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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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White Horse - Chapter 18: May 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

The apartment smelled like raspberries the moment they opened the door.

Belle blinked. “Do you… smell cake?”

Max grinned. “I wasn’t the only one who remembered.”

“Max,” came a voice from the kitchen. “If you let her cry in an elevator last night and didn’t bring her back to a full-blown party, I will break your nose.”

Emilie.

She stepped into the room holding a knife in one hand and a bouquet in the other, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder like some kind of aggressively nurturing chaos fairy.

“Oh my god,” Belle whispered, stunned.

There were balloons—floating near the windows, tethered in groups of gold and pink and white. A stack of wrapped gifts sat near the sofa, all tagged with labels like “Open when you want to feel dangerous” and “This one is soft because you deserve softness.” A cake—raspberry, of course—sat on the dining table, frosted with piped lettering that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLE.”

Max just closed the door behind them and kissed the top of Belle’s head as she stared, speechless.

Emilie crossed the room, shoved the flowers into Max’s hands, and pulled Belle into a full-body hug that somehow said I love you, I see you, and I will never let this happen again all at once.

“You’re early,” Belle whispered.

“I’m me,” Emilie said. “Of course I’m early. Of course I brought gifts. And of course I brought lunch, because I knew you two wouldn’t eat anything but adrenaline and each other today.”

Belle laughed—actually laughed—and Emilie pulled back just enough to study her face.

Then her eyes dropped.

“…What is that?” she asked, already grabbing Belle’s hand.

The ring glinted in the light. Emerald. Gold. Hers.

Emilie shrieked.

“You didn’t!”

Belle smiled. “He did.”

Max, very smug and still holding the flowers like a schoolboy in love, nodded. “She said yes.”

Emilie let out an actual squeal, tackled Belle in another hug, and then pointed the cake knife at Max.

“I’m planning the engagement party. You don’t get a vote.”

“Fair,” Max said, amused.

Belle just stood there, blinking back another round of tears. But they were different now.

Not the kind you cried because you were forgotten.

The kind you cried because someone—multiple someones—never stopped remembering.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emilie squeezed her hand. “Always.”

***

The dishes were still in the sink. Balloons floated lazily near the ceiling. Emilie had slipped out with a wink and a leftover box of cake, promising to return with champagne and chaos “once you’ve finished your romantic post-engagement spiral.”

The apartment was quiet again.

Max and Belle were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head resting on his chest. One of the cats was asleep on the windowsill. The other had made a throne of the discarded wrapping paper pile.

Max's fingers moved gently through her hair. “So,” he said, voice soft. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

Belle blinked up at him. “You’re asking now?”

“I’m curious,” he said. “You’ve had a Pinterest board for this since 2013, don’t lie.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers curled into the edge of his sweatshirt.

“I used to want the whole thing,” she said. “The cathedral. The dress with a five-meter train. The champagne tower and a dance floor with my name in lights. I used to picture a wall of flowers and an aisle that took two minutes to walk down.”

Max watched her quietly.

“I think,” Belle said slowly, “I wanted it to feel like something big enough that they’d have to see me. Maybe if the day was big enough, loud enough… my family would finally pay attention.”

He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need him to.

“But now?” she whispered. “After this week? After all of it?”

She sat up a little, just enough to look at him. Her voice stayed soft.

“I just want you.”

Max’s eyes softened in that way that made her feel like a secret being cherished. “You’ve always had me.”

Belle smiled—small, but certain. “Then I don’t need anyone else in the room. Not unless we want them there. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need anyone to clap for a day they didn’t help me dream about.”

Max nodded, his hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… Vegas?”

That made her laugh, for real this time.

“Maybe not Vegas. I don’t think I am the Elvis Chapel kind of girl,” she teased him.

“We can do whatever you want,” he said. “We can elope. We can do something quiet in the mountains. Or a beach. Hell, we can marry at the stable if you want. Just you, me, Fleur, and a priest who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

Belle’s heart tugged in the gentlest way. “I want it to feel like… peace. Like home. Not performance.”

Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll make it peaceful. We’ll make it ours.”

She exhaled into his shoulder, her ring glinting softly in the low light.

“I spent so many years trying to imagine what it would feel like to be loved loudly,” she said. “But being loved quietly by you is so much better.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just kissed her again, softly—like a promise.

And in that moment, Belle knew: She didn’t need chandeliers or glittering crowds or performances wrapped in lace.

She just needed Max.

“I just want you,” she said, eyes closing. “I want to marry you in the quiet. Somewhere small. Somewhere soft. No cameras. No pressure. Just… us.”

Max’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together gently.

“Good,” he said. “Because that’s all I ever wanted too.”

Belle opened her eyes and looked up at him, searching.

“You’re really okay with that?” she asked. “No big party, no headlines, no Red Bull-themed fireworks?”

Max grinned. “Fireworks are overrated. And I already won the only prize I ever actually wanted.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “That was cheesy.”

“I’m in love. It’s allowed.”

She leaned up and kissed him, slow and sure, and when she pulled back, her voice was lighter. “Let’s elope.”

Max blinked. “Wait—really?”

She nodded. “Let’s find somewhere just for us. Paris. Nice. I don’t care. As long as it’s you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His whole expression softened, all edges gone.

“Then let’s do it,” Max said.

Belle smiled. Really smiled.

And for the first time in years, the future felt like hers.

***

After dinner—if leftover cake and Max feeding her strawberries from the fridge counted as dinner—Belle curled back into the couch in her softest pajamas and his hoodie, legs tucked under her. Her hair was slightly damp from the bath she hadn’t even realized she needed, and her engagement ring still caught the low light like it had something to say.

Max was in the kitchen, drying two wine glasses that had only been used for juice. She could hear him humming under his breath, some melody half-remembered from a road trip months ago.

Belle opened her phone.

Not for Instagram.

Not for texts.

Just… curious.

She searched: “How to get married in Monaco.” Then refined it: “Civil wedding Monaco how.” Then, after clicking through a very official-sounding government page with questionable font choices: “Monaco City Hall marriage appointment calendar.”

And there it was.

A calendar. A short list of dates and times.

And one of them—the very next morning—was wide open. Unclaimed. Slotted between some dignitary from the Chamber of Commerce and a local couple named Elise and Jean-Luc.

Belle stared at it.

Blinking.

The kind of opening that didn’t just feel like coincidence.

It was like the universe had sighed and said, Here. Have something just for you.

“Max?” she called, still staring at the screen. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears—half laughter, half disbelief.

He appeared around the corner in an instant, towel slung over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

She turned the phone toward him.

“Monaco City Hall. Tomorrow. 11 AM.”

Max leaned in, reading it, then looked at her with a slow, blooming grin. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t expect it to be available,” she said. “But… it is. And I live here. You have residency. The paperwork is fast. They’ll process it same-day if we show up with our IDs and two witnesses.”

Max’s grin widened. “We have IDs.”

“And Lando owns a suit,” she added, deadpan.

Max laughed, that warm, throaty sound she loved. “You want to do it tomorrow?”

Belle nodded once, heartbeat flickering behind her ribs like a match just caught flame.

“I think I really do.”

Max dropped the dish towel on the counter and walked straight over, pressing a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw.

“Then it’s tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get married in the place where it all started.”

Belle smiled—dizzy, delighted, a little breathless. “This is insane.”

“This is us.”

And it was.

No big parties. No cathedral. No guest list with people who only remembered her when it was convenient.

Just a city she loved, a man who never forgot her, and an appointment slot.

Perfect. Just like them.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: You already back in the UK?

GP: Nope. Flight got rescheduled. Still in Monaco. Why?

Max: Perfect.

GP: …Why is that perfect. Max.

Max: Because I need a witness.

GP: A what now.

Max: Witness. Like for legal purposes. You’re free tomorrow morning, right?

GP: Max.

Max: City Hall. 10:45. Wear something decent. I’m getting married.

GP: I’m sorry. You’re WHAT.

Max: Marrying Belle. Surprise.

GP: Surprise???

Max: We’re keeping it small. Quiet. Just us and a few people who won’t ask stupid questions or ruin it.

GP: Max.

Max: I’m sending you the location. And yes, I already have the paperwork.

GP: Of course you do.

Max: You in?

GP: Like I’d miss the moment you marry the best decision you’ve ever made.

Max: See you at 10:45.

GP: I’m bringing tissues. Don’t judge me.

Max: Never.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Belle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey. Don’t freak out.

Victoria: That is exactly how you make someone freak out.

Max: Belle and I are getting married tomorrow. Monaco City Hall. It’s just us. Very small. Wanted you to know.

Victoria: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN

Max: Uh-oh

Victoria: YOU ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED WITHOUT ME THERE I WILL WADDLE DOWN THE AISLE MYSELF SEND. YOUR. BLOODY. JET.

Max: Vic. You are literally weeks off of from giving birth.

Victoria: And I will do it IN THE AISLE of City Hall if I must. Tell Belle I will not miss her wedding. I love her more than most of our blood relatives.

Max: I mean. Same.

Victoria: SEND THE JET. I will sit like a queen with my feet up and my compression socks on.

Max: You sure Tom won’t tie you to the couch?

Victoria: He’s already packing snacks. You think he wants to deal with me if I don’t go?

Max: …That’s fair.

Victoria: Also I already picked out your wedding gift. I knew you two would elope. I felt it.

Max: You're terrifying.

Victoria: I'm hormonal. There's a difference. See you tomorrow. PS: tell Belle I cried. But like, emotionally. Not hormonally. Even though it was a little bit both.

Max: You’re completely insane.

Victoria: You’re the one marrying a Leclerc.

Max: Touché.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: So. I hear you’re eloping.

Max: …Hi, Mama.

Sophie: Don’t “hi mama” me. Are you really getting married tomorrow?

Max: Yes. City Hall. Small. Just us. And apparently my 34 weeks pregnant sister, because Victoria is very dramatic and refuses to be excluded.

Sophie: So am I. You are not getting married without me there.

Max: You’re not mad?

Sophie: Why would I be mad? You’re marrying the woman you love. If you’d done it with cameras and fireworks, I might’ve been suspicious.

Max: It just felt like the right time. After everything. She needed to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not remembered late.

Sophie: She is chosen. By you. By all of us who actually pay attention.

Max: She still thinks she’s too much. Or not enough. Depending on the day.

Sophie: Then tomorrow, you remind her that she’s both. Too much for the wrong people. And more than enough for the right one.

Max: I’ll remind her every day.

Sophie: I know you will. Now go to sleep. You’re getting married in a few hours and I expect you to look well-rested in photos.

Max: Love you, Mama.

Sophie: I love you too, Maxie. Now go love your girl.

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS

Lando: EMERGENCY

Lando: MAX IS GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW

Oscar: I… sorry, what?

Daniel: Did you hit your head again? Like, genuinely. Because this feels concussion-coded.

Lando: I’m serious!!! City Hall. 10:30. Monaco. To Belle. IT’S HAPPENING

Oscar: Wait wait wait. Like married married??

Lando: YES LIKE “I DO” MARRIED

Daniel: Holy shit. I did not have “Max Verstappen casually elopes with Charles Leclerc’s sister” on my 2024 bingo card but here we are.

Oscar: Did they even tell anyone??

Lando: They told ME. And then Max was like “you have a camera, right? wear a suit” like this is just a casual errand.

Daniel: Does Charles know

Lando: ABSOLUTELY NOT HE WILL COMBUST WE’RE TALKING INDEPENDENT-NUCLEAR-REACTION LEVEL MELTDOWN

Oscar: I need you to calm down so I can freak out at a normal pace.

Lando: WHAT DO I EVEN WEAR WHAT IF I CRY I’M NOT READY FOR THIS I WAS EMOTIONALLY UNPREPARED

I’M GOING TO SOB THROUGH THE LENS BELLE IS GOING TO LOOK SO PRETTY MAX IS GOING TO BE SO SOFT I’M GOING TO NEED A DESIGNATED HUG

Oscar: What are we supposed to wear?! Are we coordinating?? Do I bring flowers??

Lando: I DON’T KNOW I’M PANICKING I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M A GUEST OR THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR BOTH

Daniel: You’re definitely crying, though. Let’s be honest.

Lando: 100%. I already feel it building

Oscar: Okay but seriously—do we all go? Did he actually invite us?

Lando: He said it’s small. “Just us. People we trust.” Which… I think is us?

Oscar: Do we need to bring gifts?? What’s the etiquette on emergency weddings?

Daniel: I can’t believe we’re invited and Charles isn’t

Oscar: I can. Max said “people we trust.” That tells you everything.

Daniel: God, I love this sport.

Oscar: This isn’t the sport. This is a secret Verstappen wedding at City Hall with zero warning and maximum chaos.

Daniel: Exactly.

Lando: I need to sleep so I don’t have puffy eyes but I’m emotionally compromised

Oscar: Same. See you both in the morning?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: You still in Monaco?

Jos: Yes. Leaving tomorrow evening. Why?

Max: City Hall. 10:45.

Jos: …What’s happening at City Hall?

Max: Getting married.

Jos: To Belle?

Max: Obviously to Belle.

Jos: You’re telling me this now?

Max: We decided tonight. There was an opening. She doesn’t want a big wedding. She just wants peace. Me. Us.

Jos: Good. She’s smart. And you’ve taken long enough.

Max: Will you come?

Jos: Wouldn’t miss it.

Max: It’s quiet. No press. No team. Just us. Some friends we trust. Family.

Jos: I said I’ll be there. Don’t make me get sentimental about it.

Max: Too late. You already like her more than you like me.

Jos: She’s never crashed a go-kart out of spite.

Max: That was one time.

Jos: Still counts.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

Jos: You’ve done good, Max. Really good. See you in the morning.

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married.

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle.

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls.

Then ten.

Then offered double the price.

Then triple.

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth.

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the kitchen tile. It was quiet, peaceful, and smelled faintly of toast and coffee.

Max stood barefoot at the stove, his curls still messy from sleep, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. Belle was perched on the counter in one of his old shirts, legs swinging gently, a mug of tea cradled in her hands.

“So,” Max said, without looking at her, “do I get to call you Mrs. Verstappen by noon?”

Belle smirked into her cup. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He turned, brandishing the spatula. “It is. You’re marrying a man who owns three sim rigs and talks to his cats.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not the exact reason I said yes.”

Max grinned and came closer, slipping between her knees as she set her mug down. His hands landed on her hips. “You nervous?”

“No.” She let her forehead rest against his. “Just… full.”

“Full?”

“Of everything. Gratitude. Peace. Butterflies.”

Max kissed her, gentle and grounding. “Good. Me too.”

The moment was quiet again. Warm and soft.

Until— BANG.

The front door flew open.

“—DO NOT PANIC,” came Emilie’s voice from the hallway, “I have the cake, I have the emergency double-stick tape, I have the snowdrops—do not ask how—and I am here to take the bride.”

Belle groaned and leaned against Max’s shoulder. “She’s already started.”

Max was laughing when Emilie rounded the corner, her arms full of garment bags, shoe boxes, and a box of pastries balanced precariously on top.

She froze at the sight of them. “Okay, this is cute and domestic, but time is ticking and you—” she pointed at Belle with a dramatic flourish, “—need to be in a robe, drinking champagne, and pretending to be relaxed.”

Belle slid off the counter. “We haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I brought croissants. And mimosas. And eye masks. Let’s go.”

Max raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely,” Emilie said, already dragging Belle toward the hallway.

Belle shot Max a helpless smile over her shoulder as she was swept away into the bedroom.

Max chuckled and turned back to the stove. “She’s been waiting for this since the day we met.”

“YOU PROMISED NEVER TO SPEAK OF THAT,” Emilie shouted back.

The apartment settled for a beat.

And then the doorbell rang.

Max opened it to find Victoria, already glowing despite being eight months pregnant, her husband Tom hauling what appeared to be a bouquet the size of a toddler, and both of their sons clinging to his legs like adorable koalas.

Sophie was right behind them, holding a wrapped box and beaming. “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”

Max stepped back. “Currently being kidnapped by a woman wielding florals and threat-level energy.”

“Ah,” Sophie said brightly, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “So the usual.”

Victoria waddled in and immediately headed for the kitchen. “Where’s the coffee? I need caffeine and at least one chair that won’t collapse under me.”

Tom followed with the flowers. “We brought noise. And crumbs. You’re welcome.”

The boys immediately made for the cats, causing a small riot in the living room.

Max leaned back against the counter, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his family pour in. “This is going to be a day.”

“Of course it is,” Sophie said, setting down her gift. “You’re marrying the best girl in Monaco.”

And just then, as if summoned, Emilie poked her head out of the hallway.

“Max,” she said solemnly. “You’re not allowed to see her for at least three hours. Also, she’s glowing. Prepare yourself.”

Then she vanished again.

Max laughed, shaking his head. “I already am.”

***

Max was mid-cleanup from the first round of croissant carnage when the intercom buzzed again.

He pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Delivery,” came Oscar’s voice, dry and very much not a delivery person.

Max buzzed them in.

Thirty seconds later, Oscar and Lily walked in—Lily looking radiant in a pale floral dress, Oscar in a navy suit that made him look vaguely uncomfortable but also suspiciously good. There was box of macarons in Lily’s arms and Oscar carrying a bottle of champagne with all the solemnity of someone delivering a newborn child.

Lily kissed Max’s cheek. “Where’s Belle?”

“Bedroom,” Max said. “Emilie has barricaded the door. I’m not allowed to breathe near it.”

“Good,” Lily said. “You’ll see her when she’s ready. And not a second before!” she call over her shoulder as she made her way to where all the women had disappeared to.

“Do we look like well-adjusted guests?” Oscar asked, holding out the champagner, just as the doorbell rang again

Tom opened it this time—and immediately stepped back to avoid being hit in the face by a wildly enthusiastic Daniel Ricciardo, who practically burst in with his arms open.

“IT’S WEDDING TIME, BABY!” Daniel yelled, already grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Max raised his coffee cup without looking up. “You’re three hours early.”

“I brought champagne. I’m never early. I’m… emotionally prepared.”

Before anyone could respond, the door buzzed again.

“Please let that be someone calm,” Max muttered, walking to the door just as Lando arrived—In a grey suit, camera strap across his chest, looking like a documentary filmmaker who’d taken a wrong turn into a very glamorous rom-com.

“Okay,” Lando said in lieu of a greeting, “I brought the camera, the backup camera, the battery pack, and three lenses I don’t know how to use, but they make me look professional. Also, Lily said if I forgot to wear a tie, she’d strangle me with it, so here.” He pointed to the pale blue tie knotted (badly) around his neck.

“You’re fine,” Max said. “Unless Emilie sees that knot.”

“I tied it,” Lando said defensively. “I didn’t say I tied it well.”

“You’ve had years to learn how to tie a tie,” Oscar muttered.

Daniel patted Lando’s shoulder. “It’s fine. You look like a best man in a Netflix wedding movie about a surfer who marries his childhood pen pal.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I know what I said,” Daniel replied, stealing a macaron.

Max raised an eyebrow at Lando. “You know how to use that camera, right?”

“Please,” Lando said, lifting it and adjusting the lens. “I’m going to make you look like Vogue Monaco meets soft romance. This is going to go viral.”

Before Max could close the door, a final knock came—this one slower, more composed.

He opened it to GP, impeccable in a dark suit with a navy tie, and Jos, arms crossed, expression somewhere between “approving” and “this is ridiculous.”

“Everyone’s here?” GP asked as he stepped in.

“No explosions yet,” Max said. “Just Daniel.”

“Rude,” Daniel yelled from the kitchen, where he was now petting Jimmy the cat and eating a croissant at the same time.

Jos gave Max a firm nod as he walked in. “You’re dressed?”

“Soon.”

Jos looked around the apartment, at the whirlwind of laughter and movement, at the family Max had built around himself. He gave the smallest huff—soft, for him. “Good turnout.”

“I think Daniel invited himself,” Max said dead pan. .

Jos glanced around again. “Still. Good people.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. The best.”

***

Belle had always imagined getting ready for her wedding surrounded by chaos.

She thought it would feel frantic, like the final fifteen minutes before a birthday dinner she wasn’t sure anyone would show up for—stressful, too loud, a little heartbreaking.

Instead, it felt like calm.

It felt like quiet laughter drifting in from the kitchen, the scent of espresso and lilacs filling the apartment. It felt like warm hands braiding the back of her hair, like silk slipping over her skin, like music humming low from the speaker on the windowsill.

It felt like peace.

She sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, as Victoria carefully clipped the final snowdrop into her hair. Emilie was crouched by the full-length mirror, fussing with the hem of Belle’s dress, hung up. Lily and Sophie were there too, with Lilly the cat having decided that Lily the human was her new favourite person, while Sophie was rooting around Belle’s jewellery box for earrings to wear.

It should’ve hurt.

That it wasn’t Pascale doing her hair. That it wasn’t her mother reminding her not to forget earrings or perfume or to stand up straight when she walked. That there was no Leclerc fussing around her, pretending to know best.

But somehow, it didn’t.

She’d braced herself for the ache—for the empty chair, the hollow weight of what should’ve been. But the ache never came.

Because these women? They were enough.

They were more than enough.

Then Victoria cocked her head, glancing toward the bedroom door. “By the way, are your brothers coming?”

Emilie stiffened subtly from her place near the hem. Lily glanced down at her nails.

Sophie, sipping her tea, looked up in quiet expectation.

Belle hesitated.

And then—because the lie felt too heavy in her throat, and because this was her wedding day, and she was done making excuses for people who couldn’t be bothered—she exhaled and said, simply, “They forgot my birthday.”

The room stilled.

Victoria blinked. “What?”

Belle looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. “It was race day. Monaco. Charles was on pole. Ferrari was chaos. I was in the garage all day and no one said anything. Not Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not even Maman.”

Sophie sat very still. Her expression didn’t shift immediately—like she hadn’t quite processed what she’d just heard.

Victoria, on the other hand, reacted instantly.

“You’re kidding,” she said, straightening up. “They forgot? All of them?”

Belle nodded once. “I didn’t remind them.”

“But you were there,” Victoria said, voice rising. “You were literally standing in the garage wearing red! You’re his sister—how do you forget that?!”

Sophie’s mug landed gently on the vanity table. She didn’t speak, just watched Belle carefully, her eyes full of something Belle couldn’t name yet.

“They looked right through me,” Belle said, not bitter, just… quiet. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just…invisible.”

Victoria stood up abruptly. “I swear to God, if I wasn’t about to pop out a baby I would’ve dragged Charles by the ear into a flower shop myself.”

“Vic,” Belle said, soft but firm.

“No,” Victoria said, eyes shining now. “You stood by them. All weekend. All year. You show up for every stupid photo call and PR stunt and family function, and they forgot your birthday?”

Emilie stayed crouched on the floor, head bowed over the dress, silent but trembling with restrained rage.

Lily’s hands were folded tightly in her lap.

Belle reached out and touched Victoria’s hand, grounding her. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“No,” Belle agreed quietly. “But you remembered.”

That made Victoria pause. Her face crumpled for a second before she leaned forward and pulled Belle into the gentlest hug she could manage with her belly between them. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Belle blinked, eyes stinging but dry. “It doesn’t matter today.”

Sophie knelt beside her then, unexpectedly, and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“I know,” Belle said. And she did. “You’re here. That’s more than enough.”

Victoria wiped under her eyes. “Do you want us to say something? To tell them?”

Belle shook her head. “No. I want to see how long it takes.”

The silence settled again.

And then Sophie squeezed her hand and said, with quiet certainty, “You’re not invisible anymore, sweetheart. Not here. Not ever again.”

And that was what Belle held onto, as she stood and turned toward the mirror—surrounded not by the family she’d been born into, but by the one she’d found along the way.

The right people had remembered.

And that was enough.

***

The bedroom door clicked gently shut behind Sophie as she stepped into the hallway, needing a breath. Just a moment of stillness. The wedding would begin in a little over two hours, and Belle—darling, radiant Belle—was in her bedroom with snowdrops in her hair and an ache buried so deep behind her smile Sophie could feel it like a bruise under her own ribs.

She leaned lightly against the wall, one hand wrapped around her teacup, the other resting protectively over her heart. She didn’t cry—not easily, not anymore. But her chest felt tight.

Footsteps approached, soft and quick. Emilie, Belle’s best friend, slipped out of the bedroom a moment later, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked like she was holding back a war.

Their eyes met.

“You knew,” Sophie said quietly.

Emilie stilled. Her expression didn’t change. “Max told me,” she said quietly. “Belle didn’t want it to become a thing. She didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s grip on her teacup tightened.

“She said she wanted to see how long it would take them,” Emilie added, her voice softening. “How many days would pass before someone noticed.”

Sophie looked away, blinking hard at the hallway wall. “Her own mother,” she murmured. “Her own brothers forgot her birthday.”

Emilie’s jaw clenched. “Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. Nothing. Not even a text. Carlos was the only one who remembered, and she begged him not to say anything because she didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s stomach twisted. “And she stood in that garage, all day…”

“In red,” Emilie said, voice flat. “Supporting Charles. Watching them celebrate. She didn’t ask for much, Sophie. She never does.”

“She gave them everything,” Emilie said. Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And they forgot her birthday. They forgot her.”

Sophie nodded, eyes shining but clear. “Not anymore. Not after today.”

There was a long pause, filled with the sound of faint laughter from the living room and the low hum of a wedding morning in motion.

Then Emilie exhaled shakily. “Max said she broke down the second she saw him.”

Sophie closed her eyes for a beat.

It wasn’t just forgetfulness. It wasn’t a mistake. It was neglect wrapped in a red suit and family pride. It was inexcusable.

“She’ll never be alone again,” Sophie said, her voice steel beneath the softness. “Not while I’m breathing. Not while Max is.”

“I know,” Emilie said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t walk into Ferrari and slap someone.”

They stood in silence again, shoulder to shoulder.

Then Sophie reached over and gently squeezed Emilie’s hand.

“You did this for her,” she said. “The flowers. The cake. The restaurant. You gave her the kind of day they never thought to.”

Emilie’s eyes went glassy. “She deserves perfect. I couldn’t give her perfect, but—”

“You gave her love,” Sophie said firmly. “And that’s what matters.”

***

The apartment had quieted.

