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sucker4vy · 2 days ago

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BUSY WOMAN, UNLESS YOU CALL TONIGHT .ᐟ

PAIRING: pedro pascal x actress!reader

SYNOPSIS: Pedro and the reader have been caught together multiple times, and now, all eyes are on them more than ever after she’s spotted leaving his apartment. Though she hasn’t said or made the relationship official, she finally breaks her silence at the Gladiator II premiere when an interviewer asks about the recent sighting.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, age gap (reader is in her mid-late twenties), confusing!pedro, situationship, not technically a smau but does include comments and a few posts, the media is obsessed with reader and pedro, eventual smut, no use of yn (except for posts)

WC: 3.2k

A/N: not me taking a whole other day to finish it 😶 honestly this could’ve been so much longer than it was but next time just watch i’ll make it longer

series masterlist | next chapter

Pedro rests his hand on the small of your back as he guides you to the door. He twists the lock and swings it open for you like the gentleman he always is.

As you’re about to step outside, you feel his hand slowly slip away, but it pauses when you do. Turning back to him, you ask, “I’ll see you at the premiere?” Accompanied by an awkward smile.

It’s a question you probably shouldn’t have asked, and judging by his expression, it’s one he’s caught off guard by. “You’re going?” He asks.

“I have nothing else to do that day.” You shy away from him. It was a lie but it’s one that would convince him the most.

Yet for some reason, it still didn't seem to work because disbelief flashed across, quickly replaced by skepticism. “You? Not busy?” You nod curiously at his reaction. “I don’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it,” You laugh softly to yourself and you see his lips twitch, but he’s back to his serious—no, trying to be serious self.

But he can’t help it when the room is filled with silence for another second and then he cracks. He bursts into a hearty laughter and his hand glides up to your nape, guiding your head toward his for a quick peck on the lips.

“Now, I do.” His gaze lingers on your lips, debating whether or not he should steal another kiss—just one last one. You push away before he can lean in again.

Before you turn around he catches a glimpse of a little cheesy grin on your face. “Goodnight, Pedro.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he replies. You look back at him once more as you walk away ever so slowly and you catch him eyeing your body. He notices your figure shift and is quick to look around, suddenly fascinated by his apartment complex. A hand over his mouth and body leaning against the door frame, caught in the act.

You can’t help but giggle at his little sneaky act and you’re pretty sure it’s just as funny to him too because you hear a muffled laugh from behind you. You’ll definitely tease him later about checking you out.

When you step out of the building, you feel the cool air kiss your skin, and you can’t help but wish you had covered up a little more. A skirt was not the best choice for tonight, something you realized a little too late.

In the corner of your eye, you see a white flash. Your eyes widen in surprise as you turn to confront the source, only to find yourself staring directly at a phone.

You move to push the phone out of your face so that you're able to get a look at the actual source, but before you can fully get a good look at their appearance, they're unning for dear life.

In the moment, it’s funny and you scoff at their idiocy, and in that same moment, it hits you. It his you like a ton of bricks.

It feels like everything has slowed down as your mind movesq quick, a thousand thoughts per second, a million of all the possible outcomes run through your head.

Where you are, where you’re standing outside of more specifically Pedro Pascal’s apartment. That photo incriminates you and it’ll prove something that you’ve been trying to keep hidden from the media and yourself.

Behind you, you hear doors open and close, heavy footsteps on pavement, and then a hand on your shoulder. Your head spins around so fast you felt as though you were going to get whiplash.

“Woah, did I scare you?” There’s a teasting lilt in his voice but when he sees your expression, his smile dims. “Is something wrong?”

You exhale deeply to calm your nerves. “I think we’ve been caught.”

—

Different brushes glide over your face, blenders dabbing under your eye, and fingertips gliding over your nose to blend in the highlighter as much as it needed to look perfect.

Your makeup artist, Estelle, who had been all cheery and so talkative seconds ago, is now quiet, focused on her canvas, ensuring everything is flawless. She only speaks when she needs you to tilt your chin up a little or to look that way or this way.

When she’s finished she spins your chair around so that you face her, grabbing you chin gently for you to look at her. Her hand lifts from your chin and ghosts over your nose, drawing back with an unsureness, eyes squinting.

Her face quickly brightens with a loving smile. “You’re all finished!” She spins my chair back around, now facing the vanity. I meet my reflection and I admire Estelle’s work, which she killed like always. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she asks, “You like?”

“I love.” You look up at her with a smile, one that’s genuine but fragile as well.

“You know, this whole time I’ve been doing your glam you’ve been kind of tense, what’s up?” She smirks as if she knows something you don't. “It’s Pedro, huh?”

“No, no, no,” you’re quick to deny. “It’s not Pedro.” Estelle gives you a ‘are you kidding me’ kind of look because the both you know damn well that Pedro Pascal is the reason.

Estelle sighs, walking over to where your dress is hanging. “I know about that whole ordeal, honey. You can’t fool me.” She ushers you to stand up with hand gestures and pushes the dress into your hands. You don’t move from where you stand, only staring down at your dress.

It’s beautiful, bold. Designer? Alexander McQueen. It’s silk and corseted. Though it doesn't really go with the theme of the movie, it’s still a fantastic choice.

It commands attention without screaming for it. It’ll make her stand out on her own terms and possibly, hopefully, draw away attention from all the rumors going around. Maybe everyone will be too focused on her dress and forget about all the times the paparazzi have caught you with Pedro.

But let’s be realistic, you’ll be at the Gladiator II premiere, Pedro’s movie. They’ll be focused less on your dress and more on your appearance, but lucky for you, you have an excuse for that. You’ll say you’re there to meet with the director, that you’re thinking about working with him. You just hope they’ll believe it.

Walking out of the bathroom, you’re met face to face with your assistant, Daphne, whom you call Daph for short. She gives you a once-over and nods her head, looking around and saying, “I don’t know if Pedro’s going to be able to resist you this time around.”

You roll your eyes and mutter a small, “Thanks.” She gives you a thumbs-up and a coy smile.

“Shoes on?” She asks. You nod. “Hair?” Your hairstylist rushes over to you to fix a single strand, tucks it behind your ear, and then steps away. “Alrighty, I think we’re good to go.”

You turn to your glam team, thanking them for all their hard work and then you’re off to the premiere, but not before Estelle shouts, “Say hello to Pedro for me,” which gives everyone in the room a laugh.

You let out a giggle. “Bye, everyone.” And they all give a bye in return, some shouting, “Have fun!”

—

In the car, Daphne is helping you prepare for interviews. You’re sitting one seat over from her, not really paying attention since she has probably been over this a million times within two days.

When she first found out you were going to attend the premiere, she was baffled. “After all the rumors going around? Are you kidding me?” She had said.

You had told her it would be good for you, that you had come up with a reason that makes you look like you are strictly there for business and definitely not because you want to be one of the first ones to see Pedro Pascal in a gladiator costume, possibly all sweaty, and looking criminalally good. You could not pass up this opportunity.

It’s also a chance to clear up any rumors, or at least try to. You’re just really just trying to help your publicist who’s already way too stressed, but you just keep making things worse.

Sunday morning, you had woken up to a phone being pushed into your face, an article with the headline in big bold letters that read “FAMOUS ACTRESS SPOTTED OUTSIDE PEDRO PASCAL'S HOME.”

And it wasn’t your publicist behind that phone, it had been your assistant who had been told by your publicist.

Oh, was Daphne angry? No. She was fuming. “Call him. Now,” she said with a stern tone. And you were going to dial the number to talk things out with Pedro but you really just needed time to let everything sink in, you had just woken up for crying out loud.

You had told Daphne you’d call him later—later meaning that you’d wait for him to call you. He probably hadn’t even seen it yet, or so you told yourself.

So you waited.

And you waited

And, to your disappointment, you waited.

You would check your phone constantly. Every time you found your self drifting off during your meeting you shook yourself awake and checked your phone. Whenever Daphne mentioned something about the rumors you were quick to check your phone.

It got to a point where she literally had to rip your phone away from you just so you can get through a line from a script you were supposed to be rehearsing.

Then, just as you’re pushing your dinner around the plate, you phone buzzes. One buzz. Then another. You freeze

Please don't be a stupid notification. Please—Pedro’s name lights up your screen and you don’t even hesitate to press accept, taking a shaky breath, and brace yourself for what he’s about to tell you.

In the car, Daphne is helping you prepare for interviews. You’re sitting one seat over from her, not really paying attention since she has probably been over this a million times within two days.

She goes through a list of every possible question in every possible form, and you know she's stressed out by the way she just keeps going.

When she first found out you were going to attend the premiere, she was baffled. “After all the rumors going around? Are you kidding me?” She had said.

It’s also a chance to clear up any rumors, or at least try to. You’re just really just trying to help your publicist who’s already way too stressed, but you just keep making things worse.

You should’ve listened to Daphne when she told you not to go to Pedro’s, that you may get caught and it’ll be a big problem if you did. You wished you hadn’t ignored her warnings and simply just brushed her off saying that it would be fine because look at how wrong you were.

Now, all you can do is hope that an interviewer won’t ask about what’s going on between you and Pedro.

At least Pedro is worry-free, he just thinks that you were kidding about attending the premiere but little does he know you’re about to draw lots of attention right now.

—

Your heel hits the red carpet. No one seems to notice you quite yet, which makes you even more anxious for when they do.

Flashes go off a few yards down the carpet where one of the cast members is posing, not Pedro nor Joseph—but Paul. For now all eyes are on him and for you, there’s a fleeting moment of quiet, not literal silence, but the kind of breathless stillness that lives before impact.

You take a careful step forward and as you grow into the view of one of the photographers. He looks almost unsure at first, and he mumbles, “Is that who I think it is?” It’s loud enough for the person next to him to hear and repeat the same name, her head following his. Then one by one all their eyes fly to you as travel along the carpet.

You straighten up once flashes hit your face, smiling nice and big for the camera. You lift your chin up a little more, your arms are at your sides, one resting at you hip.

You move more down along the carpet, and now you’re standing just a few feet away from Paul. In the corner of your eye, you see that Paul notices you, and he shuffles closer over to you.

You look at him and he’s already smiling. “Picture?” He offers.

“Of course.” You lean more into him, wrapping your arm around him and he follows your movement, his hand placed in the middle of your back.

They shout for you to get a little closer together so you do. You lean your head towards his just a tad for one last photo and then he pats your back. “Thanks.” You give him a nod and follow him off the carpet.

Anyone you saw with a microphone you tried to dodge and stay out of their sight. Weaving your way through the crowds, but you couldn’t ignore everyone.

Some of the cast members came up to you and said hi. One of them was Fred, whom you worked with once. You were surprised that he even remembered, considering it had been a while since you had seen each other. Connie had also come to you to say hello, this was actually your first time meeting her. You’ve only heard of her, never have actually seen her in person before, she said the same thing about you.

Connie was so sweet and you guys chatted for a while, but the conversation was cut short when an interviewer snuck up on you. You felt a tap on your shoulder and Connie excused herself so you could be interviewed without interruption, part of you wanted to beg her not to leave you, but you couldn’t.

Where Connie was standing is where the interviewer was standing now. She introduced herself as Steph from Entertainment Tonight, and you're all rainbows and sunshine on the outside, but on the inside you're about to freak out because you know that they’re about to go in deep with these questions.

She looked into the camera, and so did you. “You, my dear, look breathtaking tonight. I have to say this dress is a moment.”

“Thank you, Steph, it means a lot. I really needed something that was bold, especially for tonight, you know?” She agrees, and then her face shifts into one of curiosity.

“We didn’t know we’d be seeing you here tonight, and we were wondering what brought you out?” She holds up the microphone to your lips.

“I have so much respect for everyone on the team and I wanted to see all the hard work they put into this movie come to life.” You continue, “The story scale, the artistry, the history. It all reminds you why you love what you do and it really inspires you.”

