope attached to the underside of the lid, and you pluck it off carefully before leaning against your desk. You peel it open gently, only to see the familiar pink My Melody stationery.
Junhui.
You ignore the urge to look up at his desk to see if he’s watching you over his monitor, feeling eyes from your co-workers trickling in as they spot the pink box. His handwriting is scrawled in purple ink across the stationery, and your heart sinks as you take in the slightly smudged words.
My Y/N,
I’m sorry about Wednesday. In fact, I’m sorry about the past year that I’ve gone without speaking to you. I have no excuse, only an explanation that probably won’t make things any better but will certainly give you some clarity.
I pulled away because I knew things would get too much for me. I’ve got a weak heart, and I can’t take rejection well – so I figured I’d cut ties first. It never worked, cutting contact with you; I found myself constantly missing the sound of your voice. I wanted so badly for you to reach out first, but I should’ve known better than to expect that when I was the one who wedged my way into your life. Our friendship was fun, and I miss listening to playlists with you during the walks to your apartment, but it simply can’t be anymore.
I like you so much, it’s painful to be around you and know you don’t feel the same.
I wanted to kiss you that night last spring. The rain and everything, it felt like a movie. Maybe that’s corny, and maybe it’s too forward but it doesn’t matter anyway because nothing will come of this. I’m sorry, for being too much of a coward to ever explain this to you in person. And for telling you now, through a letter written on stationery.
With this, I’ve got to admit something; finding out that you think I have a girlfriend when you’re all I’ve been able to think about since that first day we spoke is insane to me. Where do you get your gossip from? Is it a subscription? Unsubscribe effective immediately.
Speaking of effective immediately, I’ve taken a new position at a new company. So not only am I a coward for confessing this way, but also because I’m running away from it all. I don’t think I could handle not going home to you, even after seeing you all day. I’m not equipped for the agony of a silent, one-sided office romance that you read about in books.
I recommended you for my position. Don’t worry, people won’t talk to you nearly as much as they do now; but still...have fun, yeah?
I hope you enjoy these pinecones, for whatever you might end up using them for – and the pink chair. Funny, it belonged to me when I first got to the company. That’s why Mike never gave it up, but he told me you liked it so I figured you should have it.
Now it belongs to you! Quite like my heart.
Have a good day, Y/N. I’ll miss you.
Always and forever yours, Junhui ♡
Your chest aches as you realize all the opportunities have slipped through your fingers.
“Miss Y/N, Mr. Wen said he’d like for you to have this.”
Mike startles you as you see the pink chair being rolled behind your desk, the fabric pristine and the small stain from spilled coffee at the edge is gone. Your fingers flit across the headrest, before you look at him with tears in your eyes.
“Guess he changed his mind, huh?”
He only smiles, nodding his head before turning on his heel and leaving.
You look at the cup of tea. It’s still hot, so it must’ve been placed recently. You glance over at his desk; how vacant it looked. Almost like how your chest feels after having your heart ripped out.
You don’t really notice that you’re moving until you’re in the elevator, nervously nibbling on your lip as you frantically press on Minghao’s floor number while balancing the box of pinecones on your hip. It feels like an eternity as the damn thing jostles, and you nearly trip as it finally opens on the third floor. You beeline for Minghao’s desk in the back, only to see him quietly arriving with his headphones slid over his ears and his wife’s lipstick still stamped on his cheek.
He glances up as he feels your presence behind him, his eyes widening before a smile graces his lips.
“Y/N! What brings you down here?”
“Where is he?” You blurt, your hand still holding the note. He raises a brow, sliding his headphones off and onto the desk as he takes a seat in his desk chair.
“Where is who, sweetheart?” “Junhui.”
His lips form an o-shape, making him nod before he shrugs.
“Why should I tell you?”
You gape at him, almost losing your grip on the box on your hip.
“Because you obviously know, and if you care about me–” “Tell me why I should tell you, Y/N.”
You huff, your cheeks hot as you tap your foot. He tilts his head, an expectant look in his eyes before he speaks again.
“I do have work to do, you know.”
“Because I need to tell him that I...” You choke on your words, scoffing out a humorless laugh as you feel your eyes sting with tears. “Because I need to tell him that he’s an idiot.”
“You can text him that, you know.” “I’d rather die than text him how I feel.” “So, you admit you feel some type of way about him.”
He grins, slim fingers typing his password into his computer. You scowl.
“I never said anything of the sort.” You argue, and Minghao gives you a look that says, really bitch?
“You like him. It’s obvious to all of us, everyone in this office.” He reaches for his water bottle, his fingers aptly flicking the cap open. “So, admit it. Admit you have feelings for Wen Junhui, and I’ll give you the information you want.”
You look at the crumpled stationery in your hand, your heart swelling slightly at his handwriting.