Everyone had settled into easy, pre-ceremony chaos—little moments scattered across the rooms like confetti before the storm. Daniel was dramatically explaining champagne etiquette to Oscar, who looked halfway between fascinated and alarmed. Lando was on the floor, coaxing Jimmy the cat into an impromptu wedding-themed photoshoot. Tom sat cross-legged on the couch, reading a picture book to Luka and Lio, the boys draped over him like sleepy lion cubs.

Max stood in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, back to the counter, staring out the window toward the glittering stretch of Monaco coastline. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass. But in here, for now, there was stillness.

The kind of stillness right before the most important lap of your life.

GP stepped up beside him without a word, mirroring his stance with practiced ease. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t have to.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” GP said eventually, voice low.

Max nodded. “I know.”

“You were always good,” GP added. “But you’re not just good now. You’re… grounded. Steady.”

Max exhaled, eyes still on the view. “She gave me somewhere to land.”

GP’s expression shifted just slightly—quiet pride, maybe. “You’ve always fought for every tenth, every inch. But with Belle? You stopped fighting yourself.”

Max glanced at him, something tired and raw in his eyes. “She sees everything. Even the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“She never asked you to change.”

“She didn’t have to,” Max said.

They stood in silence again, until a familiar voice cut in behind them.

“She’s not just your landing place,” Jos said, stepping into the kitchen, arms folded. “She’s your spine.”

Max turned, but didn’t speak.

Jos’s face was set. Not angry, but serious in that sharp, bone-deep way that came from decades of knowing how to read race tape and sons in equal measure.

“I wasn’t easy on you,” Jos said quietly. “I know that. I pushed too hard. Expected too much. Thought it was the only way you’d be great.”

Max swallowed, but didn’t interrupt.

“But Belle…” Jos looked toward the hallway, where a burst of laughter echoed from the bedroom. “She gave you something I couldn’t. Peace. Balance. You didn’t slow down. But you stopped burning out.”

GP gave a soft hum of agreement, but said nothing.

Jos stepped forward, brow furrowed now. “And she shows up for you. For everyone. All the time.”

Max nodded slowly. “She does.”

Jos shook his head, voice tight now. “So why the hell did her family forget her birthday?”

The silence hit like a dropped hammer.

Max looked up, sharp. “You know?”

“I overheard Emilie talking to Sophie in the hallway,” Jos said. His voice was low, but thunderous. “You’re telling me her entire family forgot? Her mother? Her brothers? Even Ferrari?”

Max’s jaw clenched.

GP was still, hands in his pockets, but his voice came out even. “They didn’t just forget. They looked straight through her in the garage. Carlos was the only one who noticed. She told him not to say anything.”

Jos looked furious in the quiet way only a father could—like he was cataloging every hurt, every slight, and filing them away for later retribution.

“She stood there,” he muttered. “All day. On her birthday. Wearing red. And they didn’t see her?”

“She didn’t cry until after,” Max said, his voice low. “But when she did… it broke her.”

Jos looked at him. “She tell them?”

“No,” Max said. “She’s done reminding people she exists.”

Jos’s shoulders shifted, like he was bracing himself against something. “Good. Let them feel that silence.”

Max stared down at his coffee cup for a moment, then set it aside.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making her feel seen,” he said, steady now. “The way they never did. The way she deserves.”

GP gave a quiet, approving nod. “Then you’re ready.”

Jos didn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then he stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Max’s shoulder, and said, with something rough in his voice, “She’s already ours. But make it official.”

Max blinked hard.

***

The kitchen had been peaceful—a relative term, given there were six men, two toddler, three cats, and a bottle of champagne open by 9 a.m.—but peaceful by Verstappen standards.

Max was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee while Jos surveyed the chaos in thinly veiled amusement, and Tom tried to get jam off his shirt collar thanks to a child-induced pastry incident.

Then the storm arrived.

Emilie swept into the kitchen like a tiny, immaculately-dressed hurricane, her eyes narrowing the instant she caught sight of Lando.

“Why,” Emilie said, appearing in the doorway like a Roman general entering enemy territory, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

“You,” she declared, pointing with a precision that would’ve made a military officer proud.

Lando looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his camera settings. “Me?”

“You call that a tie?” she said, already moving toward him like a missile in heels. “What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help? Is that your idea of a tied tie?”

Lando looked down at the pale blue knot that resembled something between a tangled seatbelt and an existential crisis. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed so dramatically it could have won an award. “Come here.”

Lando, blushing furiously, stood like a man facing execution. “You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she said, adjusting his collar. “I’m just French and disappointed.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement as Lando was wrangled into place. Emilie was adjusting the tie like she’d done it a thousand times, completely unfazed by the 5 feet, 6 inches of confused British man blinking at her.

Lando stood frozen, blinking down at the very pretty girl fixing his tie with the terrifying precision of someone who had made wedding planning a full-contact sport.

“Can I breathe yet?” Lando asked, voice faint.

“When I say you can,” Emilie replied sweetly, stepping back and tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain,” Emilie said sweetly, patting his cheek. “Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… scared of her,” Lando muttered to Max once she turned away.

“You should be,” Max replied, utterly unbothered.

“Okay,” Emilie said, spinning on her heel, “who’s next—”

Her eyes landed on Tom.

Tom, who had attempted to get away with a cravat.

She narrowed her eyes. “What is this? Pride and Prejudice?”

“I was trying to be elegant,” Tom said defensively, one child clinging to each of his legs like barnacles.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie replied, already reaching into her tote bag like Mary Poppins from hell. “Lose the cravat.”

Five seconds later, Tom had a new blue tie around his neck.

Jos, leaning near the counter with a coffee, smirked.

“I’d like to see her try that with me,” he muttered.

Emilie pivoted.

Jos raised a brow.

She raised both.

“Unless you’d like to be mistaken for security and asked to stay outside,” she said coolly, “you’ll put one on.”

There was a pause.

Then—without breaking eye contact—Jos slowly reached for the tie GP handed him with what looked suspiciously like amusement.

“I like her,” he said to no one in particular.

Emilie snapped her fingers at Daniel next. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Daniel asked, grinning. “This tie is excellent. It has tiny cartoon race cars on it!”

“And you are a groomsman not a children’s birthday clown,” Emilie replied. “Change. Now.”

“But—”

“I will burn it,” she said calmly. “I have a lighter in my purse.”

Daniel blinked. “Wow. Okay. Yep. Good. I’ll change.”

Only Oscar and GP escaped unscathed—Oscar because Lily had pre-approved his ensemble, and GP because he was actually a functional adult.

Emilie gave them a nod of silent approval. “Finally. Men who understand basic dress codes.”

Max was watching all of it from the corner, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest and a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Emilie spotted him.

“You’re next.”

“I already did mine,” Max said, lifting his chin.

Emilie narrowed her eyes, came closer, and tugged gently at the knot. It was fine. Almost perfect.

“It’s crooked.”

He didn’t even argue. Just tilted his chin and let her fix it. She did so with practiced fingers, then stepped back and gave him a once-over.

“You’ll do.”

Max smirked. “High praise.”

“You’re marrying my best friend. You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Max said, grinning.

Then the apartment stilled.

Because the bedroom door opened.

And Belle stepped out.

Max looked up—and every word left his brain.

She stood there in the soft light of morning, her white dress falling like water around her, the snowdrops tucked into her curls catching the sunlight. Her hands were folded gently in front of her, her eyes finding his across the room.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The chaos of the morning vanished.

It was just her.

Standing in the archway in a white dress that somehow managed to be simple and devastating at the same time. Her dark hair was curled and loosely pinned, a few snowdrops tucked gently above her ear. She had one hand loosely holding a bouquet, and the other nervously adjusting her sleeve. Her eyes swept the room, soft and uncertain—

Until they found his.

Max forgot how to breathe.

“Hi,” she said, voice quiet, like it was just for him.

Max swallowed. His throat was suddenly too tight.

He took a slow step forward, then another, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. When he stopped in front of her, his hands hovered for a second before finally settling on her waist.

“You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Belle tilted her head. “I’m what?”

Max blinked, and his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected that.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re so—”

She smiled, soft and real and a little shy.

“Max,” she said gently, reaching up to brush her fingers against his jaw. “Breathe.”

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice cracking. “You look like a dream I’d never let myself have.”

Belle’s smile faltered—just for a second—then turned into something deeper. Warmer. Her eyes shimmered.

Daniel, somewhere behind them, sniffled. “Okay, I take it back. This is romantic enough to ruin my day.”

“Shut up, Daniel,” Oscar muttered.

But Max didn’t hear any of it.

He only saw her.

The girl who’d stood in a Ferrari garage on her birthday and been forgotten. The woman who’d cried in his arms and still said yes. The one person who saw him fully and never once turned away.

And now she was standing in his kitchen—in their kitchen—in a white dress and snowdrops.

Looking at him like he was home.

“Ready?” she whispered.

Max nodded, his hands tightening gently on her waist.

“More than ever.”

And when he kissed her—just once, careful not to smudge her lipstick—the whole room exhaled with them.

They had a wedding to get to.

But for that moment, they were already everything.

***

Belle had walked into a hundred government buildings before. Cold hallways. Beige walls. Bored clerks behind scratched counters. Monaco’s city hall should have felt the same—official, impersonal, municipal.

But today?

It felt like walking into a cathedral.

This wasn’t the wedding she had imagined as a little girl.

There was no aisle of flowers. No choir. No dramatic gown or fanfare or chandeliers. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither were her brothers. There were no headlines.

And still—it was perfect.

This was hers.

This was theirs.

Small. Quiet. Real.

She squeezed Max’s hands. He squeezed back.

And as the officiant began to speak, Belle felt a slow warmth fill her from the inside out.

You’re not invisible anymore, she told herself. You never were. Not to him.

And in that moment, under the soft light and quiet vows and steady eyes of the only man she’d ever trusted with her whole heart—

Isabelle Leclerc became Belle Verstappen.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t need the world to notice.

She had everything she needed right in front of her.

She hadn’t written anything down for the vows.

There was a version of Belle that would have. That would’ve planned every word, practiced every pause, agonized over saying it all just right.

But not today.

Because nothing about Max had ever needed performance.

The officiant nodded to her gently. “Belle?”

She took a breath. And then another. Max didn’t rush her. He just waited—hands in hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles, grounding her.

“I don’t think I ever believed love could be soft,” she said quietly. “Not the kind that lasts. I thought it had to be earned. Proved. Negotiated into place.”

Her voice wavered. Max didn’t blink.

“I spent so much time being the one who remembered everyone. Who carried everything quietly. And I think I started to believe that was the best I could hope for. That if I was useful enough, maybe I’d be loved in return.”

She looked up, eyes shining.

“And then I met you,” Belle continued. “And you didn’t ask me to perform. You didn’t ask me to be anything but exactly who I already was. You saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen. Especially then.”

Her voice shook, just a little. Max’s thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“I’ve spent so much of my life holding other people’s pieces,” she said, “but you—Max—you were the first person who held mine. Quietly. Gently. Steadily. You never tried to fix me. You just stayed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let it. Didn’t wipe it away.

“So I promise to stay, too. To be soft where the world is hard. To be the quiet when everything gets too loud. To love you in the way you’ve always deserved but never asked for.”

And when she smiled, Max smiled back—like the sun had finally come up.

The officiant nodded to him.

“Max?”

He exhaled, but didn’t look away from her. He lifted her hands to his lips first, kissed them gently, and held them between them like they were the only steady thing in the world.

“I don’t remember the moment I fell in love with you,” he said softly. “It just happened, like a breath you take…quietly and then all at once.”

Belle’s breath caught. He held her gaze, steady and unwavering.

“I never thought I’d be lucky enough to love someone like you,” he said softly. “Someone who sees through everything. Who remembers the smallest things and never asks for credit. Who holds the weight of the world and still has room to make me feel like I’m home.”

His voice cracked then.

“You are not invisible. Not to me. You never were. I see you, Belle. Every version. Every scar. Every soft edge you try to tuck away. And I love you for all of it.”

Belle’s lips trembled.

Max’s thumb brushed along her hand again.

“I promise to hold you, every day. To never let you feel alone in a room full of people again. I promise to be your quiet, your home, your person. Forever.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. Not a breath. Even the officiant cleared his throat like he needed a second.

Belle didn’t speak.

She just leaned forward—slow and sure—and pressed her forehead to Max’s.

And everything else fell away.

Her hands were still in his. Her forehead was resting against Max’s. Her heart was loud—but steady.

She could feel his breath on her cheek. The way his thumbs brushed hers. How he didn’t look away. How he never did.

The officiant’s voice was calm, warm. “Do you, Max Emilian Verstappen, take Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Max said instantly. No hesitation. No breath between.

“And do you, Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc, take Max Emilian Verstappen to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” she whispered, and it was the easiest truth she’d ever spoken.

The officiant smiled.

“Then by the authority vested in me by the Principality of Monaco, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A pause.

“You may kiss—”

But Max didn’t wait.

He kissed her the second the words left the officiant’s mouth.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was grounding. Fierce. Like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime and could finally exhale.

Belle kissed him back just as hard, hands in his hair, heart pounding.

There were cheers. Scattered applause. Laughter.

And then—

“NOW!” Daniel’s voice rang out from the back like a commander on a battlefield.

Belle broke the kiss just in time to see it:

A blur of chaos. Daniel and Oscar tossing flower petals like overenthusiastic flower girls, flinging them directly at them.

Belle let out a laugh so sudden it startled even her. Max was still holding her hand, laughing softly too, eyes never leaving her.

“Seriously?” he murmured under his breath.

“This was always going to happen,” Belle replied, grinning.

Victoria was crying. Sophie was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief Jos was blinking suspiciously fast.

And Emilie?Emilie was smiling so big Belle’s heart almost burst.

Belle looked back at Max—her husband. Her husband—and felt something settle in her chest.

This was hers.

Messy. Soft. Completely perfect.

And just beginning.

Max leaned down again, kissed her forehead. “Mrs. Verstappen,” he said, voice low and thrilled and a little overwhelmed.

She smiled up at him. “Mr. Verstappen.”

And Belle had never, ever felt so seen.

***

Belle hadn’t stepped into Overture in over a year.

It still looked the same—tucked into a quiet side street just off Port Hercule, all pale stone and soft wood, sunlight spilling through ivy-wrapped windows. There were no banners. No “Congratulations” signs. No garish floral arches.

Just one long table set under a canopy of olive branches in the back courtyard, decorated in quiet whites and soft greens. Candles flickered in the breeze. Snowdrops—snowdrops, in May—were tucked into every napkin ring.

Belle turned to Emilie, who only raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t ask how. I threatened a florist and bribed an importer.”

“You’re terrifying,” Belle whispered, blinking back tears.

“You’re worth it,” Emilie replied.

Laughter echoed as guests filtered into the courtyard. Daniel declared he would be in charge of pouring champagne. Lando was trying to fit three cameras into one discreet corner. Jos already had a drink in hand and was engaged in a deeply serious conversation with Oscar, who looked vaguely terrified. Lily and Sophie had settled into a side table with quiet smiles and quiet tears.

Their table filled slowly—Victoria easing into a seat with a dramatic sigh, her hand protectively on her bump, Tom at her side, two rambunctious boys wrecking havoc. Emilie adjusted every flower and napkin with military precision. Someone had even tied the cats’ names onto little placeholders even though they were obviously not present.

They toasted with champagne and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

There was no DJ. No cake tower. No press outside.

Just a warm breeze. Clinking glasses. The people who had shown up.

Midway through lunch, Daniel stood abruptly, champagne flute in hand. “To Max and Belle,” he grinned. “May your love be as steady as GP’s voice in Max’s ear, and as dramatic as Oscar trying to parallel park.”

Oscar, mid-bite, choked.

Belle laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.

And then, as the laughter died down, GP stood. Slowly. Unassumingly. Everyone quieted with the kind of instinctive respect only earned by someone who rarely asked for the room.

GP cleared his throat, glancing briefly toward Belle, then Max.

“I’m not one for speeches,” he said, hands loosely folded, gaze sweeping the table. “But I’ve watched Max for a long time. Through wins and losses. Through fire and fury and everything in between. And I’ve never seen him more certain. More grounded. More… at peace, than when he looks at you, Belle.”

She looked down, blinking fast. Max took her hand under the table.

GP’s voice softened. “So thank you. For being that peace. For loving him the way he didn’t even know he needed. You make him better, Belle. But not because you ask him to change. You make him better by seeing him. Fully. And somehow, without ever stepping onto the track, you’ve become the most important part of our team.”

He lifted his glass. “To you both. For reminding us that there’s strength in stillness, and love in the quiet corners.”

Belle blinked fast, lips parted, chest aching in the best way.

Max reached over, tangled their fingers together under the table.

The meal ended with a cake—simple, white, laced with raspberry and white chocolate. Belle stared at it, already emotional, as Emilie leaned over and whispered smugly, “Don’t cry. You’re wearing mascara.”

“I hate you,” Belle whispered.

“You love me.”

Belle reached over and took her hand, eyes shining. “I do. I really, really do. Thank you for all of this. For… everything. You gave me the kind of day I didn’t know I was allowed to want.”

Emilie’s expression softened. “You deserved it. All of it.”

This wasn’t the wedding Belle had once imagined—the ballroom, the crowd, the spectacle.

It was better.

It was quiet, and full of laughter. It smelled like eucalyptus and honey. It tasted like home.

And most importantly: it felt like love.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: 👀

[sends: 5 stunning, sun-drenched wedding photos from Monaco city hall. Max in a dark suit, Belle in a soft white dress, snowdrops in her hair] ❤️💍

Lewis: wait. wait. WHAT?

George: Lando Norris what the hell is this

Carlos: wait wait wait is that— IS THAT BELLE??? AND MAX?!?

Alex: THOSE ARE WEDDING PHOTOS REAL WEDDING PHOTOS WITH FLOWERS AND RINGS AND A WHOLE EMILIE IN THE BACKGROUND??

Mark: Holy shit they did it.

George: WHO TOOK THESE?? THESE ARE VOGUE-LEVEL

Fernando: Monaco’s lighting really is superior.

David: YOU DID NOT JUST POST THAT

Nico H: Lando WHAT

George: I— IS THAT MAX?! IS THAT BELLE?! IS THIS—THE WEDDING???

Daniel: ICONIC UNHINGED NO NOTES

Lewis: That’s the softest chaos I’ve ever seen. Also: beautiful. Congratulations to them both ❤️

Sebastian: That’s what love should look like. Simple. Fierce. True. Charles is going to set something on fire when he finds out.

Mark: He’s going to kill Max. Actually. Kill him.

David Coulthard: What are the odds we have to physically restrain Charles on sight

Nico R: Charles has not seen this yet, has he?

Carlos: …Charles is actually going to try and murder Max.

Nico R.: I give it 48 hours before Charles makes it about himself.

Nico H.: With his bare hands.

Sebastian: I’ll visit Max in prison. Bring snacks.

Lando: do you think if we just… don’t answer his calls… we can delay this

Kimi: Congrats. Cake looks good.

Lando: in conclusion: love won (also please someone hide me)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/SpottedInMonaco: Saw Oscar Piastri and Lily Zneimer leaving Monaco city hall earlier today. Suit. Dress. Smiling. That wasn’t a casual brunch outfit, I’m just saying.

@/GridGossip: I BEG YOUR PARDON.

@/TifosiTears: oscar piastri getting married and not telling us would be the most oscar piastri move of all time

@/mclarenmoments: DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THIS. I AM FRAGILE.

@/NicolePiastri: OSCAR. OSCAR JACK PIASTRI.

If you got married today and didn’t tell your MOTHER, I swear to GOD—

@/NicolePiastri: Do you think I don’t have Twitter alerts? Do you think I wouldn’t FIND OUT???

@/NicolePiastri: TEXT. ME. RIGHT. NOW.

@/OscarPiastri: Hi Mum. Deep breaths. I did not get married.

@/NicolePiastri: Are you SURE?

@/OscarPiastri: Very sure. I was just a guest. Completely unmarried and ringless.

@/NicolePiastri: Then WHY were you at city hall in MONACO??

@/OscarPiastri: Because people get married and sometimes I get invited!

@/NicolePiastri: Noted. But if you actually do get married without telling me, I will start a podcast called "My Son Got Married Without Me."

@/OscarPiastri: Duly noted.

@/PitLaneParanoia: Okay but if it wasn’t Oscar’s wedding… then whose was it???

@/gridshenanigans: WAIT. Wait wait wait. What if it was Lando’s wedding???

@/McLarenSpy: He has been weirdly quiet since the win in Miami…

@/chaoticpaddock: IMAGINE if Lando Norris just casually got married and let everyone spiral about Oscar instead.

***

Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: (leans back in his chair, stretching) “Okay, chat, before you all start spamming—yes, I saw the Twitter stuff. Yes, I was at Monaco City Hall. No, I didn’t get married. You can all calm down.”

Chat:YOU GOT MARRIED?! WHO WAS IT THENOSCAR OR LANDOOOOOWHAT DO YOU MEAN "NO" STOP LYING TO US NORRIS

Max Fewtrell: (joining the stream, headphones askew) “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What did I just walk into?”

Lando: (grinning way too hard) “Twitter thinks I got married.”

Max F: “...Did you???”

Lando: (sputtering) “What?! No! No, mate—God—why would I—? No!”

Max Fewtrell: (squints at him through the screen) “You’re acting weird. That’s exactly what someone who secretly got married would say.”

Lando: (waving his hands) “I was just at the city hall, okay? I was a guest. I brought my camera. That’s it.”

Chat:"JUST A GUEST" SUUUREHE’S FREAKING OUT OMGLANDO WHO WAS ITWHY ARE YOU SO SHADY

Max Fewtrell: “Wait… was it Oscar?”

Lando: (visibly sweating) “I—NO—it wasn’t Oscar. He was also a guest! He brought… macarons. Like a very elegant little wedding guest. And he wore a suit!”

Max Fewtrell: (laughs) “So if it wasn’t you or Oscar… who got married?”

Lando: (looks directly at camera, then away, then back again) “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max Fewtrell: “Oh my God. It was someone! You little cryptid! You’re hiding something!”

Lando (visibly flustered): I WAS A GUEST. I HAD A TIE. THAT’S IT.

Max F: You’ve never worn a tie willingly in your life.

Lando: (panicking, adjusting his headset) “I’m just saying… maybe some people like their privacy, alright? Not everyone wants a big flashy wedding. Some people like… small things. Quiet things. With like… flowers and—”

Max Fewtrell: “Mate, you’re digging a hole. You might as well tell us.”

Lando: (points at camera) “Nope. I’m loyal. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying.”

Max Fewtrell: “Sworn to secrecy means it was someone! Confirmed! Chat, we’re getting somewhere.”

Lando: (leans forward, whispers into mic dramatically) “Chat, if I mysteriously disappear after this stream… I was never here.”

Chat: RIP LANDOHE’S GOING TO BE TAKEN OUT BY THE WEDDING MAFIATHIS IS BETTER THAN DRIVE TO SURVIVEFREE HIM

Max Fewtrell: “So to summarize: Oscar did not get married. Lando did not get married. But someone did. And Lando is freaking out.”

Lando: (facepalming) “Why did I open my mouth.”

Max Fewtrell: “Because you love chaos. That’s why.”

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luludeluluramblings · 2 months ago

Text

Neglected!Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family Part Four

Part One ☁️ Part Two ☁️ Part Three ☁️ Part Five

Warnings: Pregnancy, Yandere themes, Fem!Reader, and one more that I will not say just be prepared at the end.

You knew Bruce would find out eventually. As much as you liked to pretend he wouldn't you knew. It was only a matter of time until he had noticed what was going on under his roof. You also knew he'd have a bad reaction to it. You just hadn't realized how bad until the day came.

The attic of Wayne manor became your new domain. Surprisingly, it wasn't as dark and gloomy as the rest of the manor.

The light from the dormers filled the space with warm light that was rare to see in a place like Gotham. The old vintage things stored about made it feel like a timeless, but lived in space. No faces of strangers from portraits or the one's you'd pass in the halls in sight. Boxes of photo's and some historical relics were all over the sprawling space.

It truly felt like lives had been lived from the items you found and not just names you where somehow related too.

You primarily came up here search for things for your future nursery. There was a town home in the more stable side of Gotham that you had been eyeing. A charming little place that could use some time, love, and care. But, it had two bedrooms and you could buy it with cash.

Sure, you had wanted to get out of Gotham. Run off back to the childhood home you'd been left to inherit. But, traveling by plane with your constant nausea seemed daunting.

It was probably the worry eating at you. The new parent jitters. Traveling with a baby right after birth? Sounds difficult. Traveling with a toddler? Even worse.

You had to fight the overwhelming feeling of becoming a parent often. To stubborn to give in or give up. Now, your battle with your hormones? That fight was easily lost. Tears were annoying, but you didn't care how much you cried as long as you got what you wanted. Which was your baby boy in your arms and some peace for the both of you.

You had wanted to get out of Gotham. Go back where there was grass and less insanity. But, you mostly wanted stability and a familiar space. Even if you had to make it on your own for a bit.

Though, what you wanted most at the current moment was to stop sneezing. The dust that caught the light from the window and gave the attic an enchanting look was also agitating your nostrils like hell. It was already sensitive as is from pregnancy. However, now each time you sneezed you felt as if your were going to piss your self.

"A-choo! Urgh, so much damn dust…" You grumble to your self as you dig though the delicate vintage model airplanes. You'll have to get Jason you haul this stuff down to your room until you can hire some movers. You plan on holding the cake and the cornbread over his head for a good long while.

As the old saying goes, when you sneeze it usually means someone's thinking about you. Though that thought didn't cross your mind as you kept having to cross your legs and pray every time your nose itched.

Down below in the cave system beneath the manor, someone was listening into on you. Or trying to. He had to be still pretend to be interested in what Tim was showing him.

"We implemented a new system in the BatComputer that Tim programmed. It allows us to detect alien DNA with the sensor range. Including Kryptonian." Bruce was explaining to Clark while Tim tapped away at the keyboard. Less interested in showing off his creation and more suspicious of while Conner was acting so distracted, for lack of a better word.

"So, you're saying we could use this to see if there are other Kryptonians out in space?" Jon asked curiously, looking at the screen with mild interest from where he's lounging next to Damian.

"Possibly one day. But, this is mostly so we can have a better understanding on how much of Earth’s population is actually human." Comes Bruce's pragmatic answer as he stand stoic still, though with a the ever slightest twitch of his lips.