“Of course, of course! All of the cast members are so talented and it's such a big night for them. I love how supportive you are!” Her eyes turned away from your for a split second to give the camera a slick grin, then they’re back on you. Her voice dips, now ever so gentle, “A lot of people think your presence tonight has something to do with Pedro Pascal. You were just seen leaving his place late Saturday night. Is you being here simply a coincidence?”

You blink, smile faltering for just a second before you regather yourself. There’s a pause, then a sigh, and you know your silence speaks louder than what you’re about to say right now. “I didn’t come tonight to answer rumors. But I know that if I’m quiet it just makes the noise louder.”

Hesitating and taking a breath, you continue, “I knew that being here tonight would raise some eyebrows, especially after Saturday. I think it’s just reading a little too much into things. Pedro is someone I care about, yes, but…” You glance off to the side, searching for the safest answer. “But caring about someone doesn't mean there’s always a headline in it.”

Steph is silent for a split second, taking the microphone away from you once she realizes you’re not going to continue. “So, you’re just friends?”

Your eyes flicker toward the camera before returning to Steph, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yes,” is your answer, but your body language says otherwise when you play with the ring around your finger.

“Well, you heard it here first, people. Just friends.” She nods in assurance. “Thank you.”

You’re thankful it’s over, but you can already feel the internet writing headlines. The nerves really got to you during that interview, and you’re sure no one believes that you and Pedro are just friends after you left his house so late at night.

Daphne won’t be too happy either with your answers. You really should’ve gone with what she told you to say in case of this, instead you kind of just freestyled it.

You notice everyone beginning to head to the theatre, so you follow the crowd inside. Before the movie starts, they give a speech to the audience that celebrates everyone behind the making of the film.

One by one all the actors come up and are congratulated, given praise for their work. The whole time you only focus on one of those actors, whose eyes are searching through the audience for one person in particular. You.

He can’t seem to find you in the sea of people, and it’s too late to continue searching because he already needs to take a seat.

So, the movie plays. You sit in the dark, laughing when you’re supposed to, clapping when it’s over, and the credits roll.

To the naked eye, you’re acting normal, but inside you’re unraveling. The entire movie played on one screen, and the interview was on repeat in the other—in your mind.

What if you hadn’t swallowed the part about being more than friends? What if you had told them it was so much more than that?

Frankly, you’re tired of hiding something that has been going on for months. You’re tired of Pedro denying that there’s nothing really going on between you, or at least, you’re tired of him pretending like there’s nothing going on because there is. There’s so much more than what he denies himself.

You quite literally canceled multiple meetings for an upcoming audition on Sunday just so you could squeeze in a fitting for the dress you wore. Replacing a meeting about character backstory for one about about heel height and fabric swatches.

The script you were reading last night? That was for the same audition, now pushed to Wednesday. The meetings for that same audition you had pushed to tomorrow.

And there was a few more things replaced, delayed, or rescheduled just so you could be here tonight. Just so you could support Pedro.

He didn’t ask you to and still, you showed up.

You’re booked and busy. You have a whole career to chase. You have people to call back, scenes to prep, and so much more.

But if he called tonight?

You’d answer.

taglist: @not-the-teen-witch @namelesslosers @oystercat

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #gladiator ll #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie #actress reader #famous reader #somethin’ sweet trilogy

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andy-15-07 · 3 days ago

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hi not sure if you’ve done this before but id LOVE a fic with pedro pascal helping reader through a depressive episode! completely understandable if you wouldn’t feel comfortable tho. maybe pedro gets home to find reader still in bed/sleeping on the couch and he already knows that she hasn’t taken care of herself all day but he asks her anyway (stuff like have you eaten, have you been out, when was the last time you showered). and then just description of him helping her do these things whilst reader is kind of fighting the help a little bit? like she doesn’t want to be a burden but deep down knows she needs the help. loads of praise and hurt/comfort and fluff!!!!! you are such a great writer im in love with all your fics ☺️☺️

Even If You Can’t Move, I’ll Be Here

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 939| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

The key turned softly in the lock.

Pedro pushed the door open with one shoulder, balancing a paper bag of groceries in one hand and your favorite takeout in the other. He wasn’t expecting a grand greeting , he hadn’t gotten one in days , but the quiet stillness in the apartment hit him like a sigh.

You weren’t on the bed.

You were curled up on the couch again. Same oversized hoodie. Same blanket from the night before. Curtains still drawn, the faint smell of stale coffee lingering in the air. Pedro’s heart clenched.

He set the bags down gently, not wanting to startle you, though he wasn’t sure you’d even notice.

You did.

Barely.

A flutter of your eyes, then a quick glance away. No smile. Just the sinking guilt in your chest and the shame you couldn’t explain. Your throat felt tight before he even said anything.

Pedro crouched beside you, hand brushing your arm. “Hi, cariño.”

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

He tilted his head. “Did you eat today?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

“Get outside at all?”

You shook your head.

He hesitated before asking gently, “When was the last time you showered?”

You almost wanted to laugh , not because it was funny, but because it made you feel even more disgusting. The tears started building before you could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Pedro sat down beside you, arms opening before you could even blink. You fell into them like you always did , like gravity , and he held you close without a word.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just… tired. And that’s okay.”

“I feel gross.”

“You’re not.”

“I haven’t done anything today.”

“You’re still mine. And I still love you.”

Your face crumpled against his shoulder.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to take care of yourself. It was that every little task , getting up, brushing your teeth, opening a window , felt like climbing a mountain barefoot in the snow.

Pedro didn’t rush you. Just let you cry quietly for a while, his hand running slowly up and down your back. When your sobs faded into shaky silence, he pulled back to look at you.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’re gonna do a few little things together, alright?”

You started to protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“Not all of them. Just a few. I’ll help.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you whispered.

Pedro’s eyes softened.

“You could never be. You’re the person I love most in this world. And I want to take care of you, even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

You looked down at your hands. “I don’t think I can do everything.”

“Then we’ll do the smallest version of everything.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means… we start with one thing. Like brushing our teeth. Together. I’ll even let you pick my toothpaste like a little gremlin.”

That got a soft, tired laugh from you.

“Then we can try something else. Maybe a shower. And then food. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just something. You can wear one of my shirts after, if that helps.”

You nodded slowly, still unsure, still hollow , but his voice felt like a lighthouse in the dark.

Pedro stood and reached for your hands. “C’mon. Let’s start with the bathroom.”

You followed, moving slowly, socked feet shuffling along the hardwood. It felt weird to be upright. But it also felt a little like relief.

In the bathroom, Pedro handed you your toothbrush with a small smile and squeezed toothpaste onto it.

“There. Hard part’s over.”

You managed to copy him, brushing in slow, lazy circles. He stood beside you, doing the same, humming something off-key under his breath. It made you snort a little, and he beamed at the sound.

“See?” he said, rinsing. “You’re killin’ it already.”

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“But you are,” he said firmly. “And I’m proud of you.”

The words settled in your chest like warmth. Like maybe they were enough to anchor you here, in this body, in this space where someone loved you even at your lowest.

Next was the shower.

Pedro didn’t rush you. He handed you clean towels and a fresh T-shirt (one of his) and sat on the edge of the bed while you stood under the warm water, letting it wash over the weight clinging to your bones.

You cried a little again , not because you were sad, exactly. Just… tired. Just overwhelmed.

And when you stepped out, eyes red, Pedro wrapped you in a towel like it was armor and kissed your cheek.

“You did it,” he said, grinning. “I’m so proud.”

You curled up next to him in bed afterward while he brought the food , your favorite noodles, not too hot, with broth on the side. You only ate a few bites, but he didn’t push. Just smiled and kissed your temple.

“This isn’t forever,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms as you laid back down. “I know your brain’s lying to you right now. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried your face in his chest.

“I don’t feel like myself.”

“That’s okay. I’ll hold the pieces until you do.”

Tears pricked your eyes again , but this time, they weren’t so sharp. More like a release.

Pedro pulled the blanket up around you both and whispered again, “I love you. Every version of you. Even this one.”

And for the first time in days, you believed it might be true.

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kilojulietsierra · 15 hours ago

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“Within Arms Reach” - (Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader)

Thank you @letsgobarbs @ananonymousaffair and @clubsoft for asking me to participate in the A Doctor A Day event!!

My color was PINK and my prompt was “I just want the keys to my car back”

Word count: 1155

Warnings: canon typical allusions to suicide and or suicidal ideations, language, relationship w/ a coworker, Jack is on the roof, fluff, angst, happy ending, kissing, Dr Abbot gets a tad handsy, best attempt at a gn!reader so if I missed something let me know, no y/n, reader hints vaguely at sexy times

~~~~~

The sun is creeping up when you find him. The heavy, metal, fire door clunks open and then slams closed. Your footfalls barely register over the roof, but he can still feel each step you take as you close the distance. The air is cold this morning, he came up to the roof in his shirt, but he can hear you shove your hands deeper into the pockets of your jacket. Not yours, his. His jacket. You borrowed it because you hated the cold. Right now he couldn't feel anything, let alone the temperature.

You don't say anything once you come to the railing. You just stand on the other side within arms reach and he knows why.

He's the one that breaks the silence, "Need me?"

A soft, quiet snort of amusement, "Loaded question."

Jack clenches his jaw, he can't smile right now. "You know what I mean."

You shrug. His jacket rustling with the movement, too big on you. "I just want the keys back to my car."

That catches him off guard, the early morning wind gusts at just the right moment and he thinks maybe he can feel the cold. Maybe. When he looks at you it takes something out of him, the way the sunrise paints your face in some ethereal pink. Hues of muted orange around the edges.

When he doesn't respond, just stares at you, you give him the tiniest, wry smile. "You drove me to work today." You shrug again as you expound, dip your chin into the collar of his jacket and breath in the smell of hospital, detergent and him. He sees the way your eyes close just a bit slower at the comfort you find in it. Your attention back on him you continue, "So, if for some reason, today is the day, can you give me my car keys before you go?" You look from him over the railing and over the edge of the building.

Jack twists his face up, fighting back that smile you were trying so hard, without even really trying, to pry out of him. He takes a minute, savors it, the way you glow in the sunrise colors. The pink making you look so soft, so heaven sent. Finally he took a deep breath, closed his eyes in an effort to burn that image of you in his mind. "They're in my bag."

"Hmm." You nod, shift your weight back and forth, like maybe you'd picked it up from him. That's all you say. That's all you have to say.

He closes his eyes again, breathes deep and this time the cold air burns in his lungs. He sighs, bone deep and troubled, and then ducks back under the railing. You're smiling when he stands up straight, and he can't help but think how fucking gorgeous you are. The sun is creeping up higher now, the pretty pinks shifting lighter and lighter, glimmering in your eyes. "That's what you need? A ride home?"

You chuckled, pull your hand out of the jacket pocket and fist it in the front of his scrub top. The breath stalls in his throat when the last of that pretty pink sunrise glints off the diamond on your finger. You must've put it on before you came to the roof, came looking for him. "I need you." You duck your head to catch his eye.

He grumbles like that's not true.

"Stop it." You tug on his shirt. "Let's go home. This shit show can be someone else's problem for awhile."

When you turn to leave, to let go of him, he catches the sleeve of your jacket. His jacket. His hand slips down to yours, wrapping it in his larger, rougher, colder grip. He stares at your ring. His ring. "Wait." He tugs you back to him.

You hesitate, just enough to make a point.

Jack softens, the tension, the anger, the despair seeps out of him. "C'mere." He tugs again, a calmness he'd forgotten existed washed over him as you stepped in close. Your hands sliding over his torso, up his chest and shoulders to circle his neck. You looked so fucking pretty. So warm, like the pale pink and orange of the morning radiated from you and not the sun. He couldn't help but kiss you.

Fuck the rules, his or the hospitals. He'd had a shit night. He hated his job, he hated this placel, he hated life. If holding you, kissing you, on the roof of the hospital, made him feel better he was going to damn well do it.

You were hesitant, well aware that you were at work and you had both agreed to be on your best behavior at work. But, you kissed him like you understood how badly he needed it. Maybe you needed it too.

Jack had to stop himself. His hands had moved low, too low for being on the clock, he'd pulled you too close, kissed you too deep. Like it was the hardest thing he'd done, aside from coming back to the right side of the railing, he pulled back. His eyes immediately studied your face.

Now that pretty pink wasn't from the rising sun. It was you. Your cheeks and throat flushed, that same fucking shade of pink. You licked your lips, had to look away from him a moment even as your hands dug into the fabric of his shirt. When you met his eyes again you were still blushing, and smiling, "Now you definitly need to go get the car keys."

FInally he cracks that smile, "Why's that?" He tilts his head that way he does, looks down at you as he teases.

You tug on him, drag him if you have to, towards the door. "Because, you're going to have to get me home and finish…" You pause, bite your lip as you let him go and gesture vaguely towards him, "Whatever that was." Then you giggled and turn away heading for the door.

Not only does he smile, he laughs, strides after you and wraps his arms around you from behind. He buries his face in your neck for a moment longer, wraps you up tight, breathes in the small of you and the linger smell of him on the jacket. Kissing your neck he moved to slip his hands in the pockets of that jacket, his jacket, with the intention of grabbing your hands. Instead his fingers brush over cold metal, smooth plastic. He wraps his fingers around them and they jingle.

Your car keys. The ones he'd grab this morning with intentions of just starting your car for you, but then you'd asked if you could drive to work together. The keys you'd supposedly come up to ask for.

Jack doesn't say anything. Neither do you. There's no need, because you both know it was never about the keys.