My Y/N. Always and forever yours, Junhui ♡
“I love him.” You mumble softly as you stare at the paper, not catching how Minghao’s eyes widen. “I’m in love with him, Hao.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away, before looking up to see Minghao looking at you with a soft glaze over his eyes.
“I expect you and your boyfriend to get drinks with my wife and I this weekend in exchange for this.” His tone is warning as he reaches for a pen, his hand swiping a sticky note off the pad. You nod, ignoring the way your cheeks heat at the idea of Junhui being your boyfriend as he holds out the green paper. “Here, leave that. I’ll keep it safe, so you don’t have to lug it around.”
He holds his hands out for the box, and you hesitate before carefully placing it down. You open the corner, taking one of the pinecones out with a wince as he raises a brow before you shove it in your purse.
“I can explain.” “Over drinks this weekend. I’ll work out your attendance with your department manager.”
You smile gently, glancing down at the sticky note. It’s an address to an apartment building.
“Thank you, Minghao.” “Go, sweetheart. You’ll get caught in the rain if you stay any longer.”
And you go.
You don’t bother waiting for the elevator, practically flying down three flights of stairs. You sprint out of the lobby, nearly slamming into yet another of Junhui’s friends, Joshua, before yelling an apology over your shoulder. You make it outside, holding both pieces of paper in one of your shaking hands while the other fishes your phone out of your purse.
A fat raindrop falls on the screen as you map out how far the address is, and you almost welcome the cool water falling onto your cheeks as you run to the train station.
NEW! Message From: Hao [8:02AM] day 1 of my best friend being a traitor. how is working from home, you bitch?
Junhui snorts as the message comes in, settling carefully in his desk chair. He feels a bit alone as he texts back a simple, I’m sorry; the usual soft chatter of the office replaced by the sound of his aircon blasting. Everything feels too casual – his white t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans, the softness of his house slippers instead of his usual heavy dress shoes. He feels like he’s waiting for a lunch date with one of his friends, rather than signing into work for the day.
He looks over the edge of his monitor, no longer seeing your warm eyes looking back at him; but a cat calendar flipped to July. He rolls his shoulders back, sighing inwardly when his phone buzzes incessantly on the desk.
Your contact photo fills the screen.
INCOMING CALL FROM: Y/N [PLEDIS]
He feels the entire world stop. His breath is caught in his throat, and he suddenly can’t feel his limbs. He watches the phone ring until the call fails, nearly falling out of his chair as he stands up and grabs it. His hands are shaking too hard for him to press the missed call notification, only for you to call back again.
His chest is tight as he shakily breathes out, his thumb swiping across the screen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“I wanted to kiss you that night, too. I have never once though back to that night and didn’t feel regret knowing I didn’t kiss you.”
You sound slightly out of breath, and the sound of rain is loud in the background. He feels his stomach drop to his ass; feet rooted to his spot in his office.
“Y/N, I–” “You don’t have to say anything. Just come outside.”
He blinks as the call ends, staring at his reflection in the dark screen.
You’re outside.
“Shit.”
He nearly stumbles as he darts out of his office, beelining for his coat closet and shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers. He grabs the umbrella that leans against the frame of his front door, not bothering to grab his keys as he fumbles with the lock and throws the door open. A rumble of thunder startles him as he quickly shuts the door behind him, his fingers trying to fiddle with the umbrella when he hears your voice echo through the complex.
“Junhui!”
He glances over the railing, his eyes darting all over the courtyard before spotting you a few feet from the stairs. You’re wearing the black dress you wore the first time he’d spoken to you, and the attempt to wear open-toed shoes was ruined by the rain.
“Wen Junhui! Get down here!”
He feels laughter bubble up in his chest as he realizes you’re completely drenched, your hair is stuck to your face and your dress is practically dripping like the clouds above.
“You come up! It’s pouring out here!” “No, you have to come down here! I came all this way, it’s only fair!”
He can’t really see your smile from where you are, but he can hear it. He can hear it and it’s like the rain doesn’t matter. It’s like this very moment proves he was an idiot not to overthink all those intimate moments between the two of you – the way your eyes would light up at his stupid emails, the way you’d let his hands linger on your neck or ears after brushing your hair out of your eyes. All the playlists, all the similarities down to the fact that you both want marigolds for your dream weddings.
The way you interlaced your fingers that night last spring, and he’s so glad you did.
“Junhui!”
He shakes his head, dropping the umbrella on his doormat before sprinting to the staircase, hearing his heart pounding in his ears as he barrels down the stone steps.
“What...what are you doing here? You’re going to get sick, I...”
He trails off as he realizes you’re staring at him with a sparkle in your eye he can’t swallow. Your smile is all teeth, and he feels his chest ache as you shrug innocently. You take a step closer, tilting your head.