"Another one of your contingency plans incase we’re all slowly replaced with lizard people?" Clark's joking causing a few chuckles that echo mildly in the cave.

"It always tickles me that you guys watch alien sci-fi movies." Dick commented from where he stood, looking like Bruce's second in command, but with better humor and a better smile. Causing another round of chuckles to echo. Though Conner wouldn't include himself in that. Too busy listening to you sneeze from the attic and detecting another noise in the general vicinity. Something that he has to fight narrowing his eyes at while he tires to figure it out.

"I’m assuming you want to run a test with it." With an unsurprised look and years of working the man, Clark turns partially towards Bruce with an almost knowing smirk on his face. By now understanding this was the man's way of showing off his children's accomplishments.

"Being that we’re the only aliens you regularly tolerate." Jon tacks on for good measure

"Tolerate is a strong word." Damian responds with impressive deadpan, not even a twitch of muscle in his face. Though, judging by the mirthful look in his eyes, he only halfway meant it. Tim himself smirked at Damian's comment before turning all his focus on to the BatComputer and running the Biological Program he'd spent months developing.

"We might also have a bet going on how many aliens are in— What the hell?"

"What?"

"There’s four signatures in the manor."

"What do you mean there’s four signatures. We’re testing for Kryptonians."

"Yeah," Tim says sarcastically while he's already moving to locate the extra trace of life. "I'm still counting four. It says right here that there’s four Kryptonians!'

"Pull up the cameras. Now." BY the time the order has left Bruce's mouth all of the manor's live security footage is being pulled up on screen for him to scan with his own eyes.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary. No unusual shadows. No misplaced of moving objects. He see's you in the attic, which feels him with fear. Your alone up there and so far away with an unknown anomaly in his home. A home you were suppose to be safe in. "Where’s the signature coming from?"

"… The attic…" Tim says seeing you sneeze on the screen, complete oblivious to the danger and fear everyone was experiencing.

Conner didn’t hesitate. With an unknown signature in the manor your safety was his priority. He didn't even care is Clark or Jon where faster. At that moment, he was just the first to move and the first to react.

No one in the family objected to it either.

Rushing towards the attic with his ears peeled for where the extra signature could have come from, you're in his arms before you could blink. One of the vintage plane models still in your hand as you were rushed form the dust and gentle sunlight of the attic to the cold dark cave below. A shiver running down your spine and as the change in temperature caused your skin to prickle. Already you felt a wave of vertigo hit from the sudden rush of moment.

Causing you to drop the little vintage plan and press a hand against the muscled chest holding you while you took gasping breathes. It was nothing serious, but the sudden shift in altitude and climate had your ears ringing and you eyes struggling to adjust to the shadows and artificial light.

You could feel another, much softer hand touching you in comparison to the strong figure holding you, a slightly soothing noise being made as voices echoed in the room. Or at least you thought is was a room until you realized it was the Bat Cave.

It was very very rare you came down here. You could count on one hand with missing fingers how often you’d been down here.

You’re eyes taking a moment to adjust to the shadows and artificial light as you make out nearly everyone looking at the Bat Computer monitor. Including Bruce's guest.

It's Stephanie that's touching you, her hand just barely having been becoming familiar to you over the past few weeks.

“Thank god, there’s an intruder in the manor. We’re trying to figure out where or who or, hell, even what it is.” She explains, which was nice. You deserved an explanation.

But, more importantly, you glance up to see who was holding you in their arms. Noting with mild surprise that it was Conner. You can’t help giving him a bit of wiry smile. The sudden rush of speed and the strength you could feel made sense. “You can put me down, you know. I ain’t gonna break.”

“No can do. Not after you just gave me a heart attack.” He gives you a shaky smile, completely forgetting the fact that he didn't include any one else in that statement. Just him. You were still to dizzy to catch the specific word yourself as you can faintly hear the discussion of the unknown intruder.

“I can hear an extra heartbeat, but where did the signature go. It vanished as soon as Conner grabbed—“

“The hell is going on?" You can't help asking. Having not been informed of any test as you tried to climb out of Conner's arms. He, however, seemed to have his arms locked tight and they may as well have been steel bars holding you in the air.

You turn towards Clark just as he looks at you with furrowed brows that being to rise almost as fast as he can fly. With a few context clues you piece together what he realized and gave him a narrow look daring to speak.

"Uh… I know where that extra heartbeat is coming from, Bruce. It's doesn't explain the signature. Why would of be Kryptonian…" And, then his eyes go wide as he trails off. It's almost comical to see Superman of all people and creatures with eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as realization hits him. But, you yourself are confused. Surely you being pregnant wasn't that big a deal?

You glance around the room from where your held in Conner's arms. Looking at Stephanie first before the others that knew and the rest that were starting to realize.

An extra heartbeat would make sense. The little bugger that's been fluttering in your abdomen for the past few days with his powerful little kicks would be the reason for that. But, why would--

It's not until you feel yourself being squeezed and everyone turns to look at who is holding you that the slow, slightly rusted gears in your head shift. And, your head moves so fast to look up at the awestruck Conner still holding your ass midair like a crashing airplane carrying precious cargo that you feel another wave of dizziness hit.

"So, it was you! You're the motherfuck--"

"We need to get rid of it." Bruce's voice made you words die in your throat with a choke. All complaints gone as you felt something rush down your spine.

This time it wasn't a chill.

This time it wasn't fear. It's was a good thing Conner was built tough, because the hand you had resting on his chest clawed up as you felt violence bubble in your gut next to your son's gentle fluttering. Faintly you can hear it stutter under neither your palm, but you're not questioning it. You're not even questioning the way his arms seems to curl even more around you are the air leaves your lungs for a different reason this time.

This time you slowly turned towards the man who fucked your mother once and face him with a look that promised you'd tear him apart with your teeth. Even if it killed you.

Taglist Below:

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A/N: Yeah, sorry to end it on the cliff hanger and unexpectedly like that. I just wanted to convey the anger and the outrage Bruce's reaction caused reader. I struggled with this chapter y'all. Struggled. I rewrote it entirely and changed major plot points, but this has all been flying by the seat of my pants. When I do the AU BatBoys x Pregnant!Reader that will have a lot more planning.

A/N: I made a ko-fi. But, feel free to ignore that. I just wanted Diet Coke. My true vice.

A/N: Don't know when Part Five will come out, but that will be Conner feels and the family's reaction to Reader moving out. I have that roughly drafted.

#yandere batfam #batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily x reader #luluramblings #yandere conner kent x reader #yandere conner kent #conner kent x reader #conner kent #pregnant!reader

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becertainlust · 2 months ago

Text

BIRTHDAY SUIT | Bakugo Katsuki

synopsis: Bakugo never made a big deal about birthdays—just another day in his book. But you're not letting this one slide. As his partner, you know better than anyone that under that explosive exterior lies a man who deserves to be worshipped. And tonight, that’s exactly what you plan to do. Dressed in nothing but a gift-wrapped surprise, you give him a present no one else ever could—you.

content: smut, shameless smut, established relationship, lingerie sex, birthday sex, reader takes the reins, blowjob, sloppy, cowgirl , orgasm,

Bakugo never cared about birthdays. For once, he'd let you celebrate him.

No grumbles, no sarcastic muttering under his breath about “dumb-ass traditions” or “waste of time.” No disappearing off to train. No flinching when his friends shouted “Happy Birthday, Katsuki!”

He actually stayed. Enjoyed it.

The apartment had been buzzing earlier with close friends, laughter, drinks, and too many snacks. But now, it was just you and him. The glow of warm lights filled the room, soft music playing low from the speaker. The scent of buttercream and spiced candles lingered in the air.

“Sit,” you said, nudging him down onto the couch.

He dropped onto it with a tired, satisfied huff, one arm slung over the backrest as he watched you crouch beside the small stack of gifts left on the coffee table.

“Ya didn’t have to do all this, y’know,” he muttered. “Just havin’ you around is—”

“Shut up,” you smirked, passing him the first box. “You can get sappy after we’re done with presents.”

He rolled his eyes, but the blush on his ears gave him away.

One by one, he opened them. A couple of gag gifts from Kaminari, a surprisingly thoughtful book from Todoroki, custom gloves from Kirishima. A shirt from you he’d side-eyed in a store window a few weeks ago but pretended not to like. He’d mumbled, “Not bad,” when he saw it then—but the way he smiled when he saw it again tonight? That soft, flickering look in his eyes?

Yeah. He remembered.

But the last gift made him still.

He turned the box in his hand like he didn’t quite recognize it, even though you knew he did. You watched his fingers move slower—more careful. He lifted the lid and saw it:

A first edition, limited-run All Might training journal.

Something he’d mentioned in passing once during a midnight walk months ago. Something he said he always wanted but could never find. He stared at it in silence, thumb brushing over the embossed edges.

“…You remembered that?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter. His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled gently. “Of course I did.”

Bakugo swallowed hard, cheeks warming up in a way that had your heart blooming in your chest. “You’re insane,” he muttered. “You know that?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “A little.”

He blinked hard, then cleared his throat.

“Alright, alright—cake. Let’s get this over with before I start feelin’ like a damn Hallmark card.”

You brought over the cake, candles already lit, your face glowing in the soft flicker as you sang the most off-key, dramatic “Happy Birthday” you could manage. He groaned, but he didn’t stop you.

He blew out the candles.

You sliced two pieces, handed him a fork… then stole it right back.

“Say ah.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You really gonna hand feed me right now?”

“Our wedding reenactment,” you smiled, lifting a bite to his mouth.

He opened it, still scowling—but barely—as you fed him a chunk of cake. He chewed, crimson eyes on you the whole time.

“Good?” you asked.

He gave a slow, appreciative nod. “Yeah. sweet.”

"that so..."

You leaned in, swiped a little frosting from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. His lips looked so soft, gilding your frosted coated thumb onto them, then kissed it off his lips, pressing your own into the softness of his. It started soft.

But when your lips brushed his again—slow, and achingly warm, and just a little longer—his hands naturally found your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly in his lap. He kissed back, gentle but hungry, lips parting to taste more of you.

You murmured between kisses, breath hot against his mouth: “Birthday kiss.”

He blinked slowly, his lips still parted from the kiss, eyes dazed and focused only on you. His hands anchored warm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the thin fabric. His gaze trailed over your face—your lips, your flushed cheeks, your eyes so full of mischief and adoration.

“You’re everything,” he murmured, almost like it slipped out without permission.

You kissed the tip of his nose, giggling softly. “Thank you.”

And then?

His hold tightened. Just slightly. And he pulled you into his lap.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered, voice thick and low, “I’m gonna forget we were takin’ things slow tonight.”

You leaned in, straddling him without hesitation, your thighs hugging his hips as you settled against him. His body welcomed you instantly, his hands sliding up your sides, fingertips dragging the fabric of your top slightly—like he wanted less of it between you.

“I was never planning to go slow, birthday boy” you whispered, brushing your lips just barely against his jaw. “especially tonight.”

His breath caught—sharp, audible. You felt it in his chest, the way it stuttered under your palms. His reaction was subtle, but every part of him twitched with anticipation: his hands, his legs beneath you, the slight lift of his hips like he was already imagining how this night would end.

“Got one more present for you,” you murmured into his ear. “The real one.”

Bakugo’s brows lifted, suspicious. “Thought that damn journal was the real one.”

You grinned, climbing off his lap for just a moment—enough to walk toward the bedroom with that sway you knew drove him wild.

He watched, chin propped on his hand, eyes darkening the second your fingers dipped beneath the hem of your top as you disappeared down the hall.

“Oi,” he called. “What kinda present needs you to change for it?”

You didn’t answer.

But when you reappeared in the doorway—lingerie clinging to your curves like a second skin, chosen with him in mind—Bakugo sat up so fast he nearly knocked the fork off the coffee table.

Your name left his mouth like a groan.

“Holy shit…”

You were wrapped in delicate black lace, the kind of thing he never thought he’d see outside a magazine, and even then—never on you. Never just for him.

His mind blanked.

No words, no witty comeback. Just the shape of you silhouetted in the soft golden light. The way the sheer material clung to your curves, catching every dip and swell like it had been tailored with him in mind. The way your thighs moved when you walked, slow and sure, like you knew what that sight alone was doing to him.

His mouth had gone dry.

And still, he sat back—frozen on the couch, like his body had been rooted to the spot. Only his eyes moved, dragging over you with almost painful reverence.

Your presence wasn't just seen. It was felt. In the sudden hush of the room. In the way the air itself seemed to shift as you crossed it. There was a softness to it—like watching a flame flicker behind glass. Dangerous, but so goddamn beautiful.

Something in his chest ached.

It didn’t matter how many times he saw you like this—wanting him like this. That wide-eyed, breath-stolen reaction always snuck up on him.

His gaze caught on your collarbones, then drifted lower—hesitating on the swell of your breasts barely veiled by lace, down the soft line of your stomach, until it settled between your legs, where the thin strip of fabric left far too little to the imagination.

The sight knocked the wind out of him.

One of his hands, resting uselessly on his thigh, curled into a fist. The other—he didn’t even realize—had wiped itself discreetly on his jeans, sweat clinging to his palm.

Not from nerves. No. Never that.

Except maybe this time, it was.

Because you were walking toward him now, hips rolling, eyes locked onto his, and he could feel his body respond before his brain had even caught up. His mouth parted. Breath shallowed.

God, the way you moved. Like you were pouring yourself into every step. Like you weren’t just walking to him—you were offering yourself.

It made his pulse stutter.

And when you climbed back into his lap, warm skin settling over the growing heat in his jeans, he couldn’t think. All he could do was feel. Your nails dragging against the nape of his neck in ghost trails feather-light, his body withered under the touch. Your perfume mingling with his senses what scent was that? and why cant he stop sniffing you.

"You smell really good baby...really good" his nose ghosted your neck, hips pulling you closer. Your thighs oh so soft to him, bracket him so warmly.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He just looked.

Admiration wasn’t something Bakugo handed out easily—not to friends, not to strangers, and definitely not out loud.

But he was looking at you now like you were everything. Like you were a dream made real. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you, worship you, or fall to his knees for you.

He couldn’t stop drinking you in.

How had he gotten this lucky?

You kissed him again. Slowly, reverently. The kind of kiss that curled toes and short-circuited nerves. You would use a hand to pull him by the shirt, and when you pulled back just enough to murmur, “Happy birthday, Katsuki,” his lashes fluttered low, heat gathering in his face as he let the words sink in.

His breath hitched when your hands found his chest.

Just fingertips at first, dragging over the fabric of his shirt like you were memorizing him all over again. You didn’t rush—just let your palms glide across solid muscle, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath as your thumbs brushed the edge of his ribs.

He was already warm under your touch. And you hadn’t even done anything yet.

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw.

Then another—lower, slower. Your lips parted against his throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses in a trail that dipped down the curve of his neck. His skin twitched under each one, the breath in his lungs turning shallow, rough.

“who knew you’d do something like this,” he murmured, but the strain in his voice made it sound more like a will to give in than a tease.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled against his skin, your teeth grazing lightly before you sucked. Gently—just enough to make him feel it. And then again, lower. His hands tensed at your waist.

You tilted your head to kiss along the other side of his neck, scattering another series of soft hickies—like you were branding him in lace and affection.

A groan vibrated in his chest.

Your fingers slipped to the hem of his shirt. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move.

He just watched you. Quiet. Obedient in a way only you got to see.

You peeled his shirt up, inch by inch, revealing the planes of his stomach—warm, lightly flushed, his abs tightening beneath your gaze. You kissed his chest slowly as you exposed it, lips brushing across firm muscle, leaving kisses that lingered just a little too long.

You didn’t break eye contact.

Not once.

Even as you sank further down, mouth worshipping the path beneath his sternum. Even as your nails lightly scratched up his sides, drawing out a low hiss from between his clenched teeth.

His body was buzzing now—caught between restraint and surrender.

And it was beautiful to watch him come undone like this. Strong and scarred and still, somehow, soft for you.

His head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched, one hand gripping your hip while the other fisted into the couch cushion. His thighs flexed beneath your hands.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word half breath, half plea.

You hummed softly, letting your lips hover just above his waistband.

“You’re warm,” you whispered, voice sultry and low, like you were letting him in on a secret. “All over.”

And he was.

Buzzing. Flushed. Waiting.

With his chest bare, his breathing ragged, and his eyes glassy with anticipation—he looked up at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Your lips hovered just above the waistband of his sweats, breath brushing against the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. The muscles in his abdomen tensed again.

And still—you didn’t touch him where he wanted you to. Not yet. Instead, you lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him as your mouth curved in the faintest, knowing smirk. There was power in the way he was watching you. Tension in the way his thighs shifted restlessly beneath yours. Every inch of him buzzed. For you.

“Can I take these off Kats?” you asked, voice honey-slow.

Bakugo grunted, half-dazed. “… yeah.”

I mean what the hell were you asking him. If anything he just wanted on him immediately but it was all for you to watch him be a completely different person He sounded so obedient watching every moment like a patient puppy. His beautiful crimson eyes shimmering under the soft glow of the room.

Your fingers dipped under the waistband and dragged it down slow. The fabric caught on the hardened outline of him, and he hissed through his teeth as you freed him from the restraint.

His cock sprang up, flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. His hips twitched upward involuntarily, like his body was pleading before his mouth could catch up.

You made a sound of appreciation in the back of your throat—soft, reverent—before leaning in to press another kiss, just above the base. Your tongue flicked out, tasting the warm skin there. "You want me this much suki"

His whole body shuddered.

“Y-you're really gonna take your time with this, huh?” he muttered, voice rough, but low with awe.

You didn’t answer.

You just looked up again, lips parted, pupils blown, hands pressing to his thighs to steady him—before licking a slow, flat stripe from the base to the tip.

Bakugo cursed under his breath, his hand flying to the back of your head on instinct—but it never pushed, never forced. Just tangled in your hair, holding on for dear life.

Your mouth closed around him, warm and wet and unforgiving.

And he melted.

His head tipped back, jaw slack, a ragged moan slipping past his lips. You sucked him down slow—sloppy and deep—letting your tongue trace every sensitive vein, letting your spit drip down over your hand as you worked the base.

He was a mess.

Every time you hollowed your cheeks and sank lower, his thighs tensed. His breath hitched. His hips jerked upward before he caught himself, groaning through clenched teeth.

"Fuck... baby… you—goddamn."

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, then sank down again, deeper this time.

And he twitched in your mouth, body locking up as you moaned around him.

The sound went straight to his spine—he was pulsing now, barely holding on.

When you pulled off with a wet pop, spit connecting your lips to him in a string, you wiped your mouth slowly with the back of your hand, lips swollen, eyes hooded.

“Wanna ride you,” you whispered, climbing back up into his lap. “Can I?”

Bakugo was panting. Eyes glassy. Completely undone.

He swallowed hard, leaning into your chest to whisper "Please.”

You hovered over him, your hair framing your face so bewitchingly. You lined him up with your entrance, already soaked and pulsing for him. And as you sank down, inch by inch, his eyes rolled back and his hands grabbed your hips like he needed something to anchor him to this earth.

You moaned low as he stretched you open.

“Shit—so full,” you breathed, resting your palms on his chest.

“Look at me,” he rasped, voice trembling. “Wanna see your face.”

You did. And when your eyes met his—when he saw the way you looked at him, like he was the only one you ever wanted—his whole expression softened.

His hands caressed up your waist, slow, reverent.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered, voice shaking.

You didn’t move right away.

Not really.

Instead, you hovered just above him, your entrance brushing the slick, sensitive head of his cock—barely letting him in, just enough to tease. Just enough to let him feel the heat of you. Your thighs flexed slightly, hips rolling in slow, agonizing circles that dragged your soaked folds over the tip again and again.

A soft, wet sound filled the space between you. Your juices clung to him, thick and sticky, smearing across his shaft with every grind.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head thunking back against the couch. “You’re—fuckin’ killin’ me.”

You smirked, gaze flicking up to watch him.

And god… the way he looked right now? His chest rising with every ragged breath, his lip bitten raw, his knuckles white where he clutched your hips. Every muscle in his thighs was trembling beneath you. Twitching with the restraint it took not to thrust up and bury himself in you.

You leaned forward, your chest brushing his while your hips stayed in motion—rocking slowly, teasing him with slick, hot friction.

“I thought this was your birthday,” you purred into his ear. “Shouldn’t I be giving you what you want?”

Bakugo grit his teeth, his jaw tight with tension.

“I do want this,” he growled. “You drivin’ me fuckin’ insane like this—teasin’ me—makin’ me feel like I’m gonna explode just from the tip—shit…”

You giggled, soft and wicked, and sat back just enough for him to watch.

One of your hands reached between you, guiding him so the head rested right at your entrance again. You gave a few slow bounces—just the tip sliding in and out, each time making him curse louder.

“S-shit! Baby—fuck—fuck, just let me in—” His voice cracked, his fingers digging into your skin like he was about to lose it.

You finally pressed your hips down a little more, letting him sink in halfway.

His mouth fell open, a deep, guttural curse ripping out of him. His head snapped forward to look at where you were taking him in, flushed and wide-eyed.

And you just smiled at the desperation in his gaze.

“are you feeling good baby,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest.

“God—yes—fuck yes,” he hissed, eyes fluttering as you dropped down another inch. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. You always do. Always…”

You leaned in again, letting your breasts press to his chest as you kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Then you better hold on,” you whispered, breath hot, “because I’m not gonna stop until you’re a mess for me.”

And with that, you finally sank down fully. All the way. His entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted.

He let out a strangled sound—somewhere between a moan and a gasp—his head rolling back, hands gripping your ass like he was holding onto sanity itself.

You didn’t move for a moment.

Just stayed there, so full of him, clenching around him until he twitched helplessly inside you. And then—slowly, sinfully—you started to ride.

Your hips began to move again—slow, like honey melting in warm sun, like a wave building over time until it crashes. You circled them, let your walls flutter around him just to feel the way he shuddered beneath you. His eyes opened halfway, heavy-lidded and glazed, following every sensual sway of your body like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And to him—it was.

“Katsuki…” you whispered, your palms gliding up his abdomen. “You’re so deep.”

A sharp breath hissed between his teeth. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, but his hips bucked once—shallow, needy. You kept your pace measured, deliberate, grinding down into him with that same velvet friction that made his head roll back again.

“Shit,” he groaned, the sound low and desperate. His hands were clutching at your waist now, not to guide, but to ground himself. “You’re squeezin’ me so good, mmm"

You leaned down slowly, dragging your lips across his collarbone. Then lower—pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his nipple. As you moved, your body rolled into his, your rhythm never faltering, hips undulating in a steady, torturous rhythm.

Every time you sank down, he twitched inside you, groaning louder.

“I love the way you sound baby,” you whispered, licking the salt from his skin. “All desperate and sweet. My perfect birthday boy.”

He looked at you like he’d melt.

One of his hands slipped up your back, tangled into your hair, tugging lightly as you nuzzled his neck. You licked a stripe just beneath his ear, then suckled gently at his skin, your teeth dragging slightly—leaving soft, loving hickeys along his neck and collar.

And every one had him groaning, his cock jerking inside you.

“Gonna mark you up tonight,” you murmured. “So everyone knows who you belong to.”

“I already do,” he rasped, voice nearly broken, “fuckin’ been yours.”

You smiled into his skin and sat back again, palms braced against his chest as you began to bounce now—slow, deep, full bounces that had him clenching his jaw and moaning through his teeth. His abs flexed beneath your hands. His hands gripped your hips tighter.

Your name left his lips like a prayer.

Your hips found a rhythm—delicious, sticky, sinful—and the way he filled you, the way he responded to every little grind, made your legs start to tremble.

He felt it. His hands slid down to cup your ass again, helping support your movements as he watched you from beneath heavy lashes.

“Baby,” he breathed. “You’re—fuck—you’re gonna make me come—just like this?”

You leaned forward again, kissed him deep, then pulled back just enough to whisper:

“Yes. Inside. Don’t hold back. I want you to come just like this.”

He let out a wrecked moan, his hips finally thrusting up to meet yours, matching your rhythm.

Faster now.

Deeper.

You clung to his shoulders, your mouth falling open as the coil inside you tightened and tightened—

And then he gasped—eyes rolling to close, mouth open and his cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled, deep and thick and hot, fingers bruising your hips while he cursed your name like a confession.

You didn’t stop.

Not even then.

Still slow. Still steady. Still riding out every aftershock as he moaned beneath you, overstimulated and undone. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and soft as they met yours. His hair stuck to his forehead. His chest heaved. His hands slid up your spine, arms curling around you as he held you close.

Your chest heaved against his, his heart pounding against your ribcage like a war drum. He was still buried deep, twitching, oversensitive—but you didn’t move. You just cradled his face, tilted it up so he had no choice but to look at you.

“Listen to you,” you whispered, voice sultry and sweet as sin. “Mouth full of curses… all because I couldn’t help creamin’ all over this fat cock.”

Bakugo groaned through clenched teeth, face flushed and jaw tight like he was holding onto the last thread of sanity.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” you murmured, grinding just enough to make him jolt, to let another wet, obscene squelch fill the space between you. “God, the noise we made—bet our neighbors think I was drowning in it.”

He groaned louder, head falling back against the couch.

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering, then whispered, “Soaked you, Katsuki. You feel how messy I made you? Look at your lap—look at what you did to me.”

He peeked down—eyes glassy—and let out another hoarse, broken curse when he saw the slick still glistening between your thighs, watching how you both were still connected before you lift your hips to show him, with such a sly smile it did something to him, watching his cum dripping slowly out of you onto him.

You guided yourself back in, rocking your hips again, so delicately, and he twitched inside you, helpless. His whole body shivered with a groan, his head collapsing on your shoulder "fuck enough"

You grinned. “You liked it when I sat there and shook my ass on it, didn’t you? Teasin’ you right on the tip ‘til you were cussin’ like you were about to lose your damn mind, yeah?” you grind.

“You’re—fuckin’ evil,” he gasped, fingers twitching against your waist.

You kissed his jawline this time, biting lightly just below his ear. His hands gripped you tighter again, like he was about to flip the script—but he was still spent, still weak from how you dropped your ass on him, He just held you there instead, breathing ragged, letting you purr filth against his skin.