~~~~~

#adad2025 #adoctoraday #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x you #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #shawn hatosy

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orellazalonia · 12 hours ago

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His World

Summary: Bucky gradually lets you into his hidden world, starting with guarded trust, then slowly introducing you to the quiet power behind his empire. (Mob Boss!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 1.9k+

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The silence stretched between you for what felt like forever.

You could feel his eyes on you. Waiting, bracing, like your next breath might decide whether his entire world stayed standing or cracked in two.

You took a slow step back, away from his outstretched hand.

“I love you, James,” You said, voice steady. “But I can’t love you like this.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I can’t sit home at night wondering if the blood on your shirt belongs to you or someone else. I can’t pretend the world you’re in doesn’t exist. I’m not asking you to change for me, but if I’m going to be with you… it can’t be in the dark.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Not anger. Not resistance.

Respect.

He gave a quiet nod, like he understood the cost.

“What do you need?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You hesitated. Then gave him your answer.

“I need time,” You said. “I need to feel safe. I need to be able to walk to work without wondering if someone’s watching me because I matter to you.”

“You do matter to me.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still here.”

You stepped closer, just enough to brush your fingertips against his sleeve.

“But I need to trust that I’m not just something you protect. I need to know I’m something you’ll let in. All the way. No more lies. No more ‘it’s nothing.’ If I’m going to love you, I need to love all of you.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he nodded again, firmer this time.

“I’ll make it happen.”

The next day, the SUV was still outside your building but this time, the driver tipped his head politely when you left.

When you got to work, you noticed the same man from before with a dark coat and quiet eyes, standing across the street with a cup of coffee from your cafe in hand. He wasn’t watching the street anymore.

He was watching you.

You didn’t ask questions. But that night, Bucky texted:

“You’ll have eyes on you, always. They won’t interfere unless they have to. You’re safe. That’s not negotiable.”

Your reply was short:

“Okay. But I’m not glass, James.” “No,” He wrote back. “You’re fire. I’m just trying not to burn down what you love.”

Days passed.

You didn’t see him. But you felt his presence. The small changes, the careful signs.

Your doorbell buzzed less. The man across the street switched every six hours like clockwork. A quiet envelope appeared in your mailbox with no note, just the full payment for your next three months of rent.

Then, on a Thursday night, there was a knock.

You opened the door. And it was him.

His coat was clean. His hands unbandaged. His eyes were tired, but calm. He held nothing but a small paper bag and a softer look than you’d ever seen on his face.

“I brought you peach cobbler,” He said. “From that place uptown. I remembered you said your grandma used to make it.”

You stared at him for a second. Then stepped aside, letting him in.

He didn’t stay the night.

You both knew this wasn’t a return to what was. It was a rebuilding.

But when he left, he paused in the doorway, thumb brushing your knuckles gently.

“I’m working on it,” He said. “All of it. I want you in my world, not just on the edges.”

You nodded, eyes soft.

“I’m working on it too.”

And true to his word, he did start letting you into more of his life. Small things, of course.

He didn’t bring you to meetings, not yet. But he started answering your questions. Not brushing them off. Not changing the subject. Just… telling you the truth.

You’d be curled on the couch, sipping tea, and casually ask, “What did you do today?”

And instead of “errands,” He’d say, “I went to check in on one of our suppliers. The docks have been tense lately. I had to remind someone not to get greedy.”

You didn’t ask what that reminder looked like. But the fact that he told you at all meant everything.

Another night, he asked, “You want to see something?”

You tilted your head, curious. “Is it illegal?”

He smirked. “Not technically.”

So, you followed him out to a wide, quiet warehouse past the edge of the river. It looked empty from the outside, but when he opened the door, warm yellow light spilled out and the sound of laughter echoed through the dark.

Inside were people. His people. Sitting at metal tables with takeout containers, playing cards, sharpening knives with lazy hands and easy jokes. A dog barked once, tail wagging like it lived there full time.

And when they saw you, the room didn’t go tense.

They just nodded. Some even smiled.

Because they already knew who you were. The reason Bucky hadn’t cracked a skull in three days. The one he talked about when he thought no one was listening. The girl with whipped cream in her hair and sunlight in her voice.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“This is where you go when you disappear?”

“Sometimes.”

“It's… less scary than I imagined.”

He smiled, genuinely.

“I don’t bring people here.”

“I figured.”

He let you wander a little. Watch the armory wall, the crates of supplies, or the map pinned with red strings and initials. And then he tugged you gently toward the back, where a small, surprisingly clean office waited.

You stepped in, expecting danger.

Instead, you found a couch, a bookshelf, a blanket folded neatly on the armrest and more.

“Is this yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You live here?”

“More like rest stop when I can’t get to you.”

You sat slowly on the couch, brushing your fingers over the soft fabric.

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“I want to keep seeing more, slowly, but I need you to promise me something.”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Anything.”

“Don’t show me only what you want me to see. Show me what’s real even if it’s ugly. I want to love you with both eyes open.”

He looked at you for a long moment. And then he did something rare. He knelt in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.

“I’ve been in this life a long time, sweetheart,” He said. “And I’ve never loved anything as much as I love you. So when you’re ready, I’ll show you everything. Piece by piece, no more hiding.”

You reached down, brushing his hair from his face.

“And I’ll try not to flinch.”

That night, you didn’t sleep at your apartment.

You fell asleep on that warehouse couch, curled under his coat, while he sat nearby with a quiet laptop and a loaded gun tucked just beneath the desk.

You never saw the gun.

He never told you who tried to threaten his hold on the west side that night. But you woke up to hot coffee and a gentle hand on your cheek.

And in that moment, the world didn’t feel so divided.

He didn’t ask you for another trip until the end of the week.

You were curled on his couch again, half-dozing under his jacket with your fingers absently tracing the edge of his hand where it rested on your knee. The room was quiet, lit by the dim gold of the streetlight outside. Neither of you had spoken in minutes.

That’s when he said, quietly:

“You wanna see where I really live?”

You blinked, eyes half-lidded. “This is where you live.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “No, sweetheart. This is where I visit.”

You straightened. “You mean… the real place? The one you don’t talk about?”

He nodded once, his thumb brushing against your wrist. “I want you to see it if you’re ready.”

And you agreed.

You didn’t know what to expect. A fortress? A bunker? Something cold, hollow, and full of ghosts?

But when the car pulled up the next night, and Bucky stepped out first to open your door himself, you saw it for what it really was:

A mansion.

Old, elegant, and quiet. Set back from the street behind iron gates and many trees. It looked like it had been there forever, like the city grew around it, not the other way around. Light spilled from the tall windows in amber squares.

The moment you stepped inside the mansion. It was quiet and warm, old and elegant. You felt like you’d crossed into a part of Bucky no one else had ever touched. He didn’t just live here.

This was where he existed.

At the top of the grand staircase stood a man you recognized immediately. Not because of photos or rumors, but because of the way Bucky had mentioned him.

Never “Steve Rogers.” Just: “My brother.”

He descended the stairs with easy grace; broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp dark sweater and sleeves rolled to the elbows, like he’d come straight from a war room or a bookstore.

He smiled before you even spoke. “You must be the one who makes him smile like an idiot.”

You blinked, surprised. “I–what?”

Steve grinned and shook your hand warmly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m Steve. I’ve heard a lot about you. And Bucky is very bad at hiding when someone means something to him.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “I hope it was mostly good things?”

“Only good,” Steve said sincerely. “The rest, I figured out myself. You’re the first person he’s brought into this house. That means something.”

Beside you, Bucky gave a soft grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m absolutely helping,” Steve teased.

Dinner was light and warm like a family meal you didn’t know you were missing.

Steve didn’t interrogate. He asked. Softly, kindly, and interested.

“He tells me you make the best muffins in Brooklyn. That true?” “You look at him different than most people do. You see him. That’s rare.” “You ever bake something and eat the whole thing before anyone else sees it? Bucky once ate an entire cherry pie meant for Sam’s birthday.”

That made you laugh as Bucky groaned behind his wine glass.

“I told you that in confidence, punk.”

“Yeah? You also said her laugh was your favorite sound, so you’re welcome.”

You weren’t expecting that.

The ease, the teasing, the way Steve made room at the table like it was always meant for you.

At one point, when Bucky stepped away to take a quiet call, Steve refilled your glass and said gently:

“I’ve known him my whole life. I’ve seen him break bones without blinking. Burn bridges. Walk away from people who thought they knew him. But I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

You swallowed.

“I’m still learning who he is.”

Steve smiled, kind and patient. “So are all of us. Just don’t stop.”

Later that night, when you and Bucky walked through the mansion halls, your hand brushing his, you whispered, “He’s not what I expected.”

Bucky smirked. “Steve?”

You nodded. “He’s… warm.”

“He always has been,” Bucky said quietly. “That’s why people follow him. He leads with his heart. And if he welcomed you like that… it means he sees what I do.”

You turned toward him.

“And what’s that?”

He smiled, small but real.

“Hope.”

#his sweetheart #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #mafia!bucky #mafia au #bucky barnes #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #mob bucky x reader #mob bucky barnes

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vm-haunts · 3 days ago

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The world shaked apart around them as they moved further away from the hospital, debris covering their tracks and buries their way back.

It worked out alright though, in the end.

Between Ghost's help and Jason's better control, they managed well enough to keep the body alive in the chaos around them.

Ghost... isn't entirely sure why that is important when they're both ghosts, but he knows it is.

...

The people around them is... Hard to focus on.

Ghost first noticed at the hospital, with the doctors and nurses passing in and out of their room. They all feel like the cutout background crowd in a cartoon, to him at least.

Jason is getting better, slightly more aware and for longer every time he wakes up. Still, there is no way to tell how much he retains between his wakings, and communication is still hard despite his efforts.

So perhaps the reason Ghost felt like they're drifting is because the other people are all so alive, when they're both dead, and the dead isn't meant to interact with the living. Or perhaps it's because Ghost isn't anchored to anything living, and Jason who is wouldn't feel the foggy glass between him and the world at all.

Whatever the reason may be, if Jason can feel the world better than he does or not, it doesn't change the fact that they just drift through the living's world without much interaction.

Which makes it that much harder to notice, and that much more jarring too, when the living does manage to impact them.

...