“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”
He feels his cheeks hot, and he absently runs a hand through his hair.
“You’re drenched, Y/N.” “I was that night, too. We both were.”
You shrug again, before stepping out from under the stairwell back into the rain. You hold your hand out, the rain pelting it as he hesitates to take it. You wiggle your fingers, making him tongue his cheek as he takes it, letting you pull him out into the rain. You hand slides up his arm and cradles his jaw gently, and he fights himself not to lean into it but ultimately fails.
“I told Minghao I’d tell you you’re an idiot.”
He snorts, “Is that on his behalf or yours?”
“Mostly mine, but I’m sure he has his own things to say about the matter. A year, Junhui? A whole year.” Your lip is jutted in a pout, and he sighs as the rain starts to soak in through his shirt. His hair is starting to stick on his forehead, and your hand swipes it back.
“I’m sorry. I know that it’ll never be enough to say it, but I truly mean it.” He gently touches his forehead to yours, his heart warming at the way you peer up at him through wet lashes. “I don’t blame you if you don’t forgive me, either. It was a shitty thing to do.”
He hates how your eyes soften, because he feels his knees grow weak as your other arm loops around his neck. He tentatively wraps his own around your waist, pulling you closer and he swears he sees your smile grow shy.
“I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t think hearing you out would be worth it.” You say softly, and a rumble of thunder makes you both flinch. A laugh escapes you, before your thumb strokes his cheek gently.
“Is this still like last spring?”
He smiles softly, “No.”
“Did you ever think this would be the first time you get to kiss me? Like this?”
He laughs, “No.”
“Is it better, though?” “Considering I’d hoped we would’ve gone on a date—” “Say yes before I regret coming all this way.” “Yes.”
Neither of you move, but he feels it. He feels the same feeling of want he did that night, the same feeling of yearning that floated off you without a single word. You tilt your head up, your nose brushing his lightly .
“I’m really cold.” “I told you to come up.” “This is more romantic.” “I hope you know ‘romantic’ can also cost you three sick days at work.”
“You’re worth all my sick days, Wen Junhui.” You mutter, pressing your lips to his. He can’t help but smile into it, his arm tightening around your waist as his other hand cups your face softly.
All the warmth from your eyes, the bashfulness of your smiles, the kindness of your heart is too much for his heart to handle. He can’t believe you’re really here, in his arms...your lips so, so soft and eager against his.
“We have to go inside. You’re going to get sick.” He forces himself to pull away, his heart melting at the way you chase his lips slightly. You frown, and he can’t help but press a chaste kiss to your pouted lip. “We can kiss all you want inside the apartment, I promise.”
You don’t seem embarrassed at all as you smile at the mention of it, even if he feels his own cheeks grow hot as you nod. He feels his entire chest swell slightly as you interlace your fingers with his and pull him towards the stairwell, biting back his giddy smile.

YOU SMELL LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.
You smell like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and you roast his marshmallow for him – despite Minghao’s teasing.
He still picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to you at lunchtime as he drops by the company to whisk you away. The lunch invitations that once meant you’d be holed away in the storage room with a less-sad turkey sandwich from the deli down the block, now meant you’re getting bombarded with kisses before he finally lets you get out of his car with your to-go cup of iced tea.
That wasn’t nearly the extent of your relationship with him. Now, he has a photo of you on his desk at home – and you have one of the two of you together on yours. Your pink chair is complimented often by your coworkers, and you’ve apologized to Diane for lying about a gluten allergy.
Though you’re back to being under the radar, people notice the changes. They notice that Junhui, who no longer works alongside them, is still frequently in the lobby – but he’s picking you up. He’s kissing you; he’s spinning you around and calling you, my love.
No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you.
But Junhui?
He can’t help but need you every single day. He slips his pink stationery love letters into your purse before you leave his apartment on Sunday nights, even if he’s begged you to stay the night just one more time. He accepts invites to anything that means he can bring you with him -- drinks with Minghao, lunch with his mother, even a weekend trip that was meant to be strictly business, but he spent most of the time that he wasn’t presenting glued to you in the hotel room.
Junhui doesn’t let you take the train anymore. Junhui takes your shy offers for a nightcap that usually end up with you kissing him breathless on your couch off two glasses of wine. Junhui, of all things, holds your hand on the table at drinks with his friends that are now yours, too.
Junhui listens – to your complaints about work; to your theories about birthstones and how whoever chose them was clearly biased for September to have the sapphire; to your sweet whispers as you slip your hand down his shorts late at night, and the whiny moans of his name that slip from your throat when he’s pinned you against his mattress.
But above all?
Junhui loves you.
Unabashedly, uninhibitedly and irrevocably.

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