"A little"

#bakugo katuski #mha smut #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo smut #boku no hero academia #becertainlust #birthday smut #birthday sex #bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki #katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki smut #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x you #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugou

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packagingbypolymer · 9 months ago

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The Best Bakery Food Packaging Ideas For Increasing Revenue

Nowadays, the bakery industry is experiencing growth as almost everyone has a sweet tooth and wants to celebrate these hard times with something sweet. These days, even people without a sweet tooth want to start the day with some freshly baked goods and a cup of coffee. Because of the increased competition, pastry shops now need to differentiate themselves from the competition and provide a special service to their clients. The best way for bakers to accomplish this is through eye-catching packaging.

In the UK, all bakery goods used to be packaged in disposable food containers, but that is no longer. Brands are becoming more and more creative in the way they showcase their goods to customers nowadays. Recently, foodies are switching from their usual bakers to those that have excellent packaging. If you want to build a successful bakery, you should create packaging that is eye-catching, functional, and reflects your brand so that clients will remember you and refer you to their friends and family. Let's look at some suggestions for bakery packaging that will increase your sales.

Personalized Note or Gift for Extra Impact:

Earning the loyalty of a customer requires you to connect with them on a personal level. For that to happen, you can add a personalised message to go with your packaging or add a little something, for example, a cookie with the main delicacy. You can also put in a ‘Thank You’ note along with a few suggestions on what else they could try the next time they pay a visit. Having boxes with different quotes, tips, or small notes will make them stand out and help you in customer retention while boosting sales.

Custom-Printed Packaging:

Providing a unique offering to clients is a fantastic way to draw in and keep them. Offer them other methods to feel special if you are unable to give them gifts. For example, you may write a kind message for your clients on the package along with their name to make them feel good about their experience, taking a cue from Starbucks. Or, to show your customers that you appreciate them, include some helpful advice and delicious combinations in the packaging. To help clients know what they are getting before they buy, you can also include stickers with a list of the ingredients in your baked goods. A store's unique packaging often draws in customers, so you need to make sure it looks good.

Using Transparent Boxes:

Customers enjoy showing off their purchases, particularly if they are suitable for children's gifts. Sometimes it helps to pack in sweet cakes, attractive pastries, and fragrant cookies in see-through boxes to bring in new business. See-through containers work well for customers who want to give your treats as gifts to their loved ones, even though they are best used to package the delicious treats for children because it sparks their curiosity. A visual treat will also definitely encourage your customers to make larger purchases from you.

Innovative Takeaway Containers:

Your bakery food packaging will be greatly appreciated by your customers if you include useful takeaway containers. You might include a removable section on the side of your coffee cups where customers can store their muffins or cookies. Alternatively, you could have customised cake boxes that slide to make it easier for customers to eat. In short, make your bakery's packaging more useful so that patrons can enjoy their meals and remember your store for its thoughtful packaging.

Stylish and Customized Bakery Boxes:

Adding eye-catching colors and hidden decoration to your bakery boxes can make them attractive for your customers and give your baked goods a more upscale appearance. High-paying clients who value class and quality in their purchases will be drawn to it right away. Regarding color schemes, fonts, and pictures, you might wish to speak with a reputable product package designer. It would be more beneficial to have various product-specific boxes made rather than using a single packaging type for all of your products. This will also give your customers the impression that you are a company that prioritizes their needs.

Creative Packaging and Customer Service:

Bakeries that are successful depend on providing delicious goods and outstanding marketing. In order to achieve this, you'll need to have creative packaging and a welcoming staff that tries to figure out what the customers want. Without investing in marketing, a self-service bakery business can increase sales significantly with the help of proper packaging. In addition to the advice given above, try packaging in eco-friendly containers to win over customers. Don't forget to buy only the best biodegradable food containers at Packaging By Polymer, the leading food packaging suppliers in the UK.

#Bakery Packaging #Plastic Cake Containers #Cake Box With Window

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yanderelovebites · 6 months ago

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Been seeing a lot of neglected batsis fics but may I say?

Imagine if Thomas and Martha Wayne’s ghosts are also looking out for neglected reader not just Alfred. It’s even better if batsis can see them. Just imagine the impact one day if batsis started wearing makeup in a way Martha did, maybe styles her hair like hers too because ghost Martha teaches them how to be a lady.

Bonus points if batsis is another biological kid to Bruce. The shame the couple feel when Bruce neglects her.

They get annoyed with Damian the most because that’s his sister, what the hell was he thinking? Imagining Martha ghost blows the card Bruce set to the side on Father’s Day right in his face XD

I could make a list of scenarios of ghost grandparents being good grandparents for batsis. Imagine one time Batsis asked to do something with Tim and Tim rejects her rudely so Thomas makes his computer short-circuit.

Martha would cut his phone off. Weirdly it works JUST FINE when off the property.

Thomas hides Damian’s katana because he used it on batsis. They can’t find it for weeks until Alfred goes up to the attic and there it is in a box labeled ‘Disappointment’. They freeze dick next time he visits for not keeping a promise… the list could go on.

Meanwhile batsis is taking a business course because Thomas insisted, completely unbothered.

Imagine they forget her birthday and they for the next week ruin any cake that comes in the house.

And when they do their turn around imagine they lock the door of whoever locked batsis’s room last until next meal time. Nothing works to let them out. NOTHING. Oh they told her she couldn’t have friends? Oh look your window is wide open and they just made them all go to sleep.

Just some thoughts :3

#batman #batfam neglect #thomas wayne #martha wayne #batfam x batsis #batsis!reader #ghosts #yandere batfam

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97linelover · 13 days ago

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Coming back to you - Jeon Jungkook

summary: you loved him while he was away, you loved him from far away. And now hes finally back.

Being in a secret relationship with Jungkook as his Make up Artist is not that easy, especially when you´re just waiting for his return.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: love, return from the military, cute, they´re just so in love

author's note: how can the time already be over? I´m so happy. I wrote this, this morning so don´t be to harsh on me :D

The BigHit building buzzed with quiet excitement, a kind of electricity in the air that only came when something huge was about to happen. Tomorrow wasn’t just another day—it was the day.

After what felt like an eternity, Jungkook and Jimin were finally being discharged from the military.

And you? You had the most important job of all.

Not only had you been BTS’s trusted makeup artist for the past few years—working with them through albums, concerts, and chaotic shoots—but you were also Jungkook’s secret.

Your secret relationship with him had started quietly, somewhere between powder brushes and soft eye contact in mirror reflections. Late-night texts turned into long walks. And before you knew it, he was yours, and you were his.

But today, there was no time to be sentimental.

“Y/N, do you have the list?” Namjoon called out from across the practice room, balancing a clipboard in one hand and holding a streamer in the other.

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” you answered, double-checking your notes. “And I picked up the cake this morning from that bakery Jungkook loves. Banana-flavored, right?”

Hoseok grinned, walking past with a handful of balloons. “You’re seriously amazing. He’s going to cry.”

“I hope not,” you laughed. “His contact lenses won’t survive that.”

Taehyung entered the room next, lugging a giant cardboard box full of decorations. “I got the banner! And the photo wall materials. Should we do it next to the window, or—?”

“Let’s set it up where the lighting’s better,” you said, already heading to help him. “You know how picky Jimin is about pictures.”

As the others moved around you, hanging garlands and preparing the playlist, you quietly checked off tasks in your head.

✅ Cake

✅ Drinks

✅ Decorations

✅ Playlist

✅ Gifts

Oh—and Jimin’s bag. You had picked it up for him, along with his uniform accessories. You made sure everything was perfectly folded, tucked into a duffel by the door, ready for tomorrow morning.

You paused, brushing a bit of glitter off your sleeve, glancing toward the small gift you hadn’t dared show the others. A small silver bracelet with Jungkook’s enlistment date engraved on it… and yours, next to his, in smaller print. You’d worn it every day since he left. Tomorrow, you’d finally give it to him.

You exhaled slowly, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

It didn’t feel real yet. But tomorrow, he’d walk through that door. The wait would finally be over.

And no one—not even the fans—knew the truth behind your excitement.

Tomorrow, the world would see BTS’s Golden Maknae return.

But only you would see the man you loved come home.

The HYBE building had never felt like this before.

There was always movement—staff hurrying, stylists adjusting lighting, choreographers shouting counts from practice rooms—but today was different. Today, it felt like a storm was brewing.

The Golden Maknae and the angel-voiced Park Jimin were coming home.

And you? You were right in the eye of the storm.

“Y/N, where are the black ribbons? They were in Box B!” someone shouted behind you.

“Box B is in Studio 3!” you called back, clutching two cups of coffee, a checklist, and a roll of tape in your other hand.

You hadn’t slept much last night. Honestly, you hadn’t really slept well in months.

Because even though Jimin was like a little brother to you, this wasn’t just about BTS returning to full strength.

It was him.

Jungkook.

You hadn’t seen him in person for months. Sure, you exchanged the occasional encrypted text. . A grainy selfie with his buzzed hair and sleepy eyes.

But nothing beat standing in front of him, close enough to hear the way he said your name like it meant more than just three letters.

Only the members knew. RM had found out first—he always did—and eventually, the others caught on. It had been unspoken between you all: protect this secret at all costs. Dating an idol as staff wasn’t just frowned upon. It was forbidden. A one-way ticket out the door.

But the moment Jungkook told you he was willing to wait, you knew you’d do the same.

And now… that wait was finally over.

“Y/N!” Taehyung’s deep voice pulled you back. He was standing at the entrance of the practice room, holding up his phone. “They just arrived. They’re on their way here!”

A chorus of reactions erupted.

“Ten minutes?!”

“Did someone check the microphones?!”

“Where’s Jimin’s jacket?!”

You were already moving—handing over coffees, adjusting decorations, shoving Jungkook’s duffel bag just slightly to the left so it would be the first thing he saw. Your heart was racing in your chest, matching the rhythm of footsteps echoing through the building.

Only minutes now.

You felt Seokjin gently nudge your shoulder as he passed. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I will be. When I see him.”

Hoseok smiled knowingly. “You’re glowing. He’s going to lose his mind.”

Suddenly, the building’s atmosphere shifted.

The elevator dinged.

Silence fell like a heavy blanket.

And then: footsteps.

You stepped back, breath held, heart hammering, eyes locked on the hallway outside the studio.

The door opened.

Jimin entered first, smiling wide, dressed in his military uniform, looking tired but happy. He opened his arms, greeting everyone like the prince he was.

And then came him.

Jungkook.

Hair slightly longer now, military cap in hand, uniform perfect. His eyes scanned the room—and when they landed on you, the world stopped.

For a split second, the chaos faded. The balloons, the cake, the flash of cameras, the staff whispering—all of it disappeared.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His eyes softened, just a little. The corner of his mouth lifted. That tiny look only you ever saw.

He was home.

His scent hit you before anything else. That warm, clean smell mixed with something distinctly him—even after such a long time.

Jungkook made his way through the room, hugging each staff member, bowing deeply, thanking them one after one. His smile was beaming, but his eyes were tired.

You stood near the back, pretending to adjust a mic cable that absolutely didn’t need adjusting.

Don’t shake. Just breathe. Don’t look like a love-struck idiot.

He was two hugs away.

Then one.

And then—

“Y/N,” he said softly, and you turned just in time to see his arms open.

There was no time to think.

You stepped forward, and he pulled you in for a quick hug—shorter than the others, less obvious—but his hand lingered just a second longer on your lower back. His breath ghosted near your ear as he whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear:

“I missed you.”

Your heart nearly stopped, but you smiled politely, nodded, and stepped back, eyes lowered. “Welcome back,” you said quietly, your voice way too calm for the storm inside you.

He gave nothing away, not even in his expression. Golden Maknae mode fully activated.

You tried to focus as Jimin waved everyone toward Studio A, where the livestream was set to begin in fifteen minutes.

“Let’s go!” Namjoon called. “We’ll run audio while they change jackets.”

Everyone moved in sync.

You stayed close, like always, clipboard in hand, headset in place, watching them through the control booth window as they sat down, fixing their collars and joking about how weird it felt to be out.

And Jungkook—he kept glancing at the glass. At you.

You stood behind the main camera now, pretending to go over notes with the lighting team.

But you weren’t fooling anyone—especially not yourself.

Your whole body buzzed. You were giddy, jittery, anxious, overwhelmed.

He’s here. He’s actually here.

The way he had looked at you—the softness, the heat, the unspoken history between you—none of it had faded. It was all still there, hiding in his glances, in the calm stillness of how he carried himself.

And god, you wanted to run to him. Just for five minutes. Just to say everything you weren’t allowed to say.

But now?

Now, he was BTS’s Jungkook again. And you were just the staff.

So, you did what you always did: you kept working.

Even if your fingers shook.

Even if your cheeks burned.

Even if your heart was screaming his name.

The studio lights were warm and bright, casting that perfect glow on Jimin and Jungkook as the livestream began.

They looked… different. Grown. Sharper. Stronger.

But their laughter was still the same—soft, contagious, filled with inside jokes and memories you could only imagine from the past 18 months.

Jimin leaned forward, eyes sparkling as he teased Jungkook about almost crying during their farewell ceremony.

“Ya! I didn’t cry,” Jungkook argued, his voice deep, playful. “It was allergies.”

“Sure it was,” Jimin smirked, nudging him. “Military dust, right?”

The staff chuckled behind the cameras. You stood to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending to check your phone. But really, you were just watching him.

Every smile.

Every gesture.

Every time his tongue peeked out as he laughed, or when he tucked his hair behind his ear—things you used to see up close, in quiet hotel rooms and stolen moments.

It was torture and comfort all at once.

And you didn’t even notice you were staring until someone cleared their throat beside you.

Namjoon.

He didn’t say anything—just raised his brows with a knowing smirk. His arms were crossed too, and his eyes flicked between you and Jungkook before returning to you.

You blinked, flustered. “What?”

Namjoon leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so no one else would hear. “Your face is giving you away.”

You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I’m just—monitoring. You know. Makeup, lighting…”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Very professional.”

You elbowed him gently, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Shut up.”

Namjoon smiled wider but backed off with a small shrug, as if to say, I won’t tell… this time.

You needed to breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, already stepping away. “Bathroom.”

Namjoon didn’t stop you—he just nodded knowingly as you slipped out of the room, your heart pounding in your ears.

Once in the hallway, you leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes.

You had handled months of separation. You had handled secrets and silence and waiting.

But handling him, in the same building again, so close and yet so untouchable?

That was something else entirely.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet compared to the buzz of the studio. Your heart was still racing, your skin still warm from the way Namjoon had looked at you like he knew. Like they all knew. Like he was just waiting for you to break.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out here. A few minutes? Maybe more. The voices and laughter from the livestream had faded behind closed doors, and your own thoughts had taken over.

He’s here.

He’s safe.

He’s right there.

And yet—you couldn’t touch him.

Not really. Not yet.

You exhaled slowly, about to head back inside when—

Footsteps.

Heavy boots, confident steps. You knew them instantly.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Jungkook.

The moment your eyes met, the air shifted. The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too quiet. Too full.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he was making sure you were real. His uniform jacket hung open now, and his hair was slightly tousled from pulling off his mic.

And then—he smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the one from the livestream.

This one was just for you.

“You ran away,” he said softly, voice rough from laughter and emotion.

You smiled back, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Maybe.”

He took a few steps closer, then stopped—checking the hallway quickly, like old habits kicking in. Still cautious, still hiding.

But when he was sure no one was around, he reached for you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the last step between you and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as he held you tight—so tight like he was afraid to let go.

God, he felt solid. Warm. Real. Like every second of waiting had finally led here.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered against his shirt, your voice barely holding steady.

His hand slid up your back, resting gently at the nape of your neck. “I thought about you every damn day,” he said, low and rough. “Every day, Y/N.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes searched yours, and you knew—he wanted to kiss you.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not here.

So instead, he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m home now,” he breathed. “We made it.”

You nodded, tears pricking behind your eyes. “Yeah. We did.”

And in that quiet, stolen moment—hidden between the walls of the company that wouldn’t approve of any of this—you finally breathed again.

Together.

The livestream had ended with cheers and laughter. Staff clapped, cameras powered down, and the room buzzed with post-shoot energy.

Jungkook and Jimin were surrounded by staff, all offering congratulations, handshakes, pats on the back. They took it all with grace, but their eyes were tired—especially Jungkook’s.

You stood off to the side again, pretending to review the footage on a monitor while your heart pulled in two different directions.

He was right there.

But you couldn’t go with him.

“Let’s go eat!” Taehyung called suddenly, grinning and throwing an arm around Jimin. “Gopchang and soju, my treat!”

“Ya, your treat?” Seokjin scoffed. “We’ll be waiting until next payday.”

Jimin laughed, tossing his cap onto a table. “I’m in. I want fried chicken and kimchi stew.”

Namjoon turned to Jungkook. “You coming?”

Jungkook looked up, glancing instinctively in your direction.

He didn’t say anything out loud. He didn’t have to.

The way his eyes softened, the tiniest flicker of disappointment flashing behind his expression—it was enough.

You gave him a small smile, one you hoped said I’m okay. Don’t worry.

Then you turned to the others, keeping your voice light.

“I’ll stay behind and help with cleanup. You guys go ahead.”

Jungkook opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to ask you to come anyway. But he didn’t.

He just nodded slowly and picked up his jacket.

That moment burned a little. You wanted to go. God, you wanted to sit beside him at the table, hear him laugh, feel his knee brush yours under the table like before. But that wasn’t your place. Not publicly.

Then—

“Wait,” Jimin said, suddenly pausing at the doorway. He turned to Jungkook, then to you, then back to the group. “You all go. Jungkook and I will meet you later.”

Taehyung blinked. “Huh? Why?”

Jimin just shrugged with a sly little smile. “I forgot my bag. And I need to stop by Y/N’s place to grab some stuff.”

He looked at you. “You’re going home, right?”

You caught the look in his eyes. The message behind the casual tone.

He was giving you a way out. A cover.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m heading back now.”

“Perfect,” Jimin said, already nudging Jungkook. “We’ll meet at her place first. I’ll bring chicken. And beer.”

There was a moment of pause before Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “You two are suspicious.”

“We’re tired,” Jimin said dramatically, already ushering Jungkook away. “Let us rest first. Then we party.”

Namjoon laughed. “Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. And don’t fall asleep!”

As the others disappeared down the hallway, you and Jungkook fell into step behind Jimin.

Your fingers brushed for just a second.

And for the first time in forever, you didn’t have to pull away

Jimin was true to his word.

He showed up at your apartment 30 minutes later, arms full of takeout bags and a six-pack of cold beer. Jungkook trailed behind him, freshly showered, in a hoodie and sweats—but he may as well have walked in wearing a crown for how your heart reacted.

The apartment filled with warmth and laughter. You ate on the floor around your coffee table, beer cans opening one by one as Jimin told story after story from their time in the military.

Jungkook didn’t say much—he was too busy watching you. Every glance. Every smile. Every time you laughed a little too loud at Jimin’s jokes, his eyes flicked over to you like he was memorizing it.

And you felt it too.

That magnetic pull between you. The silent countdown behind every look. The we’re not alone yet tension curling in your stomach.

Jimin leaned back eventually, yawning loudly. “Alright,” he groaned, stretching. “My social battery’s gone. I’m heading out before I pass out on your floor.”

“You sure?” you asked, even though your heart was racing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Jimin said with a knowing look. “You two probably need some… catching up time.”

Jungkook threw a pillow at him, laughing. “Hyung!”

Jimin dodged it, grinning as he grabbed his jacket. “Just lock the door behind me. And don’t be loud.” He winked. “Your neighbors probably like their sleep.”

You flushed. Jungkook groaned.

And then the door clicked shut.

Silence.

Just you and him.

The second the lock slid into place, you turned—and Jungkook was already there, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of distance crashing into one kiss that felt like breathing again after being underwater too long.

He groaned against your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, warm and searching. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he pressed you back until your spine hit the wall.

“I thought I’d go insane without you,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“You did,” you whispered back, tugging his hoodie off, breathless. “We both did.”

His mouth was on yours again in a second, hungrier now, like he couldn’t get enough. And you didn’t care. Not about the job. Not about the rules. Not about tomorrow.

Just this.

Just him.

Home.

The moment your back hit the wall, it was like a dam broke.

All those months apart — every aching night, every word unsaid, every kiss only imagined — crashed down in the space between heartbeats. Jungkook kissed you like he was starved, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first because he wanted all of you at once.

His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, the slope of your neck. You pulled him closer, needing him closer, clinging to him like the last thread of something sacred.

“Bedroom,” you breathed between kisses.

He nodded once, jaw clenched, eyes dark with need.

You barely made it.

Clothes disappeared in a rush — hoodie over his head, your shirt peeled off, jeans undone with fumbling hands and impatient mouths. He paused only once, looking down at you like he was seeing you for the first time again.

“God,” he whispered, fingers brushing over your bare skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. “You’re real. You’re here.”

You nodded, heart pounding so loud you could feel it in your throat. “I waited for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I’ll make up for it.”

And he did.

Jungkook took his time — worshipped every inch of you like a man trying to memorize a dream. His mouth left a trail of fire down your neck, your chest, the dip of your waist. He moved like he knew your body — where to touch, where to kiss, how to pull that soft gasp from your lips that drove him crazy.

His skin was warm against yours, hard muscle meeting soft curves, and every second was filled with whispered confessions between tangled sheets:

“I missed this.”

“I missed you.”

“You’re mine.”

“You always have been.”

And when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t just physical — it was everything. A reunion. A release. A promise.

Your bodies moved in sync, slow at first, deep, unhurried. Like time had stopped just for you two. Like the whole world had faded except this one room, this one night, this one love.

“Say my name,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and ragged.

“Jungkook,” you moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growled, moving faster now, lips capturing yours again. “I’m not letting you go again. Not now. Not ever.”

And when you both finally shattered — together, breathless and trembling, your bodies slick with sweat and love and months of longing — he held you.

Tight. Close. Like he still didn’t fully believe it was real.

And in that silence after, the only sound was his heartbeat beneath your ear, fast and steady.

“Mine,” he whispered again, kissing your temple. “All mine.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to

You woke to warmth.

Not just the kind that came from sunlight pouring through the thin curtains — but the kind that came from him. Skin against skin, tangled limbs beneath your blanket, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck.

Jungkook.

His arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, his leg hooked lazily over yours. You could feel the slight rise and fall of his body, his heart beating softly behind you.

For a moment, you just lay there. Eyes closed, lips parted in a sleepy smile, memorizing the feeling of his body against yours again. It was quiet. Still. Like the world had pressed pause.

And then you felt him shift — just slightly — and his lips brushed the top of your shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, voice low and raspy from sleep.

“Mmm,” you hummed, turning your face toward him. “Barely.”

He smiled into your skin, nosing gently against your neck. “Good. I didn’t want to wake up alone.”

You rolled over slowly to face him. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His face was soft, eyes still heavy with sleep. And god, he looked so good like this — vulnerable, real, yours.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you said softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

You laughed a little, pulling the blanket higher. “Probably because you’re not being yelled at by a sergeant anymore.”

“True,” he said, grinning. “Also helps that I’ve got the best pillow now.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

The words hit you straight in the chest.

And then he leaned in and kissed you — slow, sleepy, warm — the kind of kiss that tasted like comfort and home and everything you’d missed. His fingers brushed along your thigh, but there was no urgency now, no rush.

Just closeness.

You pulled back, barely, your noses still touching. “Do we have to get up?”

“Eventually,” he said. “But not yet.”

You nestled back into his chest, eyes fluttering shut again. “Okay. Just a few more minutes.”

He tightened his arms around you, voice barely audible as he kissed your hair. “Take all the time you want, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

So our babys are nearly 7 again, it´s unreal how fast the time had passed.

#kpop #au #bts #jk #jungkook #ff #jeon jungkook #jungkook ff #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #smut #jk smut

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pitlanepeach · 20 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language.

Notes — Sorry it's a little late, this one took a lot out of me!

2024 (Canada — Austria)

The windows were open. Late spring sun poured through them, catching in the curls of steam rising from mugs and saucepans and the folds of linen napkins no one quite knew how to fold properly. There were shoes by the door in mismatched sizes and accents bouncing down the hallway — American, British, Dutch, Australian. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did.

Amelia stood barefoot in the kitchen, pressing her hand lightly to her lower back, more out of habit than pain. She had a glass of sparkling water in one hand, the other resting protectively over the curve of her hip. People moved around her. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t the centre of attention — not exactly — but there was an orbit to it all, and she knew she was at its core.

The first to arrive were Zak and Tracey. Her dad had tears in his eyes before he’d even crossed the threshold. “He actually did it,” he said, in disbelief, running a hand along the bannister of the stairs like it might disappear. “You imagined it and he made it real.”

“I had idea,” Amelia said, quietly. “It was a complete surprise.”

“Sweetheart, you let someone love you like this.” He stressed, and then he hugged her like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

Tracey had brought a lemon cake and a box of herbal tea labeled third trimester blend. She gave Amelia a soft hug, the kind she didn’t have to brace herself for. Never from her mom.

Then came Cisca and Adam, each carrying a desert and homemade jam in glass jars.

Max and Pietra came in like a whirlwind of perfume and sunglasses and unfiltered affection. Pietra immediately disappeared into the kitchen to investigate the spice cabinet. Max made himself useful by lighting candles and being genuinely startled when Amelia offered him a hug.

Oscar and Max (Verstappen) arrived together. Oscar nearly cried when he saw the nursery, but would deny it for the rest of his life.

Max said nothing when he hugged her, just held her for a long moment and murmured, “This all suits you,” into her hair. “It is you, zusje.”

They ate dinner outside, under fairy lights Lando had strung up earlier that day with his sisters’ help. The table was full — food, laughter, crumbs, second helpings, stories from the paddock, from childhood, from nowhere in particular. Amelia sat with one foot up on a chair, tracing idle circles on her belly, watching it all. Filtering the noise. Finding the patterns in the chaos. Letting it settle.

At some point, Zak handed her a folded piece of paper — a printout of an old email she’d sent him when she was 16. The subject line read: Please don’t laugh, but I have some ideas for next season’s floor design.

He’d printed it out years ago, tucked it into his desk. She hadn’t known.

“You were brilliant then,” he said. “You’re going to be brilliant now.”