Here's a secret: they remembered how to break a man's every finger before they remembered to eat every day.

Although, both realizations actually happened together when they fell over the passed out man, so it doesn't really matter anyway.

It could also be because one is an active threat to them, and the other is an... inconvenience that neither of them had to worry about for a long while.

Between the grave and the hospital, Ghost isn't even sure when was the last time Jason actually has to eat anything. His ghostly self doesn't remember eating anything, ever.

The only thing that matters is that they did remember, when they collapsed after giving the man a broken hand.

The guy has enough on him for a meal or two. It's harder to find somewhere to get said meal, and harder still to get things past their throat, but it worked.

Now they just have to remember to do it often enough the body don't shut down.

...

There's chaos everywhere, ruins and rubbles in place of buildings and streets.

Ghost isn't sure if that makes it better or worse.

On one hand, they fit right in with the miserable people camping out on the streets. No one cares if they can't respond right, not when so many others is just as unresponsive. Shock, ghost recalls, something that'll turn normal people into half living ghosts too. Metaphorically.

On the other hand, they don't know where else to go. Jason still wants to find Bruce, and as much as ghost wanted to help, he has no idea what else he can do when neither of them has a clue on where to and how.

Without a clear destination, the only thing they can do for now is stumble around blind, but Ghost doubt they can sustain it forever. Sure they are getting better at moving the body, but trying anything beyond the most basic instincts remains a struggle.

Guess they'll figure it out as things comes by.

...

There are... people, watching them.

Ghost isn't sure what they want. They aren't like the others that wants their spot to sleep, or the food they aquired. But they must want something from them, even if they can't figure out what.

Jason is wary, though Ghost doesn't feel any kind of hostility from them. They felt like the crows in the graveyard, or the shadows that lives in them. Watching because they're curious, or bored, or because they're told to.

Ghost suppose it doesn't hurt to be careful around them.

So these people watched them, from a distance, and they watched back. On and off again they caught sight of each other, as Ghost and Jason make their way around the crumpled city.

...

They walked some more.

One day they got to the seaside, where they can see the reminants of some collapsed bridges. Jason almost lost it when they did, and ghost still can't tell why.

Ghost steered them away from the ocean after that.

Another time a bunch of clowns tried to jump them outside of a park, but Ghost can clearly hear them scheming. They turned and left before the stupid clowns can start anything, and stayed away from the parks.

The people watching them disappeared for a while, and something is different when they cone back.

The chaos continues in the streets, but the scent of death is letting up. Change is on the horizon, Ghost can tell even without the crows.

...

They tried not to sleep at the same time, but sometimes they still crashes together.

They were moved again, is the first thing Ghost noticed when he wakes up. The second is that they are sitting in a room, with more people watching them.

He was wrong apparently, these people aren't like the crows and the shadows. They are speaking, he thinks, and it's clearer than any other people speaking, but the words eluded him unlike the crow's.

He has no idea if Jason even noticed they were moved. He's been out of it ever since they went to the seaside.

After a while ghost lost interest in the people watching them, when they presented no more threat nor entertainment.

When they wakes again, there is a lady with them, in green rather than black.

Lost Ghosts

[continuation of Little Prayers]

Something went wrong.

The boy woke up. The ghost knew that Jason would wake up, knew it with a surety when he doesn't know anything else. He had been waiting for that moment, for a fellow ghost to emerge ever since he felt Jason's first wobbly core speak.

But that's the problem, isn't it? He was waiting for a fellow ghost to come out of the grave, not- not for the boy to wake up back in his body, still stuck in the casket!

Soon the faint sounds of movement from beneath the grave turned into frantic scratching, and the ghost ties himself into knots with worry. What is he supposed to do? He need to get the boy out, body and all, but how? He had tried digging, but his claws are no help when it pass straight through the earth without moving a single blade of grass.

A distressed cry for help comes from beneath, and suddenly the ghost is hit with a memory. His very first memory really, of a warehouse, of sealed doors, of a freshly forming core's first cry.

Most importantly, of moving a half dead body around.

The ghost frowns at his claws and tried to think. A moment later he sinks into the grave with a reassuring hum, and the faint scratching turned into loud rakes of claws on wood.

...

Breaking through the silk and wood of a casket is a simple task, when sharp claws are involved.

Digging free through six feet of crushing dirt is much harder, but the ghost managed. It does get significantly easier after he found a way to pass through the earth again, this with the boy's body in tow.

The real challenge though, comes after they're out of the grave. Namely it comes in the form of figuring out how to walk. In a physical body. With legs.

Oh he can control the upper half just fine, his own ghostly self has similar enough bits. But legs? Tough luck. Not to mention that this body is also affected by annoying things like physics and gravity.

Even worse, he is also running out of energy, fast.

After the fifth time they land on soft muddy ground, the ghost huffed out a cold breath and laid there for a long second. Five falls in twenty yards, this really isn't going well at all. The edge of exhaustion is closing in swiftly and moving in the boy's body is getting harder by the second. At this rate they're never gonna make it out of the graveyard.

The ghost blinked, and took a moment too long to open his eyes again.

Distantly, he had the impression that someone is laughing.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #danny fenton #jason todd #god of arepo au #little prayers au #yippee this one is done!

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jxstsxgx · 15 hours ago

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𝚆𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 | 𝙴𝙳𝙳𝙸𝙴 𝙼𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Drunk!Eddie Munson x Reader (…kinda)

Word Count: 1,158 words

Summary: Eddie’s drunk. Eddie’s in love. Eddie thinks he’s confessing to you. He is not.

Contains: drunken rambling, dramatic confessions, emotional!Eddie, oblivious Steve, confused Robin, twist ending (you were never in the room), just a dumb little guy in love.

A/N: Haven't posted in days. I was battling with...laziness lol. Anyway, last fic I made was Drunk!Steve then I wanted to make Drunk!Eddie too, so here's a short one. (Lowkey Steddie, lmao)

masterlist |

Eddie Munson was completely, utterly, soul crushingly drunk.

He was seated on the floor in Robin’s living room, back pressed against the couch, beer long forgotten in his lap, curls a wild halo around his flushed face. They’d had game night. One drink turned to two, turned to eight, turned to Eddie trying to balance pretzel sticks on his nose while Robin egged him on.

Steve had just returned from a bathroom break when he noticed it. Eddie, staring dreamily across the room, eyes wide and glassy.

“Uh… is he okay?” Steve asked.

Robin looked up from stacking Uno cards. “He’s been like that for the last five minutes. Just… sighing.”

Then Eddie whispered, “God, you're so pretty.”

Robin snorted. “Oh no.”

Eddie leaned forward, eyes locked on something... or someone. “I can’t believe you're real. It’s like… you walked out of my daydreams and into this stupid living room.”

Steve glanced behind him. “Wait. Who is he looking at?”

Robin squinted. “Steve. He’s looking at you.”

“What?!”

But Eddie wasn’t listening. Eddie was enchanted. His gaze locked, expression lovesick. He clutched his heart dramatically.

“Hey,” he slurred. “C’mere.”

Steve pointed to himself. “Me?”

Eddie patted the floor beside him with a dopey smile. “Yeah, you.”

Robin blinked. “Oh my God. He thinks you’re her.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Me?”

Robin nodded. “He’s that drunk.”

Steve hesitated, then cautiously sat down next to Eddie, who immediately grabbed his hand.

“Hey,” Eddie whispered, brushing Steve’s knuckles like they were made of silk. “D’you know… you ruin me?”

Steve’s whole soul left his body. “Okay…”

Eddie smiled softly. “Every time you smile at me, I feel like I’ve been hit by lightning. But, like, the good kind. Is there a good kind? Doesn’t matter. You’re it. You’re everything.”

Robin wheezed into the couch cushions.

Steve tried, “Uh… Eddie, maybe-”

But Eddie was in full spiral now, his eyes were even shut, “And your voice. Don’t even get me started. It’s like my favorite song and a bedtime story and a warm blanket all rolled into one.”

Steve's face scrunched. “Bro.”

“I think about you all the time. All the time. Like, when I eat cereal, I’m like, ‘She’d hate this cereal.’ And I eat it anyway, because I’m sad and in love.”

Robin was crying. Literally crying from holding back her laugh.

“Every time you walk into a room,” Eddie breathed, “I forget how to function. I’d build you a house. Out of, like, D&D dice and guitar picks. I’d learn to knit pretty sweaters and skirts for you, I’d die for you.”

Steve was frozen. “Okay, we need to-”

“And you smell so nice,” Eddie continued, practically moaning. “Like vanilla. Or flowers. Or flower vanilla. I don’t know. I’m drunk.”

“You don’t say,” Steve mumbled.

Eddie gripped his hand tighter. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? Even if you fall in love with a guy who’s better than me. Like a hot firefighter. Or a lawyer. Or, like, a guy with really nice handwriting. I’ll just be… here. Sad. Loving you from afar.”

Robin gasped, absolutely losing it.

Steve, trying to suppress the laughter crawling up his throat, gently said, “Munson, Buddy. You sure you’re talking to the right person?”

Eddie squinted. “Of course I am. Why would I say all that to someone else?”

“You are talking to Steve,” Robin managed, her face red from laughing.

“No I’m not,” Eddie said, fighting for his life to open his drunken eyelids, turning toward Steve with a sleepy smile. “I’m talking to her-”

Steve pointed at himself. “I’m Steve.”

Eddie blinked. Slowly.

Then blinked again.

“…No you’re not.”

“I am.”

Eddie sat up straighter, horrified. “Then where the hell is she?!”

Robin held up her hands, still laughing. “Literally not even here. She left an hour ago, dude.”

Eddie’s jaw dropped. “No. No! I saw her! She was right there!” he pointed wildly. “She was right there and I told her about the cereal and the house and sweaters!”

Steve nodded solemnly. “Yeah, you told me.”

Eddie looked absolutely destroyed.

Then he groaned, flopping backwards with his arm over his face. “I wanna die.”

Robin patted his leg. “We’ll let you live. But we are gonna tell her.”

“Please don’t,” he whispered into the carpet. “Please let me disappear.”

Steve laughed. “You called me flower vanilla.”

Eddie groaned louder.

Robin snickers, “She’s gonna love this.”

“I was confessing to the wrong person!” Eddie was drunkly reasoning out.

“At least you were sweet about it.” Robin added.

“I need new friends.”

Robin and Steve just clinked beer bottles above his head while Eddie melted into the floor.

#stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson #joe keery #steve harrington #djotime #steddie #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #joseph quinn

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milatiny-xx · 12 hours ago

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starry eyes | p.sh

pairing: park seonghwa x gn!reader summary: it's not like hwa to be distant or distracted. he keeps canceling on you last minute. things are bad, and you're starting to get suspicious. when he calls you by the wrong name during an argument, it feels like the end. how will your star make it up to you? (requested) warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, happy ending! wc: 3.1k a/n: i bought 2 versions of golden hour part 3 and GUESS WHOSE photocards i gotttt. i did get a sannie pc and a yeosang credit card sticker but EVERYTHING ELSE was seonghwa like relaxxxx mother. he's coming for yunho's spot ig. also this photo of him??? criminal.

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

You blink away tears as you stare down at the message. You read it over and over again, as if your desperation would magically change the words.

Your dinner reservation is in less than an hour.

It's the third time this week he's cancelled a date on you last minute. The fifth time this month...you think? You're starting to lose track.

It's very unlike Hwa to act like this. He's always so organized, put-together, almost annoyingly so. His room is spotless, his legos and other decorations dusted and displayed neatly. He's never late. He's never dirty. He never forgets anything when traveling. Cancelling a date in general is not something he normally does. Backing out last minute? He hates schedule changes like that.

It's that stupid model. You know it. You were practically told that by KQ.

Of course, you were overjoyed for Seonghwa when he told you he had the opportunity to model and walk in a show for Dior. Nothing in this world could have made you prouder. You want him to do it—you really do. It's just...