Lando caught her eye across the table. There was nothing showy in his smile, nothing loud in the way he reached across and brushed a crumb from her plate. But the steadiness of him — the fact of him — anchored her.

Later, when the sky turned navy and the stars began their slow scatter, Amelia stood in the doorway of her new home and just... looked.

Everyone was here. And if something in her brain still itched at the edges — still tried to catalogue, analyse, brace — she let it.

She was allowed to hold joy and anxiety in the same palm.

She was allowed to be the centre without needing to perform for it.

This was hers.

And she was home.

—

The kitchen smelled like toasted pine nuts, the air just slightly too warm from the oven being on all afternoon. A playlist hummed from the speaker tucked behind the kettle — mostly soft indie, one or two Fleetwood Mac tracks, something Lando had thrown together for their first full day alone in the new house.

Amelia stood at the counter, barefoot again, chopping basil with surgical precision. She was wearing a Quadrant t-shirt— oversized, worn thin at the elbows — and a pair of bike shorts stretched snug over her bump. Her hair was scraped up, clipped haphazardly. She looked like peace in motion.

Lando wandered in from the hallway, his socks mismatched, holding a laundry basket under one arm.

“There are so many tiny socks in there,” he said, like it was a crime against nature. “Like, how many pairs of socks will one baby need?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Enough to account for holes, spit-up, and mysterious disappearance. Standard equation.”

He dropped the basket on the dining bench and leaned over her shoulder, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Dinner smells like it might change my life.”

“That’s because you haven’t had proper pesto since last summer.”

“No offence to store-bought,” he murmured against her skin, “but I trust your pesto with my entire soul.”

She elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Back off, Norris. I’m wielding a blade.”

He laughed and stepped back, wandering over to fiddle with the cutlery drawer. A few moments passed in quiet sync — her plating the pasta, him setting out plates and hunting down the fancy olive oil she liked. They didn’t need to talk. The space between them was soft, settled.

When they finally sat down — legs tucked, chairs pulled close — Lando kept glancing across the table like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“This place doesn’t feel like real life yet,” he admitted after a beat, twirling his fork through pasta and not lifting his eyes. “Feels like we’re on holiday. Like I’m gonna wake up in a hotel bed.”

Amelia paused mid-bite. “Do you want it to feel more real?”

“No, I mean—” He exhaled. “I just can’t believe we get this. A quiet night. Good food. No planes or media or engine data or... pit lane nerves.”

She reached out, slow and sure, and tapped his wrist. “We made this real.”

Lando looked at her. Just looked. Like he’d never stop being awed by the fact of her.

“I’m gonna build you a fire pit next,” he said eventually, nudging her ankle under the table. “So you can roast marshmallows and give terrifying lectures about drag coefficients under the stars.”

After dinner, they curled up on the couch, plates abandoned in the sink. Her feet in his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles along the arch of one. The house whistled softly in the evening wind, the kind of noise Amelia didn’t mind — predictable, harmless.

She tilted her head against the cushion. “Do you think she’ll like it here?”

Lando didn’t ask who. Just nodded, quiet and certain. “I think she’ll love it. She’ll take her first steps in that hallway. Learn what thunderstorms sound like from that window. Grow up knowing that this house — this family — was built for her.”

Amelia blinked once, slowly.

“You’re a bit of a poet when you want to be.”

“Think I’m a cliche.” He whispered. “I’m a bit in love with my wife, so it’s easy.”

She didn’t reply — just curled her toes a little tighter into his thigh, and let the rhythm of the house settle around them like it had always been meant to.

—

The fire had burned down to a soft flicker, casting low amber light across the living room. The windows were open just enough to let the night air in — warm and still scented faintly with rosemary from the garden Lando insisted on planting for her. The world was quiet. It had been a long time since they’d had quiet like this.

Amelia stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the curve of her belly, the other tugging at the hem of Lando’s hoodie — hers now, really, judging by how often she stole it. She wasn’t trying to be coy, but there was something in her eyes tonight, something thoughtful and electric. Lando could read her like telemetry; he knew that look.

He approached slowly, cautious in the way he always was around her these days — respectful of her space, of her body, of the changes she was still learning to live in.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low.

“I’m fine.” Her mouth twitched. “Just... trying to decide if I want you to touch me or if I want a bowl of cereal.”

Lando laughed, relieved by her bluntness — always blunt, always honest — and closed the distance. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Is there a world in which you could have both?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Possibly.”

His hands found her waist, careful, familiar. He leaned down, mouth brushing her jaw. “Tell me what you need.”

She didn’t answer right away — just turned into him, pressed her face to his neck, and breathed him in. There were always moments like this: Amelia finding stillness through closeness, tuning her sensory overwhelm down through warmth, weight, pressure.

“I want to feel good in my skin again,” she murmured. “I want to feel like I still belong in it.”

“You do.” He kissed her cheek, then her collarbone. “You’re beautiful, Amelia. You always are.”

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Okay,” she whispered. “Then can you show me. Please?”

They moved together carefully — deliberately — like a familiar dance they'd had to relearn around her growing body, her new thresholds, the shifting ways her mind and skin processed the world. Every kiss was a question. Every breath an answer.

He worshipped her slowly, reverently. Made her feel anchored, wanted, known. And she let herself sink into it — not because she needed to, but because she could. With him.

And later, tangled together beneath the quilt, sweat-damp and flushed and full of quiet, she let her fingers drift over the slope of his spine.

“You always know what I need before I do,” she said.

He turned his head toward her, lips ghosting a smile against her shoulder. “I’m just reading the data.”

“You’re an idiot.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

She didn’t say anything else — just pulled his hand over her belly and held it there, steady and warm, letting that be answer enough.

—

The nursery smelled faintly of new wood and lavender — not from anything artificial, but from the actual drawers and the little sachets Tracey had tucked into corners like some secret maternal ritual.

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-packed duffel bag beside her, and a checklist on her iPad open in front of her. Her fingers hovered in the air before she tapped something with purpose. “Two nursing bras,” she muttered. “Non-wired. Black. Seamless.”

Tracey stood by the open wardrobe, holding up one in each hand. “You want the ones with the clip or the ones with the crossover front?”

Amelia squinted. “Clip. They look less fiddly.”

Lando leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the two of them like he’d stumbled into a language he didn’t fully speak but didn’t dare interrupt. He smiled, but quietly — this felt like their rhythm, like something beyond him. Still, he was trying. Learning. Being present.

Amelia glanced up. “Stop hovering.”

“I wasn’t hovering,” he said.

“You are.”

Tracey grinned. “She’s not wrong, sweetheart.”

Lando made a mock-wounded face, but crossed the room anyway and knelt beside Amelia. “Fine. What can I help with?”

She passed him her iPad without even looking. “Snacks. My stuff’s colour-coded in blue. Yours is orange. You’re allowed two unlisted items.”

He blinked. “Unlisted?”

“Anything not on the list that won’t get you killed when I’m in labour.”

Tracey snorted. “That’s generous, honey.”

Lando started reading, muttering under his breath, and went to raid the kitchen. Amelia returned to methodically rolling baby vests into neat, space-efficient bundles, the movements almost soothing.

“I keep thinking I’m forgetting something,” she said quietly, eyes focused but voice trailing slightly.

“You’re not,” Tracey said gently, coming to kneel beside her, folding a muslin square into a perfect triangle. “And if you are, well, we’ll survive. You’ll survive.”

“I know. But—”

Tracey reached out and rested a hand over Amelia’s. “It’s okay to not feel completely prepared for this. I don’t think anyone ever is.”

Amelia blinked a few times and nodded, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. “I just… prefer when I can say that I’ve prepared for every scenario.”

“You’ve always been like that,” Tracey said with a fond smile. “You were five when you made a backup birthday plan in case it rained.”

“It did rain,” Amelia mumbled.

“And your plan worked.” Her mum kissed the side of her head. “This will too.”

A moment passed. Amelia exhaled through her nose.

“Are you scared?” She asked, very softly.

Tracey didn’t lie. “A little. But only because you’re my little girl, and very soon you’ll understand that.” She leaned down and kissed her temple. “But you’re strong. You’ve got your Lando. You’ve got us.”

Amelia closed her eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

From the hallway, Lando called, “What flavour crisps are birth-appropriate?”

Amelia looked up and frowned, “Anything that doesn’t stink!”

Tracey chuckled and stood. “I’ll supervise.”

When she was alone for a minute, Amelia looked down at the baby socks in her lap. One pair had tiny embroidered stars on the soles. She pressed them to her cheek for a moment. Then folded them and placed them in the bag.

—

The bedroom was mostly dark, except for the low amber glow of the reading light on Amelia’s side and the faint spill of Lando’s phone screen casting long shadows across his chest.

They were curled into the kind of easy, practiced quiet that only came from years of orbiting each other. Her head rested on a stack of pillows, book angled just so above the curve of her belly. He was on his back, phone in hand, occasionally scrolling, occasionally glancing sideways to watch her face shift with whatever she was reading.

“Is this one good?” He asked eventually, thumb pausing mid-scroll.

Amelia didn’t look up. “It’s fine. The female lead has no spine and the pacing is off. But the visuals are nice. Well-written”

“High praise,” he said dryly.

She turned a page with a slight rustle. “I like the writing. Even when the plot is stupid, the sentences are nice. That counts.” A pause stretched. He let it breathe. Then she spoke again, softer this time, eyes still on the page. “How are we going to split it?”

Lando turned his head. “Split what?”

“The houses.”

“Oh.” He put his phone down on his chest, screen dimming. “I thought you meant something deeper, like splitting parenting responsibilities or—”

“We’ve already talked about all that,” she said. “But I was lying here thinking — Monaco still feels like home to me. But I love this new house too. I just… don’t want to feel like I have to pick one. Or like I’m abandoning one part of our life for another.”

He blinked at her, and then propped himself up slightly on one elbow. “You don’t have to pick. That’s why we have both.”

“But where do we raise her?” Amelia asked. “Where does she go to school? Where’s her bedroom actually going to be? Is it weird if I feel like Monaco is still mine?”

Lando’s voice was quiet, warm. “Not weird.”

She glanced at him with a raised brow.

“We’ve spent years living in Monaco, baby. It’s your home, your friends, your pavement routes.”

She was silent. In a thoughtful kind of way.

He reached for her hand under the covers, lacing their fingers together.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Maybe having two bedrooms will be her normal. Maybe she’ll be able to plant roots all over the world while she travels with her brainiac mummy and super-fast daddy.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched.

“We’ll just do what feels right,” he added. “Even if it changes.”

After a beat, she tilted her book closed and set it on the nightstand. She turned to face him, her expression unreadable but open. “I love that you always say ‘we’,” she said.

He kissed the back of her hand. “We’re a team. Always.”

She nudged closer, resting her forehead against his. “I want her to always know that she can come back home. Any time, any age, no matter what.”

“She won’t go running to any specific house. It won’t be here or Monaco.” He murmured. “She’ll go running to wherever her mummy is. And that’ll be the place she calls home.”

She kissed him.

—

The shower had fogged up most of the mirrors by now. Steam curled around the tiles like low-hanging cloud, the water beating a steady, rhythmic tap against Amelia’s skin. She stood still for a long time beneath it, arms curled around her bump. Her hands rested low, fingertips tracing invisible shapes without realising it.

Her belly had changed shape again — harder up top now, more lifted. Lando had said it was a growth spurt. She wasn’t sure. It just felt… denser. Like her body was becoming its own kind of mechanical structure, adjusting its load-bearing capacity by the day.

“You’re getting heavy,” she murmured, not critically. Just a fact.

The baby shifted — not a kick, just a slow roll, like turning to listen.

Amelia gave a quiet snort of amusement and shifted too, stepping under the water again. She tilted her head up, then sideways, letting it cascade over her ears, dulling the world into a warm hush.

“You know,” she said, conversational, “there’s a theory that racing cars create downforce the way bird wings create lift. Just inverted. Bernoulli’s principle. I bet you’ll like Bernoulli when you’re older.”

She gently ran her fingers over her bump again, then raised a hand and lazily wiped a small circle of condensation from the glass shower door.

Beyond it, a shape caught her eye — the edge of the towel rail, with a soft, pastel towel draped over it. One of the ones her mother had folded into the hospital bag earlier that week. It had a little pattern of cartoon hearts embroidered near the corner.

Amelia blinked. Her mouth twitched.

“Right,” she said. “Lesson two.”

She placed one hand flat over her belly and shifted to sit on the little bench built into the far wall of the shower — a compromise between comfort and function she’d had added to their Monaco apartment a few months into pregnancy, when standing for too long had started to give her dizzy spells. Lando had taken the design and had it installed into every bedroom in the England house.

Her voice was steady, like she was reading from a manual.

“So. Your lungs are under your ribs, but my ribs are kind of squished right now, because of you. My bladder is, too. That’s the thing making me pee a thousand times a day. I’m not mad about it,” she added quickly. “I understand that you need the growing room. It’s just… a bit inconvenient for your mother, is all.”

Another movement beneath her palm — not a kick, but a firm stretch. She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “That’s your legs, isn’t it? Yeah. Strong femurs, like your dad.”

A pause. She traced a gentle line down the centre of her bump with two fingers, as if sketching an invisible diagram.

“And you’re sitting head-down, which is good. It means your occiput — that’s the back of your skull — is facing the right way for birth. But if you want to wriggle around a bit more, that’s fine too. Just don’t do anything drastic, okay?”

She reached for the bottle of body wash, then hesitated, watching the water spiral around the drain.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “I think about what it’ll be like when you can hear me properly. Not just vibrations, not just tone. But words. Sentences. I wonder if you’ll like the way I explain things. If it’ll make sense to you, or just sound like static.”

Her voice cracked slightly there, though she wouldn’t have admitted it.

She rubbed her thumb gently across the highest curve of her belly.

“I hope I don’t overwhelm you. But I probably will. People overwhelm me all the time. I just… try not to run away from it anymore.”

The baby kicked again, sharp and deliberate.

“I know, I know,” she said under her breath. “I sound like I’m spiralling.”

She exhaled slowly, then pressed her forehead against the tile behind her.

“I get a bit scared, sometimes. That you’ll think I’m strange. That I won’t be soft enough. Or silly enough. Or motherly in the way people expect. But I’ll know everything about you. I promise. Every bone, every birthmark, every favourite food. I’ll learn you like I learned cars. And I’ll never stop wanting to know more.”

She didn’t cry, not quite. But she stayed there for a while longer, curled slightly forward, listening to her heartbeat echo faintly beneath the rush of water. She pressed a slow kiss to her fingers, then to the stomach, eyes closed.

Outside the shower, the world stayed quiet. But she knew Lando was out there. Probably pretending to be asleep. Probably listening.

She smiled faintly. And let herself just be for a moment — wet hair clinging to her cheeks, knees drawn up, hands resting where her daughter lived.

—

The house felt too big, at first.

It was beautiful, of course — everything Lando had hoped it would be, and everything Amelia had dreamed aloud about in bits and pieces over the last two years. Clean lines. Warm wood. Natural light in every room. The scent of fresh paint still hung faintly in the air, mixing with lavender from the natural diffuser Lando had plugged in before she walked through the door.

But it wasn’t home yet. Not immediately.

The first morning, they made toast in silence. Not unhappily — just quietly. The coffee machine clicked and hummed while sunlight crept across the kitchen floor, and Amelia stood barefoot in one of Lando’s old t-shirts, rubbing her belly like it helped her think. Lando, shirtless, squinted at the touch screen oven like it had offended him.

The nursery was the only room that felt fully finished.

They unpacked slowly.

His helmets were lined up carefully along the hallway wall, one of them already smudged with her fingerprints.

The midwife came by mid-week for a check-in, and Amelia sat on the edge of their bed, answering questions about sleep, diet, swelling. Lando hovered, nervously watching the blood pressure monitor like it was a qualifying leaderboard.

“You don’t have to stand over me like I’m going to flatline,” Amelia told him.

“Don’t bloody say that.” He said. And kept standing there.

She didn’t tell him that it made her feel safe.

Evenings blurred together — sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on the porch. They sat side by side with plates of toasties or takeaway pizza, watching the sun sink behind the fields near the back fence.

Their families came and went day by day.

Oscar didn’t say much when visited. He just showed up with strawberry milk and watched her doze off on the sofa with the straw in her mouth.

Lando had started packing for Canada by the following Wednesday. Amelia helped fold his socks, even though he was terrible at finding matching pairs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he said that night, curled around her in the dark.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He kissed the back of her neck and didn’t argue.

By the seventh day, the house had started to shift — not just in layout, but in feel. The air carried the scent of their shampoo. Her cup lived by the sink. His shoes were by the door. There were fingerprints on the fridge and a faint dent in the couch cushion where she curled up after lunch every day.

—

The morning was blue-grey and overcast, the kind of moody English weather that settled into your skin and made you crave hot tea and your dressing gown. The car was waiting out front, idling gently. Lando’s suitcase sat by the door, zipped, tagged, half-heartedly stuffed with hoodies and McLaren polos. His travel backpack leaned against it like it didn’t want to go either.

Amelia stood in the doorway in socks and one of his old sweaters that had stretched across her belly — not because it fit, but because it smelled like him.

He double-checked his phone, then his passport, then his phone again.

“You’ve checked five times,” she said, voice dry but warm.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve remembered anything,” he mumbled, slipping the phone into his back pocket.

They stood there for a moment — just standing. Not talking. Not moving. Letting the moment sit.

He stepped closer and rested his forehead against hers. Their daughter kicked once, firmly, and he smiled.

“She’s telling me not to leave,” he said quietly.

“She’s dramatic,” Amelia replied. But her voice wobbled slightly. “She gets it from you.”

Lando kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate. His hands cupped her cheeks, slid down her arms, settled on her belly like a prayer. He didn’t say ‘don’t go into labour without me’ — he didn’t need to. The plea was written all over his face.

“You’ll call me if anything happens?” He asked, not pulling away.

“I’ll call you if I so much as sneeze weird,” she promised.

“Good.” He looked at her again, memorising the curve of her sleepy eyes and the flyaways in her hair and the flush in her cheeks that pregnancy had made permanent. “You’re… god, I love you. I love you.”

She nodded. Swallowed thickly. “I know. I love you too. Don’t forget.”

He laughed. “As if I could ever”

“I’ll be watching. Look after Oscar for me.”

He kissed her again. Just once more.

Then he was out of the door. Into the car. A wave through the window.

Amelia stood in the entryway long after the car turned out of their driveway, hand pressed gently to her stomach.

“Alright,” she whispered. “It’s just us for a little while, baby-girl.”

And the house was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

—

It had taken Amelia a full twelve hours after he’d left to stop expecting his footsteps in the hallway. She’d paused once at the sound of the boiler kicking in, heartbeat ticking faster before she remembered: no, that wasn’t the front door. That wasn’t him coming back with a Tesco bag of the weird array of sweets she wanted and a sheepish smile because he missed her already.

Now, barefoot in the kitchen with the late afternoon sun glowing against the pale countertops, Amelia placed her palms on her belly and exhaled.

The kettle clicked off behind her.

“I think we’re doing alright.” She murmured.

She’d made a small list of things to do. Routine helped. The first day, she'd organised the linen cupboard, stocked the baby’s changing station, wiped down the fridge shelves because she’d read a study about bacteria colonies and couldn’t stop thinking about it. The second day she unpacked the last of their books. Found all the annotated ones Lando had scribbled in when he was still trying to read what she read — underlining things like emotional subtext?? in red pen.

Today, she’d taken a long bath, trimmed back the rose bushes, and wandered from room to room with her fingers brushing the walls like they were pages in a story she hadn’t finished reading yet.

In the baby’s room, she opened the blackout curtains and let in the warm afternoon light. The chair by the window, a plush glider in soft earth tones, had already become her favourite place to sit.

She eased into it with a quiet grunt and settled one hand low on her belly.

“I wish you could’ve met him sooner,” she told the baby, voice just above a whisper. “I mean, obviously you’ve met him. He talks to you more than anyone. But I mean the before him. When I didn’t know people could be like that. That kind. That sure. He says he fell in love with how I think. With how I see the world.”

She paused. A small laugh.

“I told him he’s biased.”

Outside, birds wheeled across the sky like brushstrokes. She let her head fall back, gaze on the ceiling. Lando had insisted on putting glow-in-the-dark stars up there, claiming the baby would love them. She’d laughed at first — told him their daughter wouldn’t even be able to see them.

Now, looking at up them, she was suddenly nine again. Her dad was hovering, her mom quietly worried. They’d just moved to England from Florida. She’d broken a three-day period of noa-verbalness in order to ask: “Can we put the stars up, daddy?”

Lando had remembered.

He’d wanted their daughter to have the same comforts she’d relied on for so many years.

“I hope you get his laugh,” she said after a while. “And his sense of direction. And how he always makes space for people.” She reached down and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “I don’t know what kind of mummy I’ll be yet. I know what I want to be. I want to be your safe place. I want you to always feel comfortable to be yourself around me; no matter what that looks like.”

The baby kicked gently under her ribs.

“Yeah, I know. I’m being sentimental.” She smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to that. It doesn’t happen often. That’s more your daddy’s territory.”

Later, she made dinner — toast and spaghetti and Lando’s ridiculously sugary cereal for dessert. She ate curled sideways on the sofa, wrapped in one of his jumpers, reruns of old races playing softly on the TV. His voice came through now and then in the commentary. Every time it did, her chest ached — not painfully. Just… ached.

And when she climbed into their bed that night, she shifted a pillow behind her back, whispered goodnight to her baby girl, and traced the shape of the window frame with her eyes.

—

The baby felt heavier every morning. Not dramatically, not enough to worry, but enough to make Amelia roll slower out of bed, one palm at her back, the other at her bump, muttering soft, affectionate curses under her breath.

Her mom arrived midweek.

Tracey didn’t knock, just let herself in with the key Lando had given to her weeks ago. Amelia had been halfway through folding onesies in the laundry room when she heard the click of the front door and the familiar rustle of an overfilled handbag.

“Mom?”

“Who else would be coming into your house with tea biscuits and fresh flowers?”

They hugged in the hallway. Amelia, unsure at first, then tighter, grateful. Her mom smelled like the same delicately scented perfume she always wore, and that scent unlocked a part of Amelia that had been quietly braced all week.

“You okay, my darling?” Tracey asked softly, after a long hug.

“I think so.”

“You’re safe. He made sure of that.”

“I know.”

Tracey settled into the guest room without fanfare — just a neatly packed suitcase, a crossword book, and a container of pre-cut fruit. She moved through the house like someone careful not to leave fingerprints, never imposing, always within arm’s reach.

That night, they watched FP1 together on the living room couch.

Amelia had one leg tucked up, a bowl of cereal on her bump. Tracey kept asking polite but confused questions about DRS zones and tire graining. Amelia answered them all, engineer-sharp, still watching like she was sitting at the pit wall, but quiet.

At one point, she whispered, “That left-rear temperature is creeping up too quickly.”

Tracey blinked. “...For the orange one?”

Amelia smiled faintly. “Yes. Oscar’s car.”

—

FaceTime with Oscar came later, after FP2.

He was stretched across his hotel bed, hair messy, still in team gear. “You seeing these sector times?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. You're getting too aggressive with the throttle mid-chicane.”

Oscar groaned. “You’re not even here and you’re still doing this.”

“You asked.”

He paused. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Tired. Heavy. But good.”

Oscar’s eyes softened. “You look alright.”

“I’m in my pyjamas and haven’t brushed my hair since this morning.”

“I said alright. Not good.”

They grinned at each other through the screen. It felt weird, and warm, to miss him. Her best friend. Her driver.

—

Lando called a lot.

Between sessions. Before them. After them

Amelia was in the bath, water warm and eucalyptus-scented. When she answered, her hair was pinned up and her bump floated like a tiny island beneath the bubbles.

“You looked good in the car today,” she murmured.

“Didn’t feel good. Too much understeer in sector two.”

“Maybe try lifting off earlier before the left apex?”

“I miss you.”

Her throat closed a little. “I miss you too.”

Silence stretched.

Then Lando laughed, soft and boyish. “Your mum texted me a picture of you and her in matching slippers. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“She got them at Boots,” Amelia said.

“They’re cute.”

“Itchy.” Amelia said. She scrunched up her nose.

Another pause.

“What are you doing after the race?” She asked.

“Coming home.”

“That soon?” She frowned.

“I’ve been waiting to come home since I got off the plane,” he said simply.

—

Tracey made lunch. Amelia couldn’t stop pacing. The house’s open plan meant she could still see the TV while she marched from room to room, one hand on her belly, breath catching at every near-miss and overtake.

She watched Lando’s start with bated breath. Listened to Oscar’s radio. Judged strategy calls and muttered pit stop criticisms like a general in her castle.

Tracey passed her a cup of peppermint tea. “Sit down, love.”

“I can’t,” Amelia whispered. “I don’t know how to watch without being part of it.”

When it ended, Lando on the second step of the podium after a nail-biting fight at the front with Max, Oscar in seventh, she finally exhaled.

Her phone buzzed ten minutes later.

Lando: How did I do?

She typed back, Amazing. Come home to me.

—

That night, before bed, she walked the halls alone.

She touched the hallway wall where Lando had measured the doorframe — swearing that someday their daughter’s height would be marked beside it. She lingered in the nursery, rearranging the stuffed animals for no good reason. She lay down in bed and turned off the lamp, then whispered, “You’re going to love it here, sweet little pea.” She gave a quiet little giggle. “I already do.”

And in the hush of night, the baby gave the softest kick beneath her palm. Not a flutter — a push. Solid. Present.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “I know. I miss him too.”

—

It was just past midnight when the front door clicked open.

Amelia, curled up sideways on the sofa in one of Lando’s old hoodies, blinked herself awake. The living room was dark, save for the soft golden glow from the kitchen under-lights and the flicker of the paused race replay on the TV screen. Her tea had gone cold on the side table. The baby had hiccupped for almost twenty minutes straight and then fallen quiet — just as Amelia had dozed off, waiting.

Keys dropped into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Then soft footsteps. Two pairs.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, just as Lando appeared in the doorway, duffle in hand, eyes tired but warm. Behind him, Oscar trailed in with a hoodie pulled low over his head and the kind of look you wore after a race weekend that hadn’t loved you back.

“You’re awake,” Lando said, voice low. He looked like he wanted to melt into the floor with relief.