The campaign he's modeling for requires a variety of couples shoots. There's one model in particular that he seems to be spending a lot of time with. And, of course, that model is one of the most gorgeous people you've ever seen. You know he would never cheat on you or hurt you intentionally in any way.

But it's not easy when he shows you the proofs of him grasping a woman's nonexistent waist or trailing a finger down a man's sharpened jaw. As always, he looks absolutely radiant and totally chic in every shot. You just wish he had more solo photos.

To make matters worse, he's been insanely busy. With his new modeling responsibilities on top of his already jam-packed ATEEZ schedules, he's barely had time for you recently.

Part of it is his busy schedule. The other part is KQ's doing.

A blurry photo of you and Hwa holding hands while leaving a restaurant had raised some attention on social media. Not viral level but enough that Hwa was catching some heat online. KQ suggested that he spend some more time working and interacting with other celebrities publicly. Just until the rumors died down.

Like a professional, Seonghwa had done exactly as they asked. He went to work and came home, sneaking time with you at odd hours here and there. You didn't like it, but to protect him, you'd do anything.

That had started three months ago.

You weakly raise your thumb to like his message. You don't know how else to respond. You could say "okay," but it doesn't feel okay anymore. It hurts.

Okay...so no dinner tonight. You'll have to figure something out and will probably be eating by yourself. Again.

By the time you've gathered the energy to get off the couch and shower, it's late. You're not even hungry anymore. You aim for the bedroom and curl up into the sheets, preparing for more doomscrolling. Your eyes are starting to blink closed until a headline catches your attention.

ATEEZ'S SEONGHWA SPOTTED OUTSIDE A-LIST RESTAURANT WITH MYSTERY PARTNER

You scramble up in bed, heart pounding as you click through the article. Your eyes move rapidly across the screen, frantically trying to digest the words.

Then, the photo—two figures in masks walking side by side, shoulders brushing. It's partly obstructed by a building, so it's hard to tell who it actually is. But it does look like Seonghwa. You zoom in as far as you can, groaning when the photo gets too pixelated to see clearly.

Something in your gut lurches when you notice a dainty silver bracelet on the wrist. It's him. Hwa has a bracelet exactly like that. A gift. From you.

You feel sick. Exhausted. Betrayed. Most of all? Enraged.

You don't even feel like crying, you're so angry. With shaking hands, you gather your blanket and plant yourself firmly on the couch, turning off all the lights. Then, you wait.

Three hours later, at two in the morning, the front door softly clicks open. You slowly turn your head toward the sound, gritting your teeth and flattening your lips. Seonghwa's thin frame slips through the crack in the door, and he quietly puts down his things. He flips on the light and turns. A yelp escapes his throat, arms frozen halfway through shrugging off his jacket.

"Oh my god, Y/N," he says, holding a slender hand to his chest. "You scared me half to death. What are you doing up? It's so late, my star. You should be in bed."

"Couldn't sleep," you deadpan.

"Oh no, really?" his eyes soften, and he moves toward you. "Why not? Bad dreams?"

"You could say that."

He kneels in front of you, placing his hands on your knees. He smiles up at you, softly, gently, and so handsomely. It only makes your heart burn more.

"Well, how about I change my clothes, and then I'll snuggle you until you can fall asleep."

You clench your jaw, tears already threatening to spill. You feel so sick. Your blood is boiling. How could he act like this, like everything's fine and dandy, when he's been treating you like this? Canceling your plans just so he can spend time with someone else... Your anger must be evident on your face, because Seonghwa's smile drops. Concern floods his expression.

"What's wrong, darling?" he asks quietly, eyes searching your face. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

He reaches up to touch you. Instinctively, you jerk away.

"Oh, I don't know," you snap. "Why don't you tell me?"

You shove your phone into his outstretched hand.

He fumbles to grasp it, glancing up at you with knitted eyebrows. You watch his gaze flick back and forth as he scans the article. His eyes widen, mouth dropping open in disbelief. You cross your arms over your chest and try not to cry. Seonghwa shakes his head.

"Oh no. No, no, no," he mutters. "No, this isn't right. I...this isn't true." His eyes catch yours, round and panicked and glassy. "Jagi, please, you have to know this story isn't true. It was just a company dinner."

"I don't know. You look pretty cozy in the photos. Oh, let me guess, next, you're going to tell me that's not even you."

He hesitates, long enough that you know it is. He was outside that restaurant. With them. Rage beats through you. You pop to your feet, moving to step around him. His hand lunges out, circling around your thigh.

"Y/N, my star, please listen. It wasn't anything. It was nothing, I swear. We didn't do anything. It was just a company dinner, that's all. It was last minute, and I...please, what can I do? How can I fix this? I-I'll never go out to a company dinner again if-"

"It's not just that, Seonghwa!" you explode, pulling back your leg. "It's everything! I barely see you anymore. You never make our dates. You always cancel, and you don't even have the bravery to do it in advance. These days my plans are always changing last minute. And then I see you out there with these other people? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to trust you?"

"You can. You can trust me, I promise. I-I haven't done anything with anyone. I don't know how to...to prove it. But please just listen to me."

You shake your head.

"No, I don't want to anymore. I'm tired."

He sighs frustratedly. As you stomp toward the bedroom, you can hear him raising his voice to try and keep up with you. Your heart is beating so loud in your ears that you have no idea what he's saying. You're in the middle of slamming the door closed, when his hand launches out to stop it. You gasp, glaring up at him. His expression has turned angry, aggravated like how it gets when you mess with his legos while he's trying to build something.

"You're being so unreasonable," he says through gritted teeth. "You won't even let me try to explain-"

"No! I shouldn't have to listen to you! You're obviously a liar anyway, and I-"

"Just give me five seconds, Alex!" (if your name actually is alex, so sorry i was trying to pick a GN name and this was the first one i could think of LOL)

Your breath catches in your throat. You can feel your heart cracking into a hundred tiny pieces. You blink at him, mouth quivering. It takes a moment before the realization hits him. He called you by someone else's name...

His anger melts immediately, replaced with desperate panic. He shakes his head, falling onto his knees in front of you.

"Y/N," he says your name—correctly this time—so quietly, so softly that it hurts. "I'm sorry...I didn't mean to..."

You just shake your head, tears overflowing and streaming down your cheeks.

"Go away. I can't..." your voice chokes. "...be around you right now."

His eyes grow glassy, lips trembling. He reaches out for you, but you back away. Hot tears slip down your face as you stare at him, helpless and desperate on the floor. He's crying now, too. His mouth opens as if he's going to say something but closes. He stands slowly, avoiding your gaze, and backs out of the room. Before he closes the door, you catch him through the mirror, looking pathetically back at you as you crawl into bed.

"I'm sorry..." he whispers.

You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa closes the door softly. You bury yourself under every blanket and pillow you can find. You don't even bother to take your socks off. You just lie there, enraptured in darkness and pain. You cry and cry and cry until your nose is so stuffed that you can barely breathe. Then you blow your nose and pull the cover over your head. You don't even know when you finally pass out from exhaustion.

The first time you wake up, it's still dark outside. You feel groggy and confused. You have no idea what time it is. You stay awake for a few moments before fading back into sleep.

The second time, the sun is up. You lazily glance at the clock. It's after noon. Nothing in the room has been disturbed. It doesn't look like Seonghwa has tried to come in. You wonder if he's been at the door, if he's tried to say anything. You reach for your phone just to check. Nothing. Your heart aches. It's so quiet in the apartment, you wonder if he's given up. Your stomach grumbles, but you ignore it and bury yourself deeper into the covers. Sleep takes you again.

The third time you wake up, it must be only a few hours later. A soft knock on the door brings you out of sleep. You can hear Seonghwa's soft voice asking if you're hungry, pleading with you to eat. You ignore it and bite away more tears.

The fourth time, it's dark again. When you go to turn over, something under the door catches your eye. It's a bowl with something inside. Looks like ramen. Probably cold. There's a note beside it that you don't bother to read. The room has been tidied slightly, the fallen pillows replaced on the bed, the blanket straightened over your body. You wonder how long ago he snuck in to do all of this. Your heart aches. You wish this fixed the hurt in your heart. But it doesn't.

The fifth time you wake up, it's because Seonghwa is gently shaking you. Despite sleeping all day, you're exhausted. When his face comes into view, your heart cracks. You sigh frustratedly and move to turn away. He catches your shoulder. You glare back at him, heart totally shattered at the sight of his adorable little boba eyes.

"Please, don't ignore me," he says quietly. His voice is raspy, strained like he's been shouting. No...crying. He's been crying. Even in the dim light spilling from the hall, you can see the red rings around his eyes.

"I know nothing I say can make up for what I did," he continues, "how I've been acting and treating you. But...I have something I'd like to show you. If you let me."

You shake your head and open your mouth to say no, but he interrupts, "Please. I'm begging."

Even though you're still angry, your heart swells. You love him. God, you love when he looks at you like that. Like you're everything. You nod.

"Fine, but make it quick," you reply. "I'm exhausted."

His face breaks into a smile, the relief evident across his delicate features. He carefully helps you to your feet and leads you into the bathroom. You fight him the whole way. You wash your face, and he turns away while you change into a clean set of pajamas. Once cleaned up, he wraps a blanket around your shoulders and guides you into the kitchen where he hands you a warm mug. You sniff it and smile slightly.

"It's my favorite," you muse quietly.

"I made it just how you like it. I thought you might be thirsty."

You feel angry suddenly. Why is he acting like this makes up for everything? Like he can just make you some tea and bring you pajamas and cold ramen and suddenly everything's fine. You flatten your lips.

"So...is this it? Because if so-"

"No, no this isn't it," he blurts, eyes widening. "No, please, come this way. It's out here."

He gestures to the balcony. You raise an eyebrow but let him lead you out of curiosity.

The string lights he'd hung across the balcony when you moved in are lit up. They cast a gentle golden light over the small space. Positioned in the middle of the balcony is a telescope that you don't remember seeing there before. You glance back at him, and he nods.

He leads you to it and straightens it for you. You stand in front of it stupidly, wondering what he wants from you. He slides in behind you, his breath warm on the shell of your ear as he whispers, "Look."

You point at the telescope, and he nods again. You peer down into it, adjusting your eye so that you can see whatever he's trying to show you.

"What am I looking at? It's...a bunch of stars," you say dryly.

"Do you see the one in the middle? The really bright one?"

"Yeah, sure. What about it?"

"That's Y/N."

You pull away from the telescope, looking back at him confusedly.

"What?"

"That star, it's name is Y/N."

"What are you talking about, Seonghwa?"

"You're my star, my guiding light. I wanted to give you something to show you that, to show you how important you are to me. So, I bought that star and named it after you."

Your heart swells. He's always called you his star. That's his special nickname reserved only for you. You don't know how to react. So many emotions are swirling around your head at the same time. You just stare at him blankly.

"A-and I got you this, too," he stutters, rummaging behind one of the chairs.

When he comes back up, he hands you a little navy box with a silver thread wrapped around it. You glance up at him before taking and carefully unwrapping it. You can feel his eagerness as he watches you like a hawk, his eyes flicking between your face and the box. Your breath catches when you lift the lid.

It's a small silver necklace with a star pendant. You look back at him again. His eyebrows are lifted in hope. You gently pick up the necklace to examine it. The pad of your finger scrapes against something on the back. You flip the pendant. The words My star are engraved in Hwa's handwriting with your anniversary date inscribed below. Your lip quivers.

When your gaze lifts, Hwa is on his knees—when did that happen?—staring up at you with his hands clasped. Wound around his fingers is a matching necklace.

"I'm so sorry, darling," he says. "I never, ever meant to hurt you. I would never want that. I know I've been busy, distracted, disrespectful to you. I know I can never make up for it. I know those photos looked bad. But I promise you, it was just a company dinner, nothing else. I should have made time for you, and I will moving forward. Please, don't leave me. Because if you do, every time I look at that star, my heart will break all over again. I'll wear this," he gestures to the necklace, "every day of my life. Everyone will know I'm yours and that you're mine. I'll carry you in my heart every second of every day, because you're my star. Always and forever."

As soon as the last three words escape his lips, you crash onto your knees and throw your arms around his neck. He teeters backward but rebounds in a second, arms wrapping around your waist. He drops his head into your neck. His panting breath heats your skin. Tears stream down your face, soaking his shirt under your chin. His hands roam everywhere, over your back, shoulders, neck, hair. He clutches you like if he were to let go, you would vanish into thin air.

"Oh, Hwa...I'm sorry," you mumble. "I'm sorry I was so harsh. I shouldn't have been so angry. I know you're busy, and I want you to succeed. I want you to have all of this. I'm so proud of you, and I should have said it. I should have trusted you. I know that. I was just...I was so scared of losing you."

Somehow, his grip tightens even more around you.

"You could never lose me. I'm here, forever and always."

You pull back, sniffing and wiping your tears messily. But you smile when you see his sweet eyes staring back at you. You reach up to wipe his tears from his cheeks.

"I'll be better," you say to him quietly. "I promise. More supportive, more understanding, more trusting."

He smiles, sliding his palm onto your face. He gently moves your lips to his, savoring the taste of your kiss. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead on yours, his fingers gingerly brushing your hair back.

"I'll be more attentive, more present, and I'll never, ever cancel on you last minute. I promise."

You smile, nudging your nose against his.

"I love you, Hwa."

"I love you too, my star."

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

#seonghwa #park segonhwa #ateez #seonghwa x reader #ateez x reader #seonghwa fic #ateez fic #fic #milatiny-xx

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cressidagrey · 42 minutes ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo.

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply.

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened.

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly. He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she’s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person…

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. .

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up.

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her. “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

89 notes · View notes

toxicrelief · 3 days ago

Text

Crawling Back to You

Chapter twenty

Synopsis: You, Rex and Bulletproof are expected to share a room together for the night.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 7.2k

Chapter: 20/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: None

Note: W*rk is kicking my ass, thank you all for being so patient! Happy 100k!!

“No way in hell am I sleeping on one of those couches.” Zandale pulls his bag over to the bed.

“I mean they look nice at least, right?” You say it more to comfort yourself than the other two standing in the very over-the-top guest room with you.

“Sure, it looks nice, it doesn’t look comfortable.” He sits down at its edge, giving a few gentle pets to test out the firmness of the mattress. “For having so much money, I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why would she be worried about the guest beds? She probably sleeps on a giant brick of gold or something.” You took the chance to sit down on the couch you were standing in front of. It wasn’t bad, but you could tell it was not going to be anywhere near restful.

Rex remained almost eerily silent, the only proof of his presence was the sound of the wood creaking lightly as he laid back on the other couch, testing it out himself.

Bulletproof was slipping off his suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly behind him on the bed. Lying back, he pulled out his phone, responding to whoever the guy had to respond to. Now that you thought about it, what does he do outside of being a Guardian? Maybe nothing?

It was interesting to you how much being a Guardian seemed to fully encapsulate some of the other members’ identities. After begging for an hour, Donald had let you look over the files of the old Guardians, you had claimed to want to learn, and that was partially true. But you were also just really curious. For your whole childhood, they had been the team. Everyone knew their names, everyone had a favorite, and everyone trusted that they would be there.

From their files, a lot of the old team seemed to have full lives outside of their work. War Woman was a high-up executive in a company she had helped build from the ground up. Green Ghost had been a photographer, even Aquarus had been the literal king of Atlantis. Most of them had spouses, or people they were dating, they had whole lives. With the brutal killing of all the former members, it was hard to remember it had been different before.

Even when trying to make small talk with the patients at the hospital, you noticed it. Hardly anyone on the outside seemed interested in familiarizing themselves with the new team. A few people had said things to the tune of “Oh yeah, wasn’t that guy on the original team?” or “I thought he died?”. To the world, the Guardians were no longer a phenomenon. They weren’t indestructible or untouchable, they definitely weren’t invincible. They were dead. A new group to replace them didn’t overshadow the shock that followed the initial announcement of the massacre.

Robot’s or Immortal’s, whoever’s team, didn’t come across as united, and from the inside it didn’t feel that way either. The team was capable, sure. But you still wondered how fulfilled the other members were truly feeling.

After a few more minutes of comments on the room you began to eye the guest bathroom residing in the corner of the room, to the left of the bed. Unless you are content with sleeping in your dress you should probably get changed, maybe even shower. It had been a long night. Lifting the small suitcase, you unzipped it open, trailing a hand over the nightwear you had brought. It was…fine. Mismatched, cozy, reliable. But you had originally been under the impression you would have your own room. If you had known differently, would you have brought something else? Eh, probably not. A soft sigh escapes your lips as you remember something that had proved to be a hindrance earlier. You’ll need help unzipping your dress.

There were few things you could think of off the top of your head that you’d rather do less at this exact moment than ask Rex to help again. So, onto the next best choice. After standing, and purposely avoiding looking at the other couch, you loitered near Zandale, who was practically ripping through his duffle bag. Surprisingly well-packed for a two-day mission.

“Can you help me really quick?”

He threw a shirt down at the bag, frustration clearly rising. “Stupid mission, with a stupid dance, stupid beds-”

You leaned back on your heels, trying to wait patiently, but the longer you stood watching him pull out somehow yet another graphic tee, the less easy it was to be patient. “Hello-?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?”

“I forgot it.” He sighed.

“It? What it? You have like fifty thousand shirts in there, man.” You leaned forward to look into the contents of the bag, but he was already zipping it up. He let out a groan, resting his elbows on his knees while staring past you.

What on earth is he going on about-?

No.

Nope.

He’s not about to do this.

“Who were you texting, Zandale?” You squint, watching a small smile ghost over his expression that disappears just as soon as it arrives.

He clears his throat, standing up. “I forgot my shirt.”

There’s a pause as you look down at his now-closed duffle bag that contained at least five different shirts.

“Really?” You respond dryly.

“Yeah, there’s a specific one I sleep in, well, you know how it is.”

“No, I don’t know how it is, Zandale. Just wear one of those.” You gesture down to the bag with a tense hand.

He hums, looking down at it before glancing back up. “Those are too cottony-”

“What?” You watch as he bites the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling.

“And the bed feels like shit. So, I was sitting here, quietly lamenting how awful my night would be, in a cotton shirt on an uncomfortable bed, and it hit me. I can leave.” No. “I can actually be home, and in my own bed, before you’re even ready for bed.” No fucking way.

“Why do you even need to wear a shirt to go to bed, Zandale?” You shake your head, pressing two fingers to your temple, then lowering your voice, hopefully to a tone Rex couldn’t overhear. “Was it Rae? You were texting Rae, weren’t you?”

He ignores you and continues. “It has been absolutely lovely spending a whole evening with you two, but I’m actually good-”

“Zandale-”

“I’ll be sure to be back on time in the morning-”

“Zandale, no-”

“I could technically take one of you with me, but that would add travel time, and I’m absolutely beat-”

‘Please don’t.’ You mouth it at Zandale, narrowing your eyes at him, with the subtlest shake of the head. As frustrated as you were right now with him and Rae, who most likely was putting him up to it, you were somewhat more frustrated that Rex was saying absolutely nothing.

Bulletproof gives you a pout and slowly walks up to you, putting up an act like he’s really considering. He stands directly before you, puts his hand out on your shoulder, and- “Yeah no, every man for themselves.”

“Dick.”

“Thank me later.” Dick!

You had almost expected him to grab his things, open a window, and fly away. Instead, he picked his bags up, put them neatly in a corner, and rather anticlimactically left out the main door. Leaving you alone with Rex who was positioned away from you. One of his arms folded neatly underneath his head, the one on his injured side resting on his lower stomach. It was probably the only way he could lie without pulling at whatever stitches he now had.

A pang of guilt washed over you. Guilt that he got hurt, that he came along on this mission. Guilt that you hadn’t healed him. Which was quickly replaced by the annoyance that he didn’t allow you to heal him. And that annoyance was even quicker replaced by more annoyance that Zandale had really just bailed. And he had done so without even helping you with what you had originally gone to ask him for help with.

Rex finally looked over at you, meeting your gaze. You threw your hands up in exasperation, a silent, ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

“What?”

“Oh my god.” You groaned, grabbing your bag and heading to the bathroom.

You tried a few times to reach your zipper on your own, even considering pulling it over your head. After a few failed attempts, and the sound of threads buckling, you finally decided to call it quits. Leaning against the bathroom counter, you pressed on the first contact in your phone, selecting to call. Simply messaging her would take longer than you wanted.

“Hello?”

“You did this, didn’t you?” You hissed it out, your voice low as you turned on the sink to drown out your words.

“Don’t worry about thanking me or whatever, drinks are on you next time I’m over.”

“I’m not thanking you, Rae! This is extremely inconvenient!”

“It’s inconvenient to be alone in a room for the night with a guy you’ve been drooling over?” The sarcasm drips in her tone, even through the distortion of the call itself.

“How did you even know we were all going to be in a room together? I didn’t even know that!”

“Zandale owes me money because you two apparently danced tonight-”

“God, not a semblance of discretion on this whole fucking team-” You sighed, clicking your nails against the marble countertop.

“Anyways,” She cut in loudly, “He told me about the room situation, and I told him he wouldn’t owe me if he left the room. He was complaining about being stuck between you two eye-fucking each other anyways so-”

“Rae!” You put a hand over your face, you knew that Bulletproof had been someone clued into your feelings, but to know he had been observing made it much worse. “Rae, I love you, you’re wonderful, amazing, beautiful, everything, you just royally fucked me on this.”

“Hopefully I’m not the only one getting to fuck you-”

“Rae, oh my god, can you just listen?”

She snickered but didn’t speak over you.

How exactly do you explain that you are quite angry with Rex right now without going into way too much detail? “He’s…well, he’s an asshole.”

“You already knew this, babe. Have fun!”

“Wait, Rae, seriously-” And… she’s gone.

After staring at your reflection for a few moments, and having a mental crash-out, you prepared for bed to the best of your ability while still wearing the dress.

“Have fun talking on the phone?” Rex sounded as you left the restroom, he was facing towards the door, now sitting up on the couch. His tie was loosened, and the top of his dress shirt was unbuttoned.

You gave him an unimpressed look, but you could still feel your face heating up. “Yes, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t have listened in.”

“Yeah, sure.” You roll your eyes with a sigh, dropping your stuff next to the bed. Maybe you should offer it to him, he was shot after all. You turn to him again, opening your mouth to offer it, and-

“Are you going to bed wearing that?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “And what about it, Rex?”

His eyes ran over you, a semi-confused expression dusting his features. “Why-” He paused. “Do you need help?”

“Your help?”

“Yeah, I’m the only one here aren’t I?”

“Then no.”

“Are you fucking serious, Joy?”

“Yes, thank you.” You were already pulling back the duvet and sliding under the comforter. It was almost immediately uncomfortable. But at this point, you weren’t about to give in and ask him. As good as he looked sitting on the couch, with his arms slotted over his knees, and his tie hanging loose, you were still angry with him.

It’s quiet for a minute or two, the lights are all still on, so all you can do is lay with your eyes closed, hoping morning will come quick. Eventually, you hear the shuffling of Rex grabbing his things to go to the restroom, the door closes, and you hear the shower turn on.

With stitches that fresh he most definitely should not be taking a shower, but you weren’t exactly raring to go barge in and stop him. Rolling on your back you started up at the intricately decorated ceiling.

It was separated into sections, golden leaf etchings mapping out the edges of each box. The walls were painted deep red, with dark mahogany load-bearing beams jutting across the room. Overall, the room was bordering on maximalist, a variety of different wall decorations littering every open available area, all overlapping and intertwining in an artful way. It was a stark contrast with the subtle greens and browns of your furnished apartment.