“Hi,” she murmured, standing slowly, her hand on the small of her back. “Hi.”

He came over, wrapped his arms around her, and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just breathed her in, one hand on her belly, the other cradling the back of her neck. She nuzzled into his chest.

Then he pulled back slightly and turned to Oscar. “You crashing here, mate?”

Oscar nodded silently. His shoulders were tight, jaw set, a bruise visible just beneath the collar of his hoodie — nothing serious, but there. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Amelia stepped toward him and opened one arm in invitation. “Come here, ducky.”

Oscar hesitated only a beat before folding himself into her hug. He didn’t say anything either, but his fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve. She let him rest his chin briefly on her shoulder.

“You were excellent,” she whispered. “There was a lot of change to get used to this weekend. Don’t let it ruin your drive.”

He gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “Didn’t feel excellent.”

“You still brought the car home. And points, too. Some weekends, that’s the win.”

Lando nodded from behind her. “She’s not wrong.”

Oscar looked between them, weary but grateful. “I’ll just take the guest room.”

“You know where everything is,” Amelia said. “My mom’s in the one with the closed door, yeah? So use the one near the back of the house, the one closer to our bedroom. And my mom filled the fridge with snacks in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Oscar cracked a small smile at that and shuffled off with a mumbled goodnight.

When he was gone, Lando turned back to her, dropping his bag by the couch. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Didn’t think he should be alone.”

Amelia shook her head, already tugging him by the fingers toward the bedroom. “I’m glad you brought him.”

They undressed slowly, quietly, moving like people who’d done this dance a hundred times. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed to rub lotion into her stretched belly while Lando ducked into the bathroom. When he came back, he crawled into bed beside her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too.”

The baby shifted gently between them, a little wave under Amelia’s skin. Lando reached down and rested his palm over her belly.

“She knows you’re home,” Amelia said sleepily.

“Hi, baby.” He whispered. “Missed you too.”

—

The kitchen was bathed in slow, buttery light, the morning sun catching on the pale wood and glass, casting long shadows through the big oak tree.

Amelia stood barefoot at the counter, toast in one hand, the other absent-mindedly resting against her belly as the kettle rumbled behind her. The baby had started the morning with enthusiastic kicks — mostly under her ribs — and Amelia had taken it as a sign to get out of bed, let Lando sleep, and start the day.

Oscar shuffled in a few minutes later, hair a mess, eyes puffy, socks mismatched.

“You look terrible,” Amelia said, sliding a mug toward him.

“I know,” Oscar muttered, taking the tea gratefully. “You’re up early.”

“Little sweet-pea was playing trampoline with my bladder at 6am,” she said, nodding down. “And I figured you’d be up soon too. Couldn’t sleep?”

Oscar took a sip, leaned against the counter. “Keep thinking about the restart. Should’ve backed out.”

Amelia sighed. “If you had, you’d be regretting that instead. You made a judgement call. It was bold. Just didn’t pay off this time.”

“I missed you in my ear,” he said. “Can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if you were.”

“Osc.” She said. “That’s not fair. Don’t say that. You know how badly I want to be there.”

He winced. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just— hard.”

She gave him a wry look. “I know. It’s hard for me, too.”

Oscar smiled faintly. “I’ll get used to Tom. And I’ll start to trust him. But it’s hard when it’s not you, you know? It’s always been you.”

“I’ll be on comms next week. In Spain.” She told him gently. “I’ll have more of a say, okay? But you need to get to know them, talk to them, help them learn how you like to drive.”

“I’ll try.” He grumbled. Then he looked around the bright, soft kitchen. The fruit bowl full of bright colours, the flowers by the window, the stack of tiny baby clothes folded near the sink — like Amelia had gotten halfway through organising them before getting distracted. Everything smelled like lavender. “I get why you both love it here,” he said.

Amelia’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

Then Oscar asked, carefully, “You scared?”

She looked at him for a long time before answering. “I wasn’t. Not really. But now it’s getting closer, and I’m alone more often. I think about things I didn’t let myself think about before.” She glanced down at her belly. “But I’m not scared of having her. I think I just don’t want to mess it up.”

Oscar leaned against the counter beside her. “Pretty sure you won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t,” he said again, with surprising certainty. “Do you love her?”

“Yeah.” She whispered.

He nudged her. “That’s it, then.”

A soft shuffle behind them, then Lando’s voice, still raspy with sleep. “Are you two bonding without me?”

Amelia and Oscar turned to see him, barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair a disaster, one eye still half-closed.

“I made him tea,” Amelia said.

Lando pointed at her belly. “Did she let you sleep?”

“She let me have a few hours, which was generous,” Amelia said, standing up straighter with a small groan. “Here—sit. I’ll make you toast.”

Lando came over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then leaned down to whisper something to the baby.

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

—

On the weekend of the Spanish Grand Prix, Amelia had the live feeds up on three monitors — driver data, timing sheets, and the race engineer channel — and her headset was synced to Oscar’s garage. Technically, she wasn’t on the box, but Tom had agreed it would be useful to have her in his ear for insights and soft corrections when needed. The engineers had joked that she was now their “AI Overlord in the Sky.” She hadn’t laughed.

On Friday, she was calm. Focused. Her notes were still sharp. She sent two voice memos to Tom after FP1 — one about Oscar’s brake migration being slightly off, the other about his low-speed understeer looking a little like a differential mapping issue. Both were addressed by FP2.

She’d tried to stay calm through quali. She sat cross-legged on the rug, notebook open in front of her out of habit, TV volume low, tea cooling untouched beside her. Every sector time hit her like a mild electrical pulse. Every camera pan to Lando’s face made her chest tighten.

And then — P1.

Pole position.

Her hands flew to her mouth. A sharp inhale. Her eyes didn’t tear up, not quite, but she blinked hard enough to clear the static of disbelief.

Her phone buzzed in her lap before she could even reach for it.

Lando calling.

She answered on the first ring. “You—” she started, then stopped, because her voice broke halfway through the word.

“Hey, baby,” he said, out of breath, voice shaky with adrenaline and awe. The sound of cheers and static hummed faintly in the background.

“You’re on pole,” she said. Flatly, because anything more emotional would tip her over.

“I—yeah.” His voice cracked on a laugh. “Can you believe it?”

She couldn’t. Not really. But she said, “Of course I can. I told you that you’d be able to do it.”

“You also told me to take Turn 7 a gear lower, and that’s when I started purple-ing the sector.”

“I’m always right,” she said softly.

Lando went quiet for a second. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” she interrupted, already shifting to lie on her side, one hand sliding over her bump. “I wanted to hear yours too.”

“I wish you were here.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re doing everything exactly right. And she kicked,” Amelia added suddenly. “Right when you crossed the line. Like she knew.”

Lando made a quiet, choked noise. “Tell her I love her.”

“She already knows.”

He breathed out. “Tomorrow—”

“You can win.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I love you, Amelia.”

“I love you, Lando. Now go do your cool-down and get weighed before they fine you.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Yes, boss.”

—

Sunday morning was more emotionally complex. The race brought a new kind of restlessness. She stood more than she sat. Paced the hallway during the formation lap. Her hands twitched over her bump every time someone locked up into Turn 1.

The lights went out and Amelia tracked every throttle input and radio check-in with a kind of quiet intensity. She wasn’t barking orders. She wasn’t pacing a pit wall. But her brain still ticked in race rhythm.

She flinched when Lando lost a place on the opening lap, then cheered softly when he clawed it back with one of his signature perfectly-timed exits out of Turn 5. Oscar’s pace stabilised by Lap 15, and she could tell from the data that he’d found his flow. She sent Tom a discreet note about giving him a bit more encouragement.

“Tell him the tire warm-up on the second stint looks good. His brake temps are in a sweet spot — he can push.”

Her mom wandered into the room at one point, holding a mug of tea. “It’s like watching a hacker during a cyber-attack,” Tracey said, amused, watching Amelia’s fingers fly over the trackpad. “But with more swearing.”

“Only mild swearing,” Amelia muttered.

By the end of the race, Lando had secured another podium; P2 just behind Max, and Oscar brought it home in P5 after a clean, clever second stint.

Amelia’s adrenaline was still fizzing as she took off the headset and leaned back in her chair.

“Mom!” She shouted down the corridor. “Can you make me a cheese sandwich?”

—

Amelia sat curled up on the couch, one hand resting gently on her bump, the other clutching a mug. The quiet hum of the house felt louder than usual — a hollow space where Lando’s laughter and footsteps usually filled the air.

She’d just hung up the phone after saying goodbye for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

“No break between Spain and Austria,” Lando had lamented, voice apologetic but determined. “It’s back-to-back weekends. Hotel rooms, planes, track walks — barely time to breathe.”

Amelia nodded into the receiver, but inside she was already bracing herself for the stretch ahead.

The reality settled like a quiet ache: he wouldn’t be here. Not in the space they’d carved out together, not to brush her hair back when she was restless, not to trace little circles over her skin to calm the baby when kicks turned into restless jabs.

Her fingers twitched lightly over the swell of her belly.

She imagined the baby, warm and sheltered, moving in rhythm with the house — a heartbeat alone but steady.

Her breath hitched a little.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so hard. The days apart. The silence that wasn’t really silence because her mind was a thousand miles away, tracking every call, every message, every moment he wasn’t home.

She squeezed her eyes shut and let herself lean into the quiet.

Maybe tomorrow she’d video call Oscar and talk about strategy, or take her mom out somewhere nice for dinner.

Maybe tonight, the baby and she would dance in the dim light, two hearts keeping each other company until Lando came back.

She smiled softly. Long nights ahead, yes.

But also a promise — of a family waiting, waiting, waiting.

—

The Austrian Grand Prix weekend had spiralled into chaos.

Perez pushed Oscar into the gravel on the second corner after Oscar and Charles made contact in the first.

Amelia’s headset was on, Oscar’s comms open on one channel, the race feed on the TV. She watched the flickering screen with cool, blunt irritation, the quiet hum of the house in the background a soft contrast to the noise of engines and tyre squeals.

Lando was out there, her husband, racing wheel-to-wheel against Max Verstappen; her brother in all ways but blood.

And now, they were both throwing everything they had at each other, in a fight that was reckless and reckless felt like a gross understatement.

She pressed a button on her headset, voice low but firm. “Tom. Get Will on Lando’s radio. Tell him to stop trying to take the outside line. He’s fighting Max on Max’s terms and losing control.”

Static. Nothing but broken hiss.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she stared at the dead air in her headset. “Tom, come on.”

Minutes dragged on with nothing but interference.

The race was unraveling fast—a high-stakes, high-speed chess match turned chaotic brawl on asphalt. Amelia’s gaze flicked between the TV screen and her headset, sharp and unblinking. She could see it all clearly—the tight, unforgiving corners, the relentless wheel-to-wheel clashes, Max pushing hard to force Lando wide, and Lando refusing to yield. The cars were inching closer with every lap, dangerously close to disaster.

Her voice stayed steady, cutting through the static like a blade. “Will, Tom, come on. Somebody—just pull him back! This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

She wasn’t shouting, not really. There was no hysteria. Just a cold, hard edge to her frustration—the kind that comes from knowing both men far too well, knowing exactly what was on the line, knowing the risks they were gambling with their careers and their lives.

And then it happened.

A tiny nudge. Barely visible on the screen.

But enough.

Enough to tear punctures in both cars’ tyres and send them spiralling down the timesheets.

Her heart hammered.

Lando was limping into the pits. She saw him climb out of the car, face tight with frustration and pain. Max got a tire change and he was back out there, angry and fast.

Then Oscar stormed across the finish line—second place.

Amelia sat frozen for a moment, breath catching, body tense. The adrenaline surged through her veins, a strange mixture of panic and helplessness.

She reached for her phone with shaky hands and touched Lando’s contact. Once. No answer.

Twice. Still no answer.

A third time. Nothing.

She swallowed hard, chest rising and falling fast.

He was probably pacing somewhere. His phone was probably in a hoodie pocket somewhere he couldn’t hear it.

Oscar’s podium flashed on the screen, but Amelia couldn’t focus.

Then, a sudden warmth crept down her legs.

She blinked slowly, voice flat and dry. “God. I’ve peed myself.”

Her hand moved down instinctively, pressing against her belly.

Confusion flickered across her face as she realised.

“Oh… oh. That’s not—That’s not pee.” She mumbled.

A sharp tightening gripped her abdomen.

Her eyes went wide.

Then she grabbed her phone again; called the only person she knew would never not answer her call. Podium celebration ongoing or not.

“Amelia!” Her dad cheered as he answered, and she could hear the Australian national anthem playing in the background.

“I’m in labour.” She told him flatly. “And Lando’s not answering his phone. So, if you could find my husband and let him know, I’d really appreciate it.”

Then she hung up. Stood. Walked into the guest room and smiled at her mom, hands twisting and pulling and stimming. “Hi.”

Her mom stared at her, wet pants and all, with wide eyes. “Honey—“

“I didn't pee." She told her, a bit indigent. "I think my waters broke.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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itsnesss · 6 days ago

Note

hey stunner

could I pretty please request Ollie with a girlfriend who always makes him packed lunches/meals for training and races and leaves a little sticky note with it every time and the rest of the team get jealous cause the food looks and smells amazing

thank you, have a lovely rest of your day💕💕

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐟 | ollie bearman × fem!reader

summary | you always prepare ollie's lunch and add little notes to it. It's your way of showing affection. he loves it and it makes his friends jealous

warnings | chef!reader, fluff humor, mild embarrassment, public reading of a flirty note, excessive cuteness, food envy

word count | 1.2 k

🖇 more ob87 🖇 f1 masterlist

The sun was just beginning to peek through the window when Ollie came downstairs, still bleary-eyed and his hair a mess. Despite the early hour, the kitchen already smelled delicious.

The sound of the pan led him straight to the scene he loved seeing every morning: you, in pajamas, hair clipped up, gently stirring with a wooden spoon.

"Up this early again?" he mumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his forehead on your shoulder.

"It’s your simulator day, and then the gym, right? I wanted to make sure you ate something decent instead of those bars you swear are ‘super filling.’"

He let out a chuckle, pressing a kiss to your cheek before stepping away to pour himself some water. On the table, a bento box was already half-prepped, with vibrant compartments and fruit cut into star shapes. The little sticky note hadn’t been placed yet, but you had the pen in your hand.

Ollie came closer, curious, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to read them early.

"What are you writing this time? Another ‘don’t forget to smile even if your trainer yells at you’?" he laughed.

"Close," you said with a mischievous grin. "This one says: ‘If you hit your best lap time today, I’ll make brownies tonight. If you don’t… I still will. But act like you don’t know that.’"

He laughed loudly this time, grabbing you by the waist and spinning you around to give you a kiss longer than strictly necessary.

"You’re the best part of my day, you know that?"

"I know. But tell that to your trainer after he sees I gave you rice cake as a snack."

Hours later at the training center, Ollie opened his lunchbox in the team’s common room. The sticky note was still on top. He didn’t have to say anything — the smell of sesame chicken filled the room, and one by one, the other drivers and mechanics looked up.

"Is that… homemade food?" Esteban asked, sniffing the air like a hound.

"Yeah," Ollie said casually, as if it were no big deal. He grabbed his chopsticks and started eating while Kimi peered over curiously.

"Your girlfriend cooks that for you every day?"

"Yes. Sometimes the menu changes. But there’s always dessert. And a note."

There was a moment of silence before someone muttered:

"Do you think she’d adopt all of us?"

And just like that, culinary jealousy spread through the team.

...

The atmosphere at the team base that Friday was relatively calm. Simulator in the morning, technical sessions in the afternoon. Nothing too exciting… except for Ollie.

He had an extra motivation to get through the day: his lunch.

As soon as he got out of the simulator, he walked straight to the hospitality fridge and pulled out his lunchbox, perfectly labeled with his name in a blue sticker. The sticky note was already attached on top:

“Reminder: you're stronger than you think. And yes, I added dumplings this time. Do not share, please!”

He read it with a smile. “As if I’d share,” he thought.

But someone was watching. Someone hungry. Someone named Kimi Antonelli.

"Does that have dumplings?" Kimi asked, leaning his elbows on the table like a hungry puppy.

"No idea what you’re talking about," Ollie replied, discreetly closing the lid.

"Come on, man. Just one. I just wanna see if they taste as good as they smell."

"My girlfriend said not to share. Her exact words."

Kimi rolled his eyes and walked away… but not for long.

While Ollie stepped away to take a call with his engineer, Kimi, like a thief trained by the F1 school of crime, slid over to the table. He lifted the lid with almost reverent care. And there they were: four perfect homemade dumplings nestled on a bed of sticky rice.

"Just one," he whispered, as if that justified the crime.

But just as he reached for one with Ollie’s chopsticks, he heard a voice behind him:

"Touch it and you lose the hand, Antonelli."

Kimi turned with a guilty smile.

"How did you know I was going to do that!?"

"Because you’re as subtle as a brick. Also, you left your fingerprints all over the tupperware last time."

The rest of the team burst out laughing. Esteban came over with a water bottle and added:

"Trying to steal his food again? This is becoming a ritual. Why don’t you just get a girlfriend too?"

Kimi dropped into the seat with a dramatic sigh.

"I don’t want a girlfriend. I want a chef."

"Mine’s both," Ollie said smugly, sitting down and picking up the first dumpling. "And that’s why you’ll just sit there and watch me eat this."

Kimi shot him a look full of culinary resentment while everyone laughed.

From then on, every time Ollie opened his lunch, someone would inevitably keep an eye on him. But Kimi… Kimi never tried again without permission.

(Technically.)

...

Race weekend arrived, and for the first time, you decided to surprise him in person. With help from Esteban, your trusted accomplice, you secretly traveled to the circuit.

The paddock was organized chaos: engineers running from one garage to another, mechanics fine-tuning details, drivers reviewing data. Everything buzzed with the usual pre-qualifying tension.

Except for Ollie Bearman.

Because you were there.

You had traveled in secret to the circuit a logistical madness that included a delayed train, a shared Uber, and a ridiculous number of messages with Esteban to make sure Ollie didn’t see you too soon.

And now, carrying an insulated lunch bag covered in cherry and bear stickers, you walked through the paddock looking for your boyfriend. You wore sunglasses, a cap, and had one mission: hand him his lunch before his technical meeting.

Esteban spotted you first.

"Hey! The star chef’s here!" he called out from afar, making several mechanics turn.

You just smiled, a bit embarrassed.

"Where is he?" you asked.

"Data room. But if you walk in now, you’ll scare the life out of him."

And so you did.

The door opened softly, and Ollie looked up from his tablet. The first thing he saw were your sneakers, he’d recognize them anywhere. Then your legs, your shirt, your cap...

"You?" he asked, stunned. "What are you doing here?"

"Is that your ‘Hi babe, what a lovely surprise’?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He stood up immediately, hugging you in a way that erased everything else.

"Sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting it. I thought you were at home!"

"Wanted to give you this in person." You pulled out the lunchbox, fancier than usual, with a big note on top.

Before he could read it, the data engineer walked in right behind him.

"Ollie, I need you to- oh."

Silence.

He saw the tupperware. He saw the note. And read aloud, instinctively:

"You don’t need luck today. You’ve got talent, hunger, and this mango rice to make you smile. PS: You have the cutest butt in the paddock."

You froze.

So did Ollie.

The engineer blinked once. Twice. And then, with all the dignity he could muster, said:

"I’ll just… leave this here."

When he was gone, Ollie turned to you, eyes wide.

"Why would you write that?!"

"It was meant for you to read! Not for public announcement!"

You both burst into laughter, covering your faces with your hands as you sat down.

"God, now everyone is going to know about the butt thing," he said through his giggles.

"Everyone already knows, Ollie. Now they’ll just have it confirmed."

Later, as he walked out of the garage toward qualifying, several team members sent him off with:

"Good luck, cutest butt in the paddock!"

#🖇️ ollie bearman #oliver bearman x you #oliver bearman x reader #ollie bearman x reader #ollie bearman #oliver bearman #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 x you

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viridescentelf · 10 months ago

Text

Yandere Elf x Reader - Escape

Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru (thank you so much for making him, I owe you my soul)

Part 2

Word Count: 1000

The silky hair bellowed behind the tall, grinning elf, as he skipped back home. Having found wild strawberries and thyme in the forest, Silas was excited to bake a beautiful cake for his little treasure.

Oh, how they love my cakes with my special fondant! I can’t wait to see them!

The elf practically floated back to your shared home, wanting to see your cute little face when he burst through the door. Briskly strutting to the oak tree door, he grasped the handle, infusing it with magic, and opened it quickly.

“My sweet! I’m back! Look what I found in the woods!”, he called gingerly.

No answer. But this was normal.

“Daaaarling!”, he cooed with his hand next to his mouth, placing the basket on the dining table, after closing (and locking) the door behind him. Silas looked around, his tresses floating as if in water behind him. The home looked just like when he left it, with a few furniture items moved slightly. That was no cause for concern, either. His darling usually stacked items in his absence. Why, he did not truly know.

Is this the game you like to play? Conceal and Find, was it?

Silas looked in closets, under the bed, under pillows, under rugs, in big kitchen pots, in every nook and cranny he usually found his sweetheart tucked away when he played your game. Still with a slight smile etched across his face, that flickered briefly, the elf placed his hands on his hips and looked around the living room once again.

“Oh, darling. You’ve got me. Come out now, it’s almost time for dinner!”

Silence, besides the brief rustling of his attire while he traced around the room, checking a few spots he had already looked at. A cold ripple slithered up his spine. He had usually found you by now with his keener senses.

Silas felt the kiss of a breeze on the back of his nape, turning his head to see the high window slightly ajar. Below it was a dining room chair. On the ground, three big boxes of his collection of human toys lay upside down or strangely tilted, a bit dented – like they had fallen down from somewhere.

Squinting his eyes slightly, he identified soft nail markings on the windowsill and foot scrapings on the wall. Even some of that gorgeous hair his beloved had, littered the frame of the narrow window.

His whole being thundered with horror. The, albeit slow, realization that … you had gotten out! Through the high window – a feat the elf had thought was impossible for such a short being.

Silas crashed through the door, whipping his hair back and forth in a frenzy.

“Darling!?!” he squealed. “It’s not safe out here! Come back to Mama!” His eyes darted to the ground, where he quickly discovered some deep footprints, even knee markings, in the wet soil. Thank the trees it had rained the night before. It seemed his precious had fallen from the window down into the soil. Oh no! Were you hurt????

The tears stung his eyes and marked his ethereal, yet panic-stricken visage, as he bolted after the trail you had unwillingly left behind. Pummeling through the trees and thickets, a few branches scraped his wide chest and cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice or care. Loud whimpers escaped him, but these were dedicated to the potential loss of his love.

Silas bolted through the forest, looking erratically in every little corner his wet elven eyes could pear into, continuously squeaking the words “Darling” and “My love” into the distance. As he dashed into a small clearing, he saw the footprints once again, leading to a hollow tree trunk.

Sobbing loudly, he tilted his head, as he bent down, letting his golden locks collect on the grass. A pair of angry eyes met his.

“DARLING!”, he yelped, seeing your small frame crumbled against the wood holding a severely bruised knee. His face was completely soaked, with new tears cascading down relentlessly, in sweet relief that he had found you.

You stared at him weakly, but said nothing. Internally, you were screaming. Why had the window been so goddamn high? And why had it been so freaking tiny? If not for the stinging pain in your legs, you probably would’ve gotten away.

Silas forcefully pulled you out of the husk and squeezed you into his body, your face buried in his scratched up, enormous chest.

“YOU’RE HURT! MY POOR LITTLE ANGEL!”, the tears were dripping onto your head, drenching your scalp. The elf pulled you up to him, hands under your armpits and forced you to stare into his desperately weepy face. He sniffled disgustingly, looking down at the bloody knee: “Here, let me-“

As he tried to bring your wounded leg up to his lips, you recoiled hastily. Silas lost hold of your leg, but still maintained his grip on your back.

“Oh, my love. You must be in so much pain! You must’ve been scared to death out here!”, he croaked and slung his massive arms around them – despite the excessive wriggling. He put his thumb on your chin and yanked you into a deep caress. Feeling your soft lips made his tears dry slightly, as he sighed heavily into your face. No matter how much you tried to wince away, Silas hold was so robust, that no amount of struggle helped.

That damn saliva of his. You felt your body weaken even further, with a tingly sensation trailing through your lower half.

Finally releasing your lips, his eyes glittered as he gently stroked your face, ignoring the death glare.

“Come, let’s go home. I can treat your wounds better there.”

Carrying you in his arms and plastering kisses all over your face, Silas walked briskly towards your home.

“I found strawberries!” His mood was suddenly as chipper as a small child’s in the rain as he pranced through the forest. “I’ll bake you a cake after our bath!”

You let your head hang in defiance, but there was no point of fighting.

“Fine,” you murmured through gritted teeth.

What was it with this stupid elf?

#silas #yandere elf #yandere elf silas #yandere #fanfiction #yandere fanfiction #yandere elf x reader

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grotesquevi · 28 days ago

Text

18+ minors and men do not interact, smut with a lot of plot and tons of fluff, modern au, drunk making-out, strap-on use, mutual and private masturbation (yikes) my girl here is on a yearning journey, friends-to-lovers trope, mentions of drugs and alcohol, bit voyeurism if you blink and try to hide the sun with your finger, descriptions of blood and injuries, might write an epilogue following this pardon my french im weak. wc: 12.5k

side note # this was a three-part series i made for my previous blog vicorices when reaching 800 followers, (the blog's terminated by tumblr out of nowhere if you're confused) — there's an ellie and sevika version too connected with the same site and the same cam!girl user, it's listed bellow but you take a look at the directory if you want to.

‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ now that you’re here? check out ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ z_vika's or spacemoth's file.

violet vanderson's having the worst week of her life when powder's parking the car in front of her new apartment.

first she loses this big fight she's been killing herself for: a black eye, broken rib, humiliated to the point she don't ever want to step foot in the pit club anymore, and then, like it's already not enough, her tiny apartment floods with this nasty water and she's told she's surrounded by mold and not only a broken pipe, so she has to move before her lugs get more fucked than they already are.

misery loves her it seems, and luck was never on her side, clearly. not even when her sister seemed to have this optimistic cloud that followed her and tried to spread everywhere, cause it seems vi only carried the opposite: a dark, thunder cloud that made her grumpy as she thought about how much she loved what it used to be her apartment, the late night beers she tossed to the trash can like a personal contest, the endless mornings with a killer headache.

oh bittersweet nostalgia.

this place's different. falling apart. the chinese food smell leaks through the thick walls since there's a restaurant right next to the building and a huge stain in the ceiling right beneath her bed she don't want to inspect any further, afraid of the outcome as her sister's playful banter fill out the space.