Your apartment that Rex had haphazardly clamored into, soaking wet.

You ran a hand over your face at the memory. Usually, you pushed it away when it surfaced. The guilt that you didn’t go with him felt suffocating at times, but this time you didn’t.

The shower was still running; Rex would be gone for a bit longer. What was the harm in reanalyzing it? Not the confusion, or the anger, or the frustration, but the feeling of his eyes on you. His hand pressed flesh against the wood of the front door, your breaths intermingling. His eyes on you in the elevator. It made your stomach twist.

He had asked you to dance. Talked your ear off for hours about islands versus bar-styled countertops, and the different ways to properly utilize skylights. Which, you didn’t think there was even a way to utilize it, right? It was just there to let in natural lighting and look pretty. Rex had sighed heavily when you said this and launched into a whole lecture about it. You don’t know exactly when it happened, but you started to enjoy the sound of his voice. Steady, constant. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the most elegantly spoken person ever, you couldn’t come up with anyone who cursed half as much as he did. But it was comfortable, you couldn’t say the same for trying to sleep in this dress.

Ugh. You felt like a proper sap. Even now, as angry with him as you were, you almost missed him. He wasn’t even a room away and you missed him. Thank god Rae can’t read your thoughts, or you’d really never hear the end of it. This is borderline pathetic.

The sound of the shower turning off lurching you from your thoughts. You quickly turned on your side, away from the bathroom, although you’re not sure why. A few minutes pass and the door creaks open, the fan inside the bathroom whirling away the silence of the bedroom. You wait to hear footsteps, but they don’t come. He’s standing there at the door, you can feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to look back.

“Are you sleeping or just still ignoring me?” His voice is quiet, unsure. The statement itself is ridiculous though, you haven’t been ignoring him any more than he’s been ignoring you. You were so consistently aware of him that it almost seemed impossible to truly ignore him.

“I’m not ignoring you, Rex, we just talked a few minutes ago.” Your response came out short and sharp, more so than you intended.

“That wasn’t talking.”

You breathed out a sigh, turning finally to face him, propping yourself up on your elbows. The short length of his hair dried quickly, which somewhat disappointed you after the trip down memory lane to how he’d looked at your apartment. Wet strands clinging to his face, droplets clinging to every lock. He was out of the dress shirt and was now wearing a generic white t-shirt, over dark grey boxers. “What would you like to talk about?” Your tone dry, closed off.

You wanted to talk to him, wanted him to talk to you. But the residual irritation was still clinging to you like a burr entrenched in an old dog’s fur. You couldn’t shake it.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, I mean…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “That guy…whatever his name was. He had you in a really rough spot.”

“I survived.”

“I know that, but are you okay?”

There was a longer silence. You tilted your head an inch, looking at him, really looking at him. “I’ve had a gun pointed at me before. Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.” Soft, hardly audible.

“Rex, I know you think I struggle to hold my own but-”

He groans, “Would you stop that?”

You bite back your response, pushing yourself up more so that you are fully sitting up. The gesture pulls your dress, causing the top to dig mildly into your shoulders. Pulling at it absentmindedly, you try to formulate a response.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and let me help you?” He’s taken a few steps towards you. You can smell the shampoo, it was fancy, something already set in the bathroom. Distinctly not him.

“Will you stop being so stubborn and let me help you?” You shoot back with a glare, your eyes settling on his side you know is injured.

“Is that seriously what it’ll fucking take?” Irritation laces his voice. It could make you sigh once again, you didn’t want to be fighting with him, but a small voice in your head reminded you that he had refused your help. Doubted your abilities.

“Maybe it is.” You shift, the silk of your dress exaggerating the movement with how little friction you have against the sheets. “You’re not supposed to take a shower that soon after getting stitches anyways, you’re gonna get an infection.”

“Christ! Are we really doing this again?”

“You’re the one who brought it up!”

“No, I’m not, I offered to help you with your dress!”

“You can help me with the dress after I’ve healed you!”

“Unbelievable.” Rex let out a huff, crossing his arms, which proved to be ill-thought-through, as he immediately returned his arms to his sides, fighting a wince.

You scooted out of bed, crossing the short distance to him. “Deal?”

Rex’s expression furrowed, but he surprisingly didn’t seem to want to argue further. He held his hand out for you, and you quickly took it. The last thing you wanted was for him to change his mind at the last second. Shutting your eyes tightly you willed your way through it. Mending the wound in his side, and a few other bruises you could sense were waiting to announce themselves in a few hours just below the skin. With your thumb pressed firmly against his pulse point, you could almost swear you felt his heartbeat stutter.

“Okay, happy?” His voice was low still, his eyes practically drilling into you.

“More than I was.” You concede, letting go of his hand.

“Will you let me help you now?”

“I suppose.” You murmur, and before you can turn for him, his hands are on your shoulders, guiding you to face away. The pads of his fingers rough against your skin, sending a lightning-fast spark down your spine. With every passing moment, you only became more and more aware of the fact that the two of you were alone in a room and that he was helping you free yourself from the confines of your dress.

His touch left your shoulder to meet with the back of your dress, easily unzipping it for you. The interaction lasted no more than a few seconds, but that’s all it took. It felt intimate, too much.

As soon as his grasp on the zipper disappeared you were practically jumping away, grabbing your bag again, and locking yourself in the bathroom. Really, really smooth.

Switching to your nightwear took no time at all, but you still spent a good few minutes standing against the door, regulating your breathing. Willing yourself to get a fucking grip.

When you returned, Rex was settled back on his couch, both arms now settled under his head with his side injury taken care of.

“You can have the bed if you want-”

“No.” It cuts through the end of your sentence. A breath passed between you, without him looking over. “Thank you for offering, I guess.”

Okay…

You shrugged to yourself; you weren’t going to fight him on it. The bed was much more comfortable, and the exhaustion of the evening was catching up with you. After you had closed the bathroom door, there was a surprising amount of light still filtering under the bedroom door and over the curtains. Did they ever turn the lights off in the hallway? The sheets felt much better now that you weren’t in the confines of your dress, you were ready to pass out, and after a few turns, you did.

You couldn’t have been asleep for long. It felt like you’d blinked from when you must have fallen asleep to right now. You were sure you heard something but you were too groggy to know for sure what it had been. So, you waited, straining to hear something, anything-

It’s soft. Not what had woken you up, but definitely distinguishable. You can hear Rex’s breathing, it’s quick, distressed. A few moments after zeroing in on the sound of it, a soft groan breaks through the silence. It’s sharp, clear indicator of pain. Before you can fully register anything, you’re swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The floor feels cool against your bare feet, and the warmth of the blankets beckons you to lay back down, but you push through. You pad as quietly as you can over to the couch, slamming your foot into your bag at one point, which draws a stifled breath from you.

“Rex?” He didn’t immediately stir. The only thing now illuminating the room was the ghost of light peeking through the curtains. It shined on part of the wall behind the couch, a corner of it hardly lighting his face. His eyebrows were tight, an obvious sign of discomfort. “Rex.” You said again, lowering yourself down closer to the ground so he didn’t wake up to you standing over him.

After a brief moment of hesitation, you put your hand on his arm, preparing to say his name again. But upon contact his hand quickly grasped yours, his eyes now open. You give him a speedy once over, his chest was rising and falling in a hectic fashion. His eyes quickly scanned your face, mouth slightly parted. After a few blinks and a deep shaky breath, his grip loosened on your wrist, obviously needing a moment to fully recognize you and the environment around him.

“Rex?” You whispered, not trying to take your hand back. His thumb was lightly grazing over the back of it, making goosebumps rise up your arm. He had relaxed mildly, rolling slightly to face towards the ceiling, trying to regulate his breathing. For a moment you felt a little hot, watching his chest rise and fall so desperately. You closed your eyes mentally shaking the thought. He was obviously reliving something bad, and you were thinking about how good he looked? Get a grip.

“Come to the bed.”

“What?” His voice was scratchy from sleep, but you didn’t miss the quickness with which he snapped to look at you.

“I don’t want you sleeping over here alone, and you have just as much of a right to the bed.” Rex hesitated for a moment and then went to speak. His body language screamed that he was going to refuse. “I can’t sleep with you over here being as loud as you’re being.” You tease lightly, hoping that will be enough, but just in case you add, “We can put pillows down the middle if you’re so worried. But this is ridiculous.”

Rex closed his mouth and gave a light sigh, his tired gaze staring into you.

“Was I really being loud?”

“Yes.” You say without hesitation, standing up again. “Come on.” Your hand leaves him, and you take notice of how his hand follows you a few inches before dropping back down. You still couldn’t understand why he didn’t kiss you earlier during the dance. Every sign you were picking up on screamed that he was interested, he did everything but outright say it. “Get up loser.” You grabbed his blanket, tossed it over the other side of the couch, and offered him a hand. He didn’t take it of course, but it wasn’t in the same way as other times. There was no malice behind the act, but rather hesitation.

You go back to the bed, settling back on your side, pulling the blanket down on his. You pushed one of the decorative pillows vertically in the middle to separate his side from yours. After making a show of demonstrating it he finally moved to the other side of the bed. After a brief pause, he was in bed with you, pulling the covers up over him.

You weren’t sure what to do now. Or even if this would actually help. Chances were he could still have troublesome dreams here, but now you’d hear it even more. You pulled the duvet up a little more, the coarse material grazing your cheek. You were facing each other, something you thought would be awkward.

But it wasn’t. You both just stared, a heavy, weighted silence drifting over you. His bright verdant eyes traveled over your face. You could feel your eyes drooping slightly from the exhaustion you were still feeling.

“Do I really repulse you that badly?” The whispered question caught you off guard, causing your eyes to snap open again.

“What?” You’re met with silence, unnerving, sterile. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just…” He started, his fingers picking at the embroidering on the pillow between you. “Earlier, I helped you with your dress, and you left as fast as you could, and now, with the pillow-”

In this moment you were increasingly grateful that there was very little lighting, because your face was feeling so warm you were sure there was no way he would have been able to miss it.

“You don’t repulse me, Rex.” You blinked a few times. He was completely misreading you.

“Yeah, sure, no need to say it just to try making me feel better, you know.”

“When have I ever said something solely for the purpose of making you feel better, hm?” You smiled, your own hand mirroring his in tracing the embroidery.

“Maybe I keep hoping you’ll learn to try.” His voice regains a bit of its life, less the small whisper, more Rex.

“Tough luck, Sloane.” His last name ghosted over your lips, something you’d been waiting to bring up since you heard it.

He groaned, turning his head to he was stifled by his pillow. “Oh, brother.”

“Rex Sloane, hm?” You roll on your back, staring up at the ceiling. “Not horrible as far as last names go. Very official though, I think you were meant to be a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” It’s muffled still.

“Mhm. Sloane and Co. Your business partners wouldn’t get a choice in the name because you wouldn’t be able to get anyone to stick around with you for long. You know, with your dazzling personality.”

“Ouch.”

“Now that I think about it, all lawyers are dicks, so you’d fit in well.”

“Well, that’s a reassurance.” He sighs, rolling back onto his back as well.

You hum in response. “Sloane…Sloane-“ You test out his last name a few times in different tones, snickering to yourself as he lets out a disgruntled noise a few times.

“Stop saying it.”

“Why? Worried I’ll wear it out?”

“Something like that.” He said lowly, his head turned to look at you.

“Limited edition?”

“Would you quit it?”

There’s another pause, only clouded by the sounds of your shared, disjointed breathing. You shift back again, the bed creaking softly, so you’re on your side facing him. The center pillow only made it harder to make out his face, so you push it down further, wedging it between your chest and his upper arm.

“Have you been having a lot of nightmares lately?” It’s a whisper, your voice crackling through the empty air.