"i think it's a really nice place, you're being dramatic since friday night" powder points out when opening the window, allowing the air to enter a room that seemed hermetically closed for too long — "cheer up cherry cake. a new place is always an awesome chance to re-start, the sunlight's much better here, and you have takeout food literally in the same block."

"easy to say when most of your clothes don't smell like a swamp" at least 70% of her belongings now hold this funny smell of humidity she despises, carrying more cardboard boxes from outside back to her new apartment — “the whole place smells like orange chicken, you know i like orange chicken right? it will make me sick in a week."

"well, i think this place will grow on you in a week" the blue-haired correct her words, "orange chicken or not. it's bigger than your last apartment and i tell you vi- seems better, you need to trust my vision."

the problem here is her powder has the attention span of a sardine, cause when she hears the door closing right next to her big sis place, she's running outside with a bright smile before vi can even try to stop her, quickly jumping across the boxes on the floor to instead, jump out in front of you, making you flinch as you seemed distracted by your phone.

"hiya, new neighbor" it takes you out of your bubble, making you pull out the earbud from your left ear as you accept her expecting hand, energetically shaking yours as she speaks again — "powder here. that's my sister vi. she's moving in today."

"hey," you greet them trying to be kind even when you're not really interested, "welcome to this shit-hole."

funny. pulls out a silent laugh from vi's lips as they curl into a smirk paying more attention to you: does she knows you from somewhere?

"seems like you two are neighbors" as far as powder's trying to see on the bright side, her plans are now failing miserably as you cement her casket calling the complex a shit-hole, and she has to awkwardly stop shaking your hand when realizing she's been doing it for too long "it's really nice to meet you- isn't it vi?"

tell her. fucking tell her it's nice to meet her you grumpy dog.

vi can almost hear her sister's words when nodding, adding some more to her pleasure only so she wont give her some unsolicited pep talk later — "yeah. nice."

it's something, makes her satisfied as your eyes dart around the apartment complex right next to your door, pretty similar to yours. the clean spaces and the boxes piling right over the other before you're taking in the sight of your new neighbor for a quick moment.

"good luck with the mess, vi" you reply, shoving your phone back in the pocket of your jacket as she can hear what you're listening to from the sound leaking out of the earbud "see you two around."

she don’t want to say she may know you out loud, cause she know powder’s going to be feral about it: where exactly did she know you from? she don't have an answer.

before her brain even starts to work, you disappear by pulling the tiny headphone back in your ear, moving your head to the rhythm of the music as you go down the stairs and vi's really thankful about pow-pow's life choices, cause she has the decency to wait for you to disappear before finally saying:

"holy shit, she's cool as fuck, did you see that?"

"yes, i did see that" she replies — maybe too grumpy, maybe too focused on her own anger of having to move out; you're pretty yes, but she has serious stuff to focus on and zero time to flirt, so vi looks at her sister, unfazed. "she's good, can we go back to you helping me organizing now? i need your help."

"boring, there's no need to take the fun out of everything you know?"

and vi might be too busy in that moment, but she has plenty of time to think about you the week after, when she's finally getting rid of the boxes and she's going back to the usual routine she keeps before the chaos, the three-hour sessions in the gym and the fights during the weekend; even when her ego's bruised.

where did she see you before? man, why is it so hard to remember?

the days go on by, and vi finds herself getting interested in you since she can't shake this feeling of knowing you from somewhere, not really catching on where exactly, but there in her stomach as she tries to have an answer to her thoughts: was it the lesbian bar? were you a bartender somewhere she has no memory of? a celebration after winning? she passes out most of the time, it would make much sense she don't fully remember you.

and it’s weird, cause by the days, she grows curious about it. starts like a breeze on a summer morning, slowly and barely there when she encounters you right in the hallway, usually listening your music with a big hoodie on. chaotic hair, you say hi just because she's saying it first, brushing off her existence as you rush somewhere else — every night.

maybe you're a dj? you have this look that goes with it.

frustrates her since she cannot wrap her finger about it, and she don't want to talk it with anyone else either, not powder, not her friends nor any neighbor from the complex even when she could ask on the most subtle way she can, not when they’re already making so many efforts in winning the new inquiline's heart.

7A baked her a bunch of chocolate cookies she's been chewing when she's suffering from muchies fever after smoking, 8B happens to have the biggest record collection in runeterra, 9D has at least three cats, and vi's already getting attached to the orange one that loves to sunbath in her window, so even as she tries to be this loner in the world — vi's sucked, inevitably into a welcoming community that does not waste time in making her feel welcomed.

by the second week she's being officially invited to this grill on her name, one scheduled for friday noon, and she cannot say no, cannot possibly think about rejecting the kindest old lady from 5C who's so lovely to give her a paper with all the information printed as she kisses her cheek with with pink lipstick since vi reminded her of her daughter: happy. people is happy she's living in the same apartment complex.

that's new.

she has no soul to reject it. in fact, makes her feel warm even to the thought of it — did you take part in this too? it says it's organized by the whole community. that includes her nonchalant girl next door.

friday. her curiosity stays on top even when it's monday, when she's fucking rotting in bed, holding her phone in her right hand as she scrolls through twitter publications; a silent like, a bookmark on important information until she comes across this video.

it takes her time to snap out of it, when she's staring at the image and she's blushing to the point she needed to lock her phone and toss it to the floor without caring if it breaks more than it already is.

and it hits her all sudden, no you aren’t a dj. the girl in the video — this, sex tape, getting absolutely railed in the mattress, censored in all the important places, blabbering mess, hair sticky to the face.

it's fucking you.

now, vi's not a big fan of porn.

tries to avoid it as much as possible since it feels distant. weird. fake.

it's not a surprise when she refuses to see the video that popped up even when the image's already plastered in her mind, hanging like a damn poster in the middle of her thoughts vi cannot avoid as much as she tries to do so — she can recognize your face, the hair, the curve of your jaw, your neck and fuck.

feels forbidden. like a fine line she wishes not to cross. it's something personal even if it's public, belongs to you and she's quick to pretend she didn't see anything even when it's all she's thinking about lately.

vi has to wrap her mind about it for a day or two: you make gay porn. she may have seen a video ages ago and that's why she's recognizing you, memories her mind must have block for now since she don't remember any of it, not knowing how she feels about it: does she want to remember?

no. it’s not right. it's downright shameful to remember your face because she saw something even if it was ages ago, makes her blush, so by friday? vi swears to herself she's fucking forgetting it all. no matter how.

so in response she's avoiding you to the point her polite salutations stops to instead, just give you a bare side-eye look whenever she encounters you getting out of your place, switching her workout routine an hour before usual since it seems you get out when she’s arriving home, and it works. works because vi don't think about it, even she wants to use twitter and she's reminded from her brain directly: do not fucking do it.

works until friday at least. friday. damn friday.

she thinks she got it all figured out by then, excited as she goes to the rooftop, freshly showered, ready to pull out this social personality vi lacks off since she wishes to fit in, be welcomed in a new place as nice as she's been greeted by now.

so the pit fighter's talking to everyone by the first hour, presented to so many people vi cannot remember anyone’s name as she drinks from a cold beer and eat hotdogs. even when most of the community are elders, she's happy to offer her help to the old lady from 5C to install her brand new tv, and officially let sunshine, the orange cat, take naps on her window with her owner’s permission.

she's pretty fine until you came into the picture, carrying this strawberry pie she looks at for a moment as you're chatting with the neighbors so tenderly vi cannot help but feel a cruel pang of jealousy in her stomach: jealous of 80-years-old since they seem worthy of this smile she catches on even from where she is seated, this warmth when she can’t even get a single hey, losing the thread of the conversation she's having already.

sundresses are made to kill. it's their only purpose in life as you're chuckling at the other side of the rooftop and vi needs to make a real effort to go back to the conversation she's submersed in before you came to ruin it all, scratching the back of her head while begging to not seem so utterly distracted.

you've always been this beautiful? is it an crush disguised as burden curiosity?

she notices when you're asking for her, leaving the pie in the table before approaching and vi's stiffening in response, in a slutty tank top she kinds of regret now, pretending to be too invested in the conversation before feeling your presence hovering, standing right next to her.

"hi," you say trying to get her attention before smiling to the rest of the group — "vi, right? i live in 3B, we've crossed in the hallways. i talked to your sister before? blue hair and space buns.”

you talk like vi would not remember you, like powder didn't make you stop out of nowhere; as if she would forget about the image of the video pushing back into her brain and she has to kick herself for it: disres-fucking-pectful.

“yes, my sister- powder” and vi tries to be casual as she drinks from the beer bottle, the strong taste being a reminder of keeping her cool alive while it lasted “she was helping me move.”

"yeah, seems really cool" she makes a mental note on saying the compliment back to her sister, and you're good on making her forget about the rest of the people, about the left conversation she gave up midway— "i'm sorry for not being very polite before" you say, and she's furrowing her brows at the words. "been a really shitty neighbor.”

"well not really," vi states, thoughtfully "you always put music too late in the night, but i'm really willing to see past through it if you're saying sorry."

so you give her this smile she got fond of suddenly and it's enough to make her eyes narrow and know, like a vision from the future, you'll mean nothing but trouble, trouble there as you there stand in her view, hair slightly messy from the wind.

"it's on low volume, you cannot possibly hear," you try to defend your case, annoying cause vi already know she’s going to let you win anyway, "i make sure of it."

"i'm just kidding, you don't need to say sorry" you're not a bad neighbor, all jokes aside she didn't expected to be welcomed in such an active community of people, the cold treatment being something she found usual; before them, she barely even talked to their own neighbors herself "you're good. your loud music is fine, i can live with it."

she's such an idiot. so lame around pretty woman.

"are you enjoying the place so far?"

"well, if you don't count the smell, it's very nice."

"i know," you chuckle, and vi’s liking this whole making-you-laugh thing so far, "most of the inquilines here don't really have sense of smell at this point, so it's useless to try and fix it, been there already."

"shit, i know. we must be the youngest people here" — "sides knuckles, clearly."

"he's twelve," you shake your head while looking at the little kid who lives in 9E with an old couple who's daughter died years ago "doesn't count, i know for a fact he loves the smell since he's always hungry."

and for once, vi's glad she's never seen any video. even when blatantly lusting over your face.

she doesn't want to be weird with you. not when you live next door. when you both share a damn wall, when you're funny; not in a way i-will-seduce-you-somehow funny, but in a sense of i-can-be-your-friend, and not a damn pervert.

"they are good people though. you'll learn to forget about the smell and you wont feel it anymore after a while," you try to stay positive as you’re stuck in the same place that she is "it would be worst if we had something like fried chicken and french fries. that sticks to everything. the food’s good anyways, have you tried it already?"

"not really, you've been here for a while?"

"a year or so," you try to recall the exact date — "they threw a party for me too, it's like a tradition. the last inquiline in 3A wasn't really nice as you are."

well shit, that was a smooth compliment, and vi’s stuck on it for a minute or two as her fingers tighten around the glass bottle she’s holding.

“damn, and i was already feeling special, think you just shattered my heart” there it is again. that laugh that fills out the space for at least three seconds “they gave you hotdogs too? they’re really clever with this, keeping the people in like a cult.”

“we were on a better budget back then an went with burgers,” you reply “don’t take it personal, if it counts, i think the hotdogs taste better.”

so shit. it feels like it would be way easier if you were an absolute bitch and not a kind girl who laughs about every corny joke she's doing, if you didn't look so beautiful as the sun comes down leaving this trace of messy colors behind, clouds submerged in an orange, purple and red color that seems surreal for a moment: did she drink too much beer? impossible.

she doesn't feel dizzy when she's talking to you for the next hours, telling you about the pit fight and her constant failure of boxing career since friday night, oversharing about the broken pipe as you seem invested in hearing what brought her there, pressing your lips in a tight line when mentioning the mold and dying by poisoning.

"you won't die for mold," you reply holding the laugh in "you may have gone a little crazy, some lung issues and such, i'd stick with the orange chicken if i were you."

"well fine, laugh all you want to."

how she's not going to want it? how does violet make herself less interested in getting to know you? by the end of the grill, going down the stairs with you by her side she knows, deep down it's there as a not-so-hidden secret: just like her, you too need a friend, and you're not going to make it easy for her.

violet vanderson knows how to behave.

she can handle a conversation on her own, the way your eyes sometimes linger on her arms as you spend more time back in her place invading her almost every day since the grill, can deal with your comfy looks when no one but her is looking, a new found confidence you share after always knocking her door in a funny pajama pants she laughs at.

vi can even deal with your subtle way of flirting, the same way she don't know if you're actually messing with her or not since it's not a fucking surprise she's developing this huge thing for you, on how her stomach revolves every time she think about the photo she saw on what feels are ages ago.

it has only happen once — twice. but it's not like she's doing it on purpose, like she can help it as her hand goes down her pants and she has to muffle the sound of her own moans with a hand pressing over her parted lips since the walls are thin and she's sure you can listen.

it's a slip anyway, guilt pours over her when she's rubbing on her clit and vi's too deep in her mind, in the constricted face of pleasure you have, your parted lips, full of damn sin. man. fuck hotdozed.

and her fingers itch in need to take her phone and see every fucking video on the page. her irrational part that pulls her on being an asshole overshadowed every single time as she won't even look at her phone in response: she don't want that image of you, that commercial side, no. violet's greedy enough to want the privacy of you, the part you don't let anyone see.

so she allows it to happen for just ten minutes, so wet the arousal coat her underwear, soaked when drool covers her hand and she's fucking herself with the thought of you, your blue sundress, the way you looked and it's enough to make a mess, to curse out loud when she noticed how she didn't put a towel beneath to the point she has to ditch her sheets to the floor, too lazy to change them as she sleeps wrapped in a wool blanket.

friends.

vi's trying hard to be friends. even when she's masturbating in silence fueled by pure imagination, trying to be good as her damn libido seems already over the top, she tries to be this friend you need when you're outside her door with takeout food smelling much better than the pasta she cooked and vi is falling again, cause just like every moment during that week, she's willingly letting you spend some time with her, get closer.

"you don't have to go out tonight?" she asks, sinking in the sofa. after smoking a joint, it seems like the cushions are engulfing her entirely as she shoves more orange chicken from the place she has slowly learned to love; turns out they have special prices for residents and they are good as fuck.

"no" you reply shaking your head "i don't have classes on wednesday."

"classes?" she cannot contain the curiosity when it slips away from her lips, weed made her bolder clearly, but since you've been hanging out with her so much, maybe vi has gained certain privilege in finally asking some questions — "you study overnight?"

"yeah, doing a physics major" you admit, reaching the shrimpy rice box you so happily eat from, like that didn't satisfied part of the hungry monster inhabiting vi's body, thirsty for any kind of information she can get.

"so you're like a huge nerd" the fighter teases, and it's annoying cause it only makes her brain completely stop for a moment like a warning she don't listen to, always too deep in her own needs "that's why you whined about watching twisters the other day?"

"please the movie is plain shit, you just wanted to see the actress."

"pretty sure that's the whole point, the movie being bad. passable bad."

behave. for the first month violet behaves — powder was right even when she don't want to admit it out loud: the place did grew out on her, the mornings when sunshine was meowing outside her apartment, scratching the lower part of the front door until she has to open, enjoying a cup of coffee while rubbing on the cat's belly; the people, the cat, her girl next door.

you spend your free nights with her without a previous need of invitation, invite her to cool places she's never been before and it's hard to not be wishing to become one with you, make you part of her skin and carry you with her. vi becomes aware now of the details and it's dangerous; knowing your favorite color, your favorite dish and the music you like when you shared your playlist and allowed her permission to add music she thought you'd like; dangerous cause she wants to keep getting closer even when knowing you have your guard up in letting people too close.

it's becoming a routine lately, like a strange and comfortable company you two keep on each other while being friends, without any pressure or need to fit in. you're too close and it's easy, easy to let you slip in her life like you were made for it, with strange movie choices and a tendency to follow recipes you find online with vi having to intervene before it's a total disaster.

paradise that come to sad endings.

"what do you mean you're moving out?" heaven has it expiratory date written in the back, must have known it when you dropped the bomb after you're there, fucking using her living room like an study spot, talking about formulas vi don't get at all since you have this huge test in a couple of days.

"been saving a lot of money from work, and i can afford something better," you admit, leaving your flash cards on the floor as you look up to the sofa where she's installed, her blue eyes already making the skin of your face burn when looking at you with the intensity she's pawning — "bigger y'know? that don't smell like food all the time."

"i'm glad for you" lies. partly anyway, cause she's glad you're doing better, but not having you close as in just a few steps away? makes her heart falter for a moment, a phantom feeling settling on her stomach, adding weight to her form as she pulls out this fake smile from her ass she don't really mean to, one you don't really catch on when your eyes light up to the comment, ruins "when are you moving? maybe i can help you out-"

"at least three more weeks, i want everything to be in order, i cant leave without a grill celebration either" you reply thoughtfully before checking on your phone calendar "we can go out to celebrate i survived my exam. i mean, if you want to."

"you want to celebrate that with me?"

it hits right on the spot, a knock out she'd be pleased to give in the arena, painted in black makeup, sweating and spitting blood to the floor, but now? it catches her off guard too, your reaction to her words, the subtle nervousness in your voice when speaking again, made her mouth dry as you try to make up excuses, something decent to say more than the fact that you want her around.

"yeah if you want it too, been bugging you this whole week with this, you deserve a night out, my treat."

"gonna be your sugar baby for the night, huh?" in reality, vi's her own very enemy when she's blushing at her own words before changing on the subject: she's flirting over and over again without any intentions to stop "can't say no when you put it out like that, m'am" — "when is it anyway? two more days?"

"two more days. in fact, thanks for adding to my stress."

well, she's knee-fucking-deep at this point.

you indulge her needs without saying anything two nights after that, just like you promised in her apartment when she convinced you to have some sleep so you could keep studying the next day. buying drink after drink, you're preventing her from getting into fights and pulling vi into the crowd to dance with her most of the damn night.

it's the contact what drives her crazy in the end, a brush of your fingers in her skin, your breathing colliding for a brief second against hers, teasing her all damn night as she has no other option to just observe.

you know you look extra good in that tight dress, that vi's a victim of insanity when your hair gets messy and you don't seem to care about it, skin glistening with sweat and this smile the boxer cannot erase from her mind, replaying it like a movie she overly-enjoyed.

you're dancing to the rhythm of the music, slightly drunk, already on cloud nine and through vi's gaze, it's enough to mesmerize her, following you around like a guard dog and preventing guys from trying their luck and get a way with you, she's not risking any chance.

"you look beautiful like this, when you have no worries stressing you out, and you're just enjoying" well fuck if that wasn't flirting, if that wasn't plain seduction fueled by the stupid amount of alcohol vi consumed, so at your smirk, it's a personal need; she needs to continue "always the hottest fucking girl around, do you have any idea of how hard is to get a grip around you?"

the song seems to pass to second place, transported to another dimension when you're pressing your back right against her chest and vi has the perfect path to just lean right against your ear, nose inhaling the scent of your skin, the cream you use that leaves a subtle shimmer down in your exposed shoulder and she's fucked: fucked, intoxicated, driven already by those guarded needs she keeps drowning deep underwater.

"quit fucking around," the whiskey burns in her throat, still in vi's tongue at the first warning, you're dancing against her, ass right against her jeans and the dress, that hell of a dress goes up with each movement and you don't seem to care enough like she does — "your dress- it's slipping up, gonna flash the whole club like this-"

"then pull it down," the way you say it's almost like a dare, and you love her attention, granting permission to vi's fingers who are quick to slip pass beneath the fabric, brushing against the skin of your sides as she's pulling it to her original state, keeping it there as it insists to fold right at your waist "can you keep it that way? help me out."

you know exactly what you're doing, rubbing yourself against her pants, breathing heavily as she keeps the fabric of your dress hooked in her fingers, a subtle way of pulling you closer against her, make you blatantly rest against her body.

the confidence comes up in this state and she just let it happen, sloppy kisses in your shoulder, vi can feel it against her lips as you make your hair to the side and you smile cause yes — you got her where you want to, hand in your thighs, fighting the urge to grab you by the waist cause it's not correct, you're friends and she values your company, the connection.

but vi's sinking in whiskey, and the way back home it's blurry by a cloud of necessity, impulses combined with a mass of lust at what it's now her worst behavior: she can't keep her hands off you, lingering on your waist, mumbling excuses about having to prevent you from falling, avoiding you from getting too far from her.

"you're not going to invite me back to your place?" you ask, resting against your door at just steps from her own, and vi's having trouble on finding the keyhole before suddenly freezing — "i'm drunk and i can fall too you know? a serious injury that could cost my life- and you won't even know."

it's a clear excuse, you both know it by then, and it makes vi laugh as she's resting her forehead against the wood, letting out an audible sigh soon after: she's doing so good so far. even when you tempted her with your worst, she didn't kissed you like she wanted to, didn't touch you any further even when you're rubbing your fucking ass against the front of her jeans, but having you alone back in her place? it's like asking to fuck with her patience.

"c'mere before i regret it" there's no sense to hide it when you stumble to her door, standing so close she can feel your chest brushing in her right arm, the soft fabric of your dress gently touching her skin as she opens the door and you're invading her once again; like you always fucking do.

you're like a force of nature, driving yourself like it's your place too. you grab her hand as she drags you to the kitchen, sitting in the counter as your legs swing in the air before vi's turning on the lights.

"you're going to kill me" you loudly say, using your hands to protect yourself from the white lights of the kitchen "turn it off- what are you doing?, we're vampires at this hour."

"vampires huh? who drink water after so much alcohol?"

"alcohol-sucking-vampires" you explain like it’s an obvious thing, tilting your head to the side as you watch her take the bottle of water she keeps in the fridge “we'd burn if you turn on the lights, and i won't burn by a kitchen lamp, not when you're near.”

so you’re hooking your finger in the carabiner vi wears in her pants, and her keychain tingles in the air as the only sound in the room, her breathing hitches back in her throat as you're pulling her between your legs, taking the water from her fingers before drinking from the bottle as you try to sober up with half the cold water.

“you okay there?” vi asks, refusing to look down to see the way your dress raises from over your upper thighs, she can already feel your naked legs closing around her waist and too afraid to act upon contained lust — “too drunk?”

“just perfect” it's enough to wash off the trails whiskey on her mouth, hands resting over the counter as all suddenly, vi's taking over your space, conquering the air you breathe as you rest against the white tiles of her kitchen wall behind your back and you seem aware now that there's no escape, nothing but the need to stay there, granting her the silent admission to keep going, wonder further in depth "are you too drunk?"

"maybe i am," it's not a lie, not when the alcohol travels down her blood and it makes vi's knee shake, when she's resting her weight in the counter, so close to you she can feel the warmth of the breathing that comes out of your parted lips "cause i feel that if you don't stop me, i'm going to start spiraling, and i don't want to fuck you here in my kitchen counter. turns me on- but it's impersonal for the first time i'm taking you."

the words roll of violet's tongue with an ease that scares, and when she realizes it, it's too late to take them back when you smile like you just won the damn lottery, this damn smirk she already knows from memory, that look you have when you get something you've been working hard for, an exam, her attention, her touch.

it's too much time being this miserable, too much time standing on her side of the room, keeping her thoughts in a glass that easily shatters with the slightest touch, so vi's allowing herself to surrender, let the guards in your body drive her to the the prisons of your soul, the maze in your heart she crosses with fire in her hands.

you're there. blending in her arms like the strangest material that sticks to her skin, making the limits go blurry cause she don't care now, they are nothing but a stone in your shoe; you're moving out and vi's already feeling a part of her missing, the need to hold you close before you disappear in her arms and never see you again.

the silk dress in her fingers is soft as it wrinkles following the form of your body, and vi wishes to be able to breathe underwater, have any sort of control over the chaos in her mind when she's sucking on your neck until her teeth marks you with a hickey she can see, like a proof she'll need to see tomorrow somehow, to believe all of it is real and not part of her dreams.

moans come out of your lips and that's what she's been missing out, the simple pleasures of life's she's been depraving herself from, her lips find a way to your jaw, working her way up in gentle touches, having you pressed against her body is simply not enough, not remotely sufficient.

"you taste so sweet," is it the whiskey on vi's voice? the soreness on her muscles after drinking so much? it does not matter at this point when her slender fingers grab your chin, angling upwards to meet her gaze "i swear, it's the greatest ambrosia from the gods."

you're not bulletproof, you can't resist the way her blue eyes search yours for a moment like she's studying any sign of regret in your eyes, dilated irises, it's you the very first who stole the kiss, the contact already clumsy, full of teeth and a constant fight, a need for control, demand and get more in response.

inebriates her to the touch, like lsd melting on her tongue to blend within her body; is it the whiskey? when your tongue pushes past her's and your chest graze against her own, vi's fingers sink in your hair to pull your head to the side and fucks sake, is it normal? how something so simple can feel so right?

it's the first kiss that gets vi on her knees already, the second, the third, the fourth: she loses count at that point, but it does not matter when your legs are wrapped around her waist impending any try of putting some space between you and her, when she can visibly notice the color of your panties she's been trying so fucking hard to guard the entire night.

"vi-" you manage to say, the sound of your voice give away so many details she's been overlooking, the raspy tone that wraps her own name — "vi. listen to me-"

"say that again" she asks, like an alcoholic ready for another drink — "violet this time, i need to hear it entirely."

"violet," you repeat, and she likes the way your tongue rolls in the syllables, didn't enjoy being called like that until that very moment when you're whispering it like it's a part of some important spell "listen to me-- i need you to tell me something."

"tell me, i'm hearing" she replies with simplicity as her hands finally raise your dress where it belonged the whole damn night, right over your waist as her hands close over the gloves of your ass and she's squeezing it tightly to prove her point "i can listen to you while i touch, tell me what's so important."