“A few.” He mumbled back, his gaze lowering down your face, or at least you think it does, it’s too dark to tell.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is a little.” You respond quietly. He had asked you to come back with him. That night all those weeks ago. You could still feel the rain dripping down your face. You could still feel his gaze on you as the car you had called for him traveled down the road in front of your apartment.

“You wouldn’t have known.” His features are soft, he means it.

“It was immature, I shouldn’t have left in the first place.”

“It’s not like Rudy and I gave you any choice.” He chuckled softly, a familiar bitterness, not directed at you, but at the memory.

“I should have been the bigger person, stood my ground.”

“You shouldn’t have even been put in that position in the first place.”

Your gaze searched his eyes, and for a moment you wanted to cry. One shot to the head and he was no longer clinging to his belief that you didn’t belong. But what if he was right? He and Rudy had not figured out the whole picture when confronting you, but they weren’t wrong. You were hiding something. You were still hiding something. Everything inside screamed at you to tell him, admit that a part of him was right. Apologize. Yell at him for being nice to you now. Something.

“I’m sorry Rex.” Was all you could manage to murmur for now.

His brows twitched closer together, and his mouth curled slightly downward in an expression you couldn’t quite read. Was he angry? Upset that you were trying to apologize now instead of a few weeks ago when he first woke up in the hospital? It made your stomach lurch.

“God…Joy-” He paused before uttering your actual name like he was having to correct himself. “Would you just-” He tilted his head, looking up at the ceiling again as if fighting himself on something before he turned back to you. His eyes are on you again, but for a split second. it feels different. Like he can hardly contain himself, before he says, “Fuck it.” in a low tone.

His left hand is quickly on the side of your neck, it’s a gentle touch, but there was a firmness to it, unwavering. In the movement he had pushed the duvet slightly off your shoulder. His thumb brushes right behind your ear sending a jolt of shock down your spine. Not even a second later his mouth is on yours. Hungry. Desperate. The suddenness of the action steals the breath from your lungs. Your brain is hardly functioning fast enough to process what is happening.

As quickly as it happened, he’s pulling away. His hand lifting to hover over your neck rather than laying directly against it. So much for the barrier pillow.

“Fuck-” A shaky tone laced around his words. “I’m sorry-”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish what he is saying. And frankly, you did not care to know what it was going to be. You had surged forward to meet him again, his shock present in the way he tensed. Only a second was needed before his hand was back on the side of your neck. He groaned lightly into the kiss; it made you feel lightheaded. His lips parted slightly, inviting you in. As you deepened the kiss his fingers pushed further, meeting with your hair. They curled slightly, grasping a few locks.

Your hands came forward to grab fistfuls of his shirt, your knuckles brushing his collarbone at the motion. He reacted to this by putting his free hand on the other side of your face. It was a little awkward, both of you on your sides facing each other. Trying to utilize both arms while you both were simultaneously lying on one of them. It was hard to think, to form a single coherent thought, this was actually happening.

You broke the kiss to laugh quietly, both at the awkwardness of the position and the fact this was really happening, but he was not about to let you leave yet. His hand that was in your hair tightened and pulled your head closer again. He was greedy with your mouth, exploring it like he would never be able to again. You could feel his heartbeat under your clenched fists, it was completely erratic.

When he finally broke the kiss himself, it was only because he was in dire need of air. Lightheaded, his mouth parted as he panted, quickly trying to regain oxygen. You shared in his need, your eyes un-focusing slightly from the strain of your mutual exercise.

“Woah.” You wanted to slap yourself. That was all you could think to say? You weren’t sure where to start, what to say, what to admit to. What did this mean?

Rex didn’t respond, immediately shifting forward slightly to return to you, but you pushed him back lightly, your hands splayed across his chest, you still hadn’t caught your breath. He immediately nods.

“You’re right, we should stop.”

You respond to his words with an incredulous smile, going to sit up. His head tilted upwards to follow you at the motion, and his fingers trailed over your shoulder down your arm. “And why is that, Rex?”

He sits up too, his back fleshed with the headboard. “Because I really want to kiss you.”

You wanted to tease him, pretend that this wasn’t a huge deal, play it cool. But honestly, your heart was racing. “What is so wrong with that?” You tried to return to your usual banter to the best of your abilities, but you were already leaning slightly towards him.

He lets out a small sigh, his eyes were only on your lips, in the scarce light you could see a dusting of pink coloring over his cheekbones. He honestly doesn’t look capable of forming a cohesive thought, which made you feel a bit better about how cloudy your own head was. He ran a shaky hand up over the back of his neck. “Because I really want to kiss you…” He repeats, “ And I don’t think I want it to stop there.” He admitted softly.

Oh.

You blinked a few times, a subtle pricking rising from the back of your spine. Excitement.

He looked like he was actually at war with himself, the most pathetic look you had ever seen on his face, his eyes staring off in another direction. And just like that you were scooting closer, your knees brushing against his thigh. His gaze darts to you as you internally debate what to say. Maybe it would be simpler to stop here. Go sleep on the couch, leave him alone on the bed. But that was never going to be a real option at this point. Not after the dancing, fighting, longing.

You rise up slightly, lifting your leg that’s closest to him and placing it between his thighs so you can be closer. His eyes quietly watch you, and once you have situated yourself your gaze returns to him. “I want you to kiss me.” You say definitively, biting the inside of your lip. “If that’s okay with you.” You add, wincing slightly.

“Yeah?” For a moment you see his familiar cocky side, a small grin appearing on his face. But you know, especially now, how much of a show it is. You’re convinced if you put your hand to his chest, you’d be able to feel just how anxious he is. You just couldn’t figure out why. He was not one to be shy, Rae had told you plenty about his past excursions with Duplikate and he dated Eve for years. Why was this different?

“Yeah.” You say, leaning in towards him, but his lips don’t meet yours. Instead, his hand is traveling up your back to the nape of your neck, gently tilting your head to the side. A soft gasp leaves you as you feel him kiss your neck, trailing them up towards your jaw. His other hand is grabbing your hip, pulling you closer to him. The friction of his leg between yours drew out a breath from you. You can feel him smiling against your neck, his hand is moving up to the hem of your shirt, his fingers ghosting against your bare skin underneath it. “Fuck-” you breathe, his fingertips sending chills up your side.

This seems to have some kind of effect on him because now he is tilting your head down and forcing his way into your mouth. He’s sloppy like he cannot decide what he wants to do. No move feels precalculated.

Your hand comes up to the side of his neck, mirroring the move he had been doing when he first kissed you. Instantly his hand that was on your hip is clasped over yours on his neck. He pulls away for a painful second just to mutter “Don’t.”

“Why?” You pant as he shifts back to kissing your neck, making his way to the tendon where it connects to your shoulder.

“You’re making me lose focus.” He says against your skin. You let out a soft noise as you feel his teeth lightly graze you. His hand is still wrapped around yours, his thumb trailing over your knuckles. The hand that was around the nape of your neck traversed down your spine to the small of your back, pushing firmly against you.

A ringing sound fills the room. Your phone. Immediately you groan, turning your gaze to the table on your side of the bed. You shift to see if it’s important, but Rex is not making it easy for you, immediately his hands are both on your hips trying to hold you in place, still lying open mouth kisses on you, now he’s hovering over your collarbone.

“At least let me turn it off.” You laugh, your hand coming up to lightly pull him off of you. He grumbles against your skin but loosens his grip, letting you quickly crawl over to turn it off.

One Missed Call: Cecil Stedman

Shit. You ran a hand through your hair; this was more than likely important. And you could not think of many people you wanted to talk to less at this exact moment.

A light flashed across the screen as you powered it off. Something you could live to regret later. You turned and shuffled across the bed back to Rex, who was watching you with a love-drunk gaze. You put your hand to the side of his face and leaned in giving him a chased kiss before settling in back on top of him again. His hands were immediately at the bottom of your shirt, you could feel he was moments away from ridding you of it.

“Dammit!” You said with frustration as your phone started to ring again. How did Cecil do that?

“It’s Cecil, isn’t it?” Rex sighed, his head making a soft clunking nose as he rested it against the headboard behind him.

You looked over at the phone and then back at Rex. He looked so perfectly disheveled. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, kiss swollen, and a tantalizing heat radiating off him. But you both knew if you ignored Cecil much longer, he was going to just teleport into the room.

“Yes.” You admitted, running a hand over his chest.

“Typical.” Rex snorts, obviously feeling as frustrated as you are.

You don’t know what to do. Cecil was only calling your phone, which meant you had to leave Rex here. No idea when or if you’d be back before morning. You go to get off Rex and he grabs you, his eyes quietly pleading with you.

“Please.” It’s such a simple word, but it sounds so pretty when he says it. He was making this as hard for you as possible, and you had a feeling he knew it.

“I don’t think you want Cecil to show up in the room any more than I do.” You whisper, leaning forward and pressing what was meant to be a quick chaste kiss to his lips. But it quickly devolves into much more. Resulting in you having to break away and practically hopping off the bed.

“You don’t need to use Cecil as an excuse to turn me down you know.” He gives you a smirk, he would seem unbothered if his body language didn’t completely betray every level of uncertainty he was feeling. Rex Splode was nervous. It made you smile. If you thought you would be able to escape another kiss you would have given him another one now. But after having to pry his hands off of you from the last one you figured it would be safer to stay off the bed.

“I’m not turning you down, Rex.” You reaffirm, if you had more time, you’d spill about how badly you’d wanted this, and for how long. Tell him about how your mind was reeling, and part of you wondered if this was a dream. And then you’d explain why you had to be sure after the last dream you had about him. You grab your phone and pull on your spare pair of shoes. “Who knows, this might be nothing…” You knew the chances of that were so minuscule there was no point even hoping. Cecil was too no-nonsense of a guy to just call to chat.

“Next time I see you,” Rex starts, uncertainty lacing his voice, “We’ll talk?”

You hesitated; your hand already grasped around the doorknob. There was nothing in this instant that you wanted more and less. It was starting to dawn on you that this was a turning point, your weeks of visiting him in the hospital felt so long ago now. This felt complicated and messy. You just made out with someone who’s basically a glorified coworker. Well, that’s an unfair way to put it, he was a friend at least now, right? Maybe soon to be more- you’re getting way ahead of yourself.

“We will, Sloane.” You smile at him and leave the room before your able to change your mind.

“You’ve got to answer your phone when I call.” Cecil’s voice cuts through the dark of the hallway, making you jolt.

“God, you could at least announce yourself or something.”

“I just did.” Without another beat passing he starts debriefing. “We just caught something on the satellites, moving fast.”

“Okay? Why are you telling me? You’ve got all of the other Guardians who could deal with that-”

“We’ve only seen that kind of trajectory and flight pattern twice before.”

You stand in silence, folding your arms across your chest. “The suspense is killing me.” It’s dry, subtle sarcasm displaying completely your distaste at being bothered.

“Once with Invincible, and the other time with Omni-man.” You cocked your head slightly.

“It’s a Viltrumite?”

“All answers point to...”

“Shit.” You murmured.

“Shit, is right.”

Author's note:

Rex: If I kiss you, we’ll end up kissing on the couch, and if we end up kissing on the couch chances are we’ll kiss in the bedroom and if we kiss in the bedroom then you know, that’s the part I always rush into. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to rush into spending the night together.

Reader: I want to spend the night together

Rex: I have no problem with that.

Also this image I made to haunt my friend after I let her read a draft of this chapter

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 @0ut0fsweets @sugaramped @spidernuggets @sweet-cuddlebug @ohmysoultakemysoul @lapisbwub @velovicy @liquideyes @insirecrate @isnotraven @mightymeick @k1nky-fool request to be tagged for new parts!

chapter twenty-one

#rex splode x reader #enemies to lovers #slow burn #crawling back to you rexfic #rex splode #invincible season 3 #invincible rex splode #rex sloan #rex sloan x reader #no beta we die like rex splode apparently #invincible #100k #over 100k #invincible fic #rex x you #rex x reader #one bed trope

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