"it's about work, about what i do" she stops for a moment, looking down at you cause she couldn't care less now about the whiskey, the dizziness on her brain as she stares at your face "i should've told you sooner. i'm sorry okay? this escalated so quickly i didn't think we-."

nervous. you're nervous when you speak again and she just wishes to kiss you, make you understand that she don't really care about this whole cam-girl thing with actions more than words.

"i do, like- videos" you state, low like a secret you don't want anyone else to hear — "on my own, you know- well- cam-girl videos that's how i make so much money-- i let weirdos stare at me while i masturbate, pays good money and i get if you don't want to do anything, i needed you to know before uh-."

"you think that's going to make me not-fuck you?" she asks, genuinely interested in the answer "cause you do hot videos online?"

"have you watched them?"

"no, i haven't."

"either you're too polite to say it or a dinosaur when it comes to technology, cause i got a couple of videos blowing up in lesbian accounts on twitter and a bunch of subscribers thanks to that."

"cocky much aren't you? implying i must have seen it" — "you're that big of a deal here?"

"i'm not, i'm basing my data on actual numbers who back up what i'm saying" you try to prove your point rambling an absurd amount of words she don't really pay much attention to, pretty sure you're a top creator on that page of yours "are you even listening to me?"

"do you want me to see your videos?" she asks with new curiosity, blue eyes piercing yours and it's always a fight, a need for taking control and know who's surrendering first "is that what is all about? you want me to see your slutty masturbating sessions? what do you do hm? fuck yourself dumb enough to forget you're recording? got me curious now."

vi's nothing but impulses, kissing your cheek in a slow tender motion, fingers on your face that keeps you there, face pressed against her mouth as she feels your skin burn under her touch.

"i don't care about what you do," — "i only care if you want this too, peach. if you masturbate and record yourself, it's nothing but a huge, damn turn on."

so there it goes one more time like it wasn't enough the fist time, demanding kisses, needy touches to feed the monster inside vi's body: it does not matter, and the knowledge makes you the same it does to her, electricity coming up to your spine.

even when your lips are swollen it's not enough, not nearly proper to satisfy all her needs, but before you're even thinking about keep undressing yourself there this sound coming out from the hallway outside, and you stop before letting her kisses travel down to your collarbones, brows furrowing in curiosity.

"was that a meow?"

"damn fucking cat," vi curses out loud, rolling her eyes as she hides her face in the crook of your neck "gonna install sunshine a door at this point, she comes to sleep close to the window"

"well that's cute," you chuckle before vi's using her thumb to clean up the strings of saliva that connected you back to her mouth, swollen, red lips against her own "go on, don't leave her hanging, she comes to her safe place to rest."

it's physically difficult to remove herself from your body, cursing the way back to the front as the boxer's opening the door to find the small cat entering the apartment without even looking at her, quickly finding her way back to the window.

"is that the cat from 9D?" you ask when stepping out of the kitchen, looking at the cat already sleeping in her designated spot — "funny. i got a visitor like this too, but it's the black cat, rainbow."

"cat likes smart-asses, makes sense" vi teases to your offense before you're taking the bag you leave in the floor, looking out for your keys — "hey- i was joking, you leaving me?"

"i think, we both drink a lot tonight vi" you're right anyway, hangs heavy on her chest when realizing she still cannot feel the very tip of her fingers "and i want you to kiss me sober, touch and talk me like this when you remember me, us."

"i'm not that drunk-"

"come to my place tomorrow morning if you still think that way. i'll cure your hungover any way you want me to" the promise hangs in the air, and despite your words you kiss her again, because it's just another kiss, another one to the infinite you already gave her, lingering there and stinging in her skin like a constant reminder of the contact; quickly this time, soft unlike the needy ones dictated by alcohol "i don't want you to regret me. i need you on your four senses."

"tomorrow morning. i can do that."

she can't.

life would be awesome if violet vanderson wasn't a fucking pussy who can't knock on your door the next day since she's too embarrassed to show up out of nowhere: what if you don't remember anything? what if those kisses where nothing more than that? just kisses who are quickly forgotten?

being left alone with her own mind is dangerous, and karma's a bitch with her lately as vi's roughly pulled out of the car into the street and she's unable to hold her weight when falling into her knees, the cement scrapes her jeans as she can feel the blood already mixing up with gravel — "you owe us fucking big time, violet. we'll take it out of the prize from next week, do you understand?"

"yeah- fuck off."

she resists the urge to show them her middle fingers, the aching pain in her ribs being too intense to even raise her hand from over her shoulder as vi yawns in pain. she can endure the agonizing ache; the loneliness on the other side haunts her mind as she uses the doorknob to stand up, blood already coating her fingers as they press against her shoulder.

awful job. they did hell of fucking job on stitching her up this time: what fucking owing them big time were they talking about? she's climbing up step by step to the third floor, and vi's sure she's going to pass out any moment from now, crawling on her hands and knees — she's going to fucking puke at this point.

she deserves the treatment, this eviscerating cut to her ego, cause it's the second fight she loses now and fuck if it not affects her, not in the state she arrived to the complex; broken nose, injured shouldeer, she's almost surprised she's not bleeding internally. it's what she deserves for being this level of an asshole.

two weeks. what was she thinking when she began to avoid you? when she got scared to the point she's not acting out on her own feelings? when did she turned into this lame version of herself? this part violet don't recognize and now has to live with? not daring to see your face at any random moment of the day, avoiding you like you're the worst disease ever announced and she deserves it.

too good in learning your schedule, of course she's going to work hard in not seeing you, not cross you on the hallways by accident, not even in the morning by your running routines — and like everything before, it works. not seeing you it's medicine for the heart, a bandage of ignorance right to the eyes: what she cannot see, cannot possibly hurt her.

you moving out, leaving her behind: maybe put up some distance it's what she needs to do in order to survive, prevent her from gaining a broken heart, the embarrassment.

"don't sleep on me-" shit, when exactly did she passed out? your hand rub against her cheek as you keep talking to her, eyes open "violet. fucking wake up. don't fall asleep."

she can recognize the sound of your voice when talking to her, the way you seem to pull force out of nowhere as you're making her stand back on her feet, clumsy when you're walking back to your apartment without saying a word, physical effort as you close the door behind your back and you help her get to your bathroom.

"what happened-" you ask inspecting the bruises in her face under the accusing white light, and vi would like to say something, remark how she's fine even when she passed out thanks to the pain minutes before, but she cannot say much when a loud whine of pain escapes from her lips as your hands wonder around her figure looking for any wound "talk to me c'mon- how did you ended up like this?"

"the fight-" she manages to say before you're tossing her tank top to the floor, the black makeup only interfering with your work as you stare at the injury in her shoulder, a cut vi's sure she gained thanks to the pointy, metal brass knuckles her opponent hit her with, the bruises decorating the flesh like a damn universe of different kinds of pain; she'd be embarrassed of being so naked if not being so utterly in shambles.

"shit- you need to go to the hospital."

"no-" she's quickly to reply, too many questions she cannot answer honestly, don't want the authorities getting involved — "i checked out the most and it's already under control- 's this shitty thing in my shoulder- the stitches keep opening."

and violet's in no position to ask for anything, nothing at all when she's been so cruel to you, so distant even when you live at just footsteps, but she's looking at you with this eyes you already know, a pleading face you can't say no to as you're opening the med kit you keep in the bathroom shelf, shaky hands as you mumble something about not being a doctor, about not having any clue on what you're doing.

"look at me," the fighter asks, all that black painting only accentuating her blue gaze as you stare at her, not realizing your hands are being held down by vi's bandaged ones, keeping them steady over her chest, "i trust you. you just need to stop the bleeding. i know you got me."

works fine cause you take care of it, trembling hands, holding on your breath since you're victim of your nervousness, you seem to avoid her gaze so well vi knows, real as her current bellyache, that you're so mad at her you don't even want to look at her bruised face, tending the wound in a deadly silence as she's gaining more color now, better as your fingertips brush against her skin.

"thank you" you hate to hear it, the awkward small talk, her need to fill the silence "for helping me out."

"i don't want you dying on the floor, would be awkward if your ghost is bounded here."

it makes her laugh for a moment, the pain on her chest being a reminder of her poor state as she closes her eyes tightly trying to surpass the pain, the unexpected whine she let's out filling your bathroom walls as your digits press against the cut.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” vi cannot escape from the question now, struggling to breathe as she braces herself at the prospect of anger she deserves — "did you regret our kiss? is that why you're so ashamed of talking to me?”

"i don't-" even when her muscles are sore she's making an effort in denying your words, fingers covered in vi's blood; you're struggling just by breathing the same air "i thought you were going to forget- about me, of our kisses that night."

"do i look like i forgot?"

"let me finish," she insists, giving you a pleading look — "you taste like promises and warm words. like fire, me-- and the mouth is never mistaken. you're there, constant like the moon and the stars and it scares me a little, like i'm always in this ship and there's thick, dense fog surrounding it and sometimes you're the lighthouse guiding me back to safe land, but others you're the angry ocean and i don't know what to do about it. on the intensity of how i feel about you and your kisses, how you felt while holding you in my hands: seems like the only thing i can think lately since i last saw you drunk in my apartment are your damn moans, the face you give me when i said i wasn't going to fuck you in my kitchen counter, you."

"that's you didn't came?"

"guess i'm afraid," vi won't admit it before, won't admit it ever, the prospect of talking about her cowardice being similar to a mistake in her mind "you're leaving next week, and you'll forget about me and this place and i can't deal with that thought, not when you're on your best life and i'm stuck here losing fights, being damn miserable."

"you think i'll forgot about you?" — "that's your worrying?"

"it pisses me off, cause if affects me in a way you don't realize" vi's voice fill the bathroom walls for a moment, and you stop tending on her stitches for a minute; the color has returned to her cheeks, much better now as she barks the truth she guarded so secure — "you seem unbothered by it but i'm not okay with you leaving, with not having you at just inches from my bed- i get that you're winning more money, that this place sucks so much ass but you can't- you can't leave me behind."

"i would never do that to you," you reply in a low voice, and from the position you're in, right between her opened legs, you're kneeled in front of her to take care of injuries better, making vi aware of the way you're looking at her, much closer than you were in the kitchen as her shoulder does not matter now "this whole moving out thing- i'd never leave you behind, you're my best friend and shit- whenever i go, you do too."

"you say that now but what if-"

she cannot continue with the argument, not when you're carefully pressing your lips against hers and you're shutting her racing mind with a kiss; one that's different this time and makes her heart feel too small to endure the loud beatings it gave, sober, patient, vi notices the details that she missed out, the softness in your glossy lips, the taste of apple in your mouth, fresh breath as her hands tangle in your hair to make it impossible for you to seek any distance, any kind of air but what she can offer.

her shoulder hurts at the movements, but the pit fighter don't seem to care about any injury now when you're doing that thing you do that drives her crazy, how you steal kisses like they were yours to take since the beginning.

"stop that," you speak against her mouth "we don't live based on theories vi," — she likes the sound of your voice, that soothing way of talking to her when your eyes meet her's and your thumbs are following an invisible path in the sides of her face before talking again "it doesn't work like that, cause from the moment you threw bad jokes at the grill i can't get you out of my head and it's not that easy- i won't pull you out of my life like you're no one. i don't have much- people around me always leave and i'd never do that to you. not ever."

it's what she needed to hear, what the worms eating away her brain wanted to stop holding her hostage as you lean against her to steal another kiss: you're a thief a she'd let you steal them all without putting up a fight, all when they belonged to you.

"you're really important to me, violet" you admit, and the knot in her stomach tightens at the admission "not only as my neighbor, but as a friend, as the girl i like."

it hangs in the air for a moment, her personal fucking kryptonite to this point cause vi keeps the kisses coming even when they are similar to a fever in the middle of a flu, body tense, sick with tension she cannot get rid of when pushing you to her lap, the weight on her legs unexpectedly good, needed-

"hey- hold up you're injured and in no condition to do whatever you're trying to do here-"

"i'm okay, killjoy" she coos, even close to dying dramatically minutes before, vi's currently going through the strangest adrenaline rush, not even feeling her sore shoulder at this point — "you know i've never been here before in your apartment? it's very similar to mine, but like- the opposite version."

she stays silent for a moment, her lips move against yours but not for a kiss, instead it's a glance, a subtle and barely noticeable touch: "i thinks its a mystery how your life always seem to mirror mine so much."

"i'll make you a bath-"

"i mean it" vi continues on talking as you move around to turn on the water, sitting on the edge of the tub as you settle a warm temperature: she also needs the distance "this cat- what was his name? from 9D?"

"rainbow?"

"you get visits from rainbow, and sunshine's making my apartment her own" she reminds you, making you giggle momentarily — "you live in the apartment next door, my routines fit yours and i have to try- put up a lame show since i don't want to see you on the hallways cause i know the exact hours you leave for classes-"

"you know my routines?" shit. "what's your point with this, weirdo?"

"i mean, it's really obvious here," violet's pushing past her pain when straightening her back, still wrapped around dirty bandages that surely needs changing "i have this theory with a fair amount of proof, cause i think you were made for me, as much as i was made for you."

it's a normalized behavior she wants to keep, cause she likes this image of you when she's using her force to stole a new kiss, multiple ones she starts by giving you from the side of your face until she's touching the corner of your mouth with hers, invading your space like she's meant to do it, lips fitting so nicely against yours — you're sure she's right, that she has more than just proof to back up her words: you are made for her, she's made for you.

"the tub's ready."

"you're nervous" it's not a question but more like an observation as you move around, avoiding her gaze when you're too busy checking the temperature.

"i am," you admit in honesty, tongue travels down the inside of your cheek before adding "it's different. you're different- us."

"yeah?" vi's tone gives away her intentions by the time she's saying it — "tell me more about it, how different is this for you huh?"

"privacy, you need privacy. i'll leave you to undress and shower, is it okay if i get you some stuff to wear from your apartment?" it's so simple to make you like this, stumble over your words even when sober, cute rambles she's been missing the last weeks.

"sweetheart," vi's voice is tender, barely an audible whisper as she shakes her head in denial — "i can't shower alone. you know that."

"but i-" you try to calm yourself down as the vapor sticked to the mirror hanging on the wall, the intimacy vi’s been running from "i need to go find your clothes-"

"you don't have to" violet insists before her fingers begin to unwrap the bandages across her chest, face twitching with pain when making much effort in moving — "i want you to stay here with me. let me have this."

thing is you don't need convincing, not when she's stripping right in front of you, baring the lines of her muscles as you hold your breath for a moment: all this time being partly naked, you're fine with it until it takes a different turn, an unseen shade that got you looking to the floor for a moment when hearing the sound of the fabric falling into your vision field, the bandages that wrapped around her chest followed by a splash and the loud moan she lets out when entering the warm water.

"i won't spend more time without you," vi says from inside the tub, and it makes you malfunction for a long time, stay there for until you make sure you can hold your own weight when walking "please, sit here, stay close."

suddenly it's hard to snap out of it. the air's too hot at this point when she's panting the spot right next to her, looking up to you ready to beg and ask until you're granting her wishes. your heart beats so loud in your ear when you spot her smile only getting bigger as you sit down in the floor right next to the tub.

"tell me, do i look too fucked?" the bruised boxer asks when you're sitting close to her, back hitting the cold tiles as you're comfortably resting right on her side before turning to look, inspecting her face. there's a bruise right under her eye, creeping up to the side of her nose, slip lip, the wound in her eyebrow is closed with fake stitches but it's getting swollen now under the lights of rationality.

"no" it's a simple answer, even when violet looks like she's been paying visits to hell lately, you can't help it when your eyes follow the features of her face, the ring piercing on her nose, the freckles carefully placed over the middle section — she looks stupidly good even when she's at her worst, so your eyes roam against her naked figure in response, her bruised skin now hugged by a comforting warm, making her shiver case she can feel the weight of your gaze, the goosebumps that made her body move involuntarily "no, you don't look fucked."

"get in with me."

vi's as serious as she can be, and it's the kisses that win you over; her way of making you do stuff cause her lips are pressed against your own and it's like the greatest delight ever created.

"please get in with me" she asks again, cause vi wont forgot; she won't let go of the moment as her wet hands close around your neck and the drips of water are soaking through your shirt — "i need you so much closer, please."

even when there's a clear separation between her body and yours, her hands look past it when they're soaking through your pajama, the coldness from her hands as they touch your body like it's holy, wetting everything behind.

"the tub's too small" you try to be intelligent for a moment, a difficult task when she's placing the most gentle kisses in your neck "and your shoulder- i don't think it's a good idea."

"i swear to you if you mention my shoulder one more time-" to be fair, it's hard to think about a threat that's good enough to make you stop as you’re grabbing the sides of your shirt to toss it from over your head, close to the bandages in the floor, it got vi staring at your tits for a while, the lack of bra since you were probably sleeping before she came in like a hurricane really handy.

"you what?" you insist, wanting her to complete the sentence. little fucking tease mocking at vi's words while her hands tug on your shorts, the only thing preventing her from getting you inside — "gonna stop kissing me like you do? leave me hanging?"

"no," she would never mention it even, rolling her eyes in defeat "i have nothing to threat you with, cause all that i got is yours already- you know that well."

it's a composition, a testament as vi's hands roam against your exposed chest, fingers tugging on your nipples before your pants are falling to the floor in a disaster you want to happen, and the intimacy is there before ever undressing, in the vapor and the hot water as you make no sound in entering the water.

"too far," vi protests as you try to sit in the other side of tub, swiftly pulling you upwards just to make you glide against the water so you can rest in her chest, and she winces, a loud sound of discomfort as she moves you enough to not be resting over the bruises in her rib, that spot she knows it's sensitive — "don't move if you want me to keep living."

"fucking insane," it's impossible to try and argue as your chest is already pressed against her's and it turns very complicated to even think about enough reasons to leave the bathroom "the idea of a bath is for you to relax vi, not to have me crushing you."

"what if i want you to crush me?" she wonders as her hand travels down the line on your spine, the skin that's so soft in her fingers as she takes your hair out of the way, the strands out of your neck. vi takes her time in doing so, on treating you like you deserve when she's nibbling on your neck, holding you against her cause there's no pain enough to prevent violet from taking what she wants "do you understand? how fucked you got me? i'm already in pieces hoping you'll put my skin together with your love."

her words cut deep, deeper than any ache as they settle in your heart, you seem to be in sync with her, heartbeats that mix up like a lullaby and breathings that took turns; her chest expands when yours constricts in a silent organization, and it's good. your hair's getting wet, and vi's hand squeeze your ass with a controlled force. you belong there.

"let me touch you," she asks, her hand seems to grow curious by the seconds as vi pants your upper thigh and you seem to get the memo so you're finally straddling her, legs on each side as the water settles down to the level of your belly and she's looking at the skin already covered in drips with a tangible need — "i'll beg if you want me to- i need to have you."

she’s gentle, a need to show you how much she cares about you, how she needs you close, know more about your days. the words find their own way out of her mouth when vi’s admitting against your ear how much she missed you, the times she had imagined that very same scene in the darkness of her room, infinite fantasies that always resume around the same, this face of mischief when you're climbing up from the edge of the bed to sit down on her just like you are in that moment, tangled hair, her fingers make you shiver when they're touching so skillful.

just the same, you're in the perfect place to- worship you, and vi does so when her she's using a hand to make you bend against her mouth so your chest is exposed right to her face and that's what life must be about from now on: pleasing you. making your hair to the side, vi wonders for a moment if she fainted again, this time inside her supposedly relaxing bath.

a happy death, she wants a happy death, so violet vanderson wishes not to be awaken if so. let her die. let her experience an afterlife where she finally gets what she wants, where things go her way. it's an illusion, maybe a fantasy you're indulging like when you bought her drink after drink the night she went out with you, an abysmal difference now as your hand guides her own to you inner thighs.

vi wishes to imprint her fingerprints in your flesh, groping with enough force to make you gasp. she wishes to comply and do good cause she can do so much for you it's making her insane, hard to think in anything else when she has you like this, using a couple of fingers to rub on your clit already greedy for attention, depraved from her touch for too long.

"mmf-what the actual-fuck," the words slur together like a muffled sound when you're biting on your inner cheek — "shit that's so good."

the water moves with you when your hips do so, splashes at the movement before you're raising yourself from above it, leaking against her hand as her fingers push against your entrance, desperate to give you something to hold on to, push further.

vi's teeth pull on your hard nipple, a rough tug that it's delicious as her fingers work their way inside your cunt, wreathed by your pulsating walls who wishes to drag her further inside. knuckles deep, the pit fighter can feel the sting of pure pain when her fingers thrust inside you, the nervous endings pulling on her shoulder wound.

"ride me," she ask when your eyes dart out to her wound, caring about her even when you're drunk in a state vi wishes to see more than ever, nodding as you move against the palm of her hand — "there you go, i'm yours to use. you already know i'm yours to take."

"fuck vi-"

maybe the tub it's the least of the places that this should be happening, the space is to small, uncomfortable, induces to clumsy sex, yet when vi fucks- it's different. you’ve never been fucked like this by just two damn fingers, so devastating, overwhelming like she’s surpassing every barrier you've put out there with effortless grace until she’s there, under your skin, claiming each part of your body when it belongs to her.

“you’re gripping me so tight” vi gulps already feeling heady. a lewd sound filling the bathroom walls as her fingers move with vigorous force, slippery cunt as they curl right where you need her to be “fucking you with the strap must be hell of a ride huh? gonna have to prepare you every time.”

“m’so close-” you state, and she’s nodding at your words, brows furrowing together in understanding, a wish to get you there at any cost — “please vi- please.”

you’re begging even when you’re not sure why for, the mount of her hand hitting against your clit as your tits bounce on each movement you give on top of her, making vi absorbed by the sight, the marks she left on your skin, how you’re making the biggest effort on fucking yourself to oblivion.

“so full of my fingers, i know you’re gonna cum baby” she uses a coaxing tone to speak, only making you even more debased than you already are at her gentle words “let me feel you soaking up my hand- you’ve been doing so good already.”

you’re talking nonsense. an slobbering mess when your body stiffens at the impending release you’ve been holding before it finally coates down vi’s fingers, dripping down to the water in a nasty mix the pink-haired don’t mind as she keeps working you through it.

“make it last baby,” she says pulling you into a kiss, tongue plunging against yours in a salty kiss, swallowing your loud moans — “you have the sluttiest cum-face i’ve ever see huh? those little uh’s- i get why people pay, you’re fucking addictive.”

the comment makes you giggle even when you’re tired, sultry look when vi’s sucking on her own fingers, tasting the release that still makes them shine under the light.

“thanks for being so good to me, so kind with all of this- i know it’s not normal” you reply, big eyes staring at vi’s blue hues before leaving soft pecks in the valley of her chest “you make it hard not to fall for you.”

"there’s no need to thank me, peach” — “never saw your videos, but you are indeed, very popular on twitter. i did saw a censored photo back then.”

"and you never saw anything else?"

“no, i want you to cum because of me for the first time i’m seeing you” vi replies, simple and quick “not on a phone or laptop screen, but here against my skin, flesh and bones.”

“when did you find out?”

“before the grill? i dunno i was trying to be polite, i would hate to make you feel uncomfortable, it wasn’t my intention at all.”

“that’s months ago” you playfully hit her in her sane shoulder, earning a whine on her behalf — “and you resisted all this time?”

“i wanted to respect your privacy- i got curious about you way before twitter so again, privacy s’important.”

“privacy- i’m doing porn and you think about my privacy, sweet jesus i’m gonna eat you alive” your words makes her blush as you stay silent for a while before you’re looking up to her, the water’s already cold and wrinkling in her skin before you add with the biggest smile vi has ever seen — “i think you should stay tonight, really. we have some movies to catch on, science purposes.”

you’re kissing her until vi’s lips are red and sore before standing up and her shoulder’s fine. the stitches are fine. it’s a long nite and vi will have no trouble to survive, despite her usual negative way of seeing things; she’s staying positive this time.

for science purposes.

"you can take it," vi whispers as pushes deeper inside you, the perfect view of your drenched pussy taking her in, opening for the intrusion — "it's okay- make room for me you're doing so fucking good."

the sound of your moans mixes with the sounds on her phone speaker, the image of you spread against a wood desk collapsing her brain as you're there, in her screen while you're rubbing this fuck-doll against your cunt and you're so wet as you show yourself to the camera, it makes vi moan as she spreads your ass-cheeks further apart, using the same grip to pull you against the strap.

"take your time, beautiful" she says as a hand slaps the flesh of your back rear until it's red, fingers marking on the flesh before she's moving slightly, only to tease your reaction with her nestled inside "weren't you so cocky before? saying you can take massive cock like a regular tuesday?"

you're begging in the video, crying to be stuffed and it's not a distant view from what she has already, forehead pressed against the king-sized mattress, your breathing gets shallow when vi's pulling out almost entirely just to slam it back in, making your legs shake. it hits all the right places, tingles against her cervix as you present yourself to her like a christmas-fucking-gift. ready to be discovered.

"you feeling good?" her words are so kind even when her fingers are pulling on your hair, making your head backwards with a force that makes you get high on lust, nodding at her insistence as she keeps hitting it from behind.

"yes-" you struggle to respond for a moment, voice like you've been hitting the gym with hell of a cardio routine "fuck yes- yes do your fucking worst, please."

the bed creeks, the headboard smashes against the wall but vi cannot bring herself to care at the loud sounds you two make. her hips piston in a deliberate fast pace, and the sound of your skin smacking against hers makes her head spin; the sight of you rubbing your aching cunt in a recorded video goes so well with the one of your pussy wrapped up around vi's cook, already hanging on by a thread.

"look at that pretty pussy, the camera does not make you justice enough" she praises, pounding faster, deeper as she's making you watch the video with her, eyes glued as her fingers hold your face close to the screen — "all shaped up to take my fingers, my cock, my tongue-"

and your relationship with vi's always there in the site itself, making sure of commenting on each video, appear on every livestream asking you to go faster, deeper, moan out her name louder than the rest: when someone buys a pair of your underwear? she's there to make a mess with it, take the photos in seductive lingerie she fucks you in after, your girl next door, your formal neighbor who now invades your apartment most days of the week claiming she's tired of the orange chicken smell.

it's a routine you grow fond of: dates, messages, movies, music, fun, fucking, kiss, cuddle, showers, love, repeat.

violet vanderson's having the best year of her life when powder's parking the car in front of the building— she's moving in again, but this time? it's your apartment.

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