#career without boundaries

[suryathelegend]

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[professorspork]

idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?

Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.

Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?

okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.

[this is, for the record, in response to this post]

fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.

if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?

you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.

however.

a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.

like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.

you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.

in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.

does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?

perhaps I will try another metaphor:

a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!

i am not being paid to cook.

i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.

because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.

learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.

but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.

so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.

i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.

[littlcdarlin]

Event Horizon

summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago. word–count: 15k warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)

note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you���ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

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 office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

[mixingandmelting]

Crashing Unannounced

Summary: rating how bad they are with coming over without telling you

A/N: Inspired and can be treated as a part-two of this request here

Dick: Bad

Does it whenever he misses you especially when it’s been a long time since he last saw you, having a  impulsive urge to just see you out of the blue, wanting comfort, worried about you

If he could, he’d be doing it everyday as it would mean he’d get to stay with you but he does respect personal boundaries

Also cherishes your safety and keeps it as his top priority. He’s not exactly a normal person to go out with, having been targeted as both Nightwing and Dick Grayson before

Mostly does it when you’re there where he tries to do it when your awake, knocking on the window with a grin that goes from hopeful to full out joy when he manages to surprise you in a good way

When you’re asleep and either of you are going through a bad time, he enters and ends up snuggling with you in bed

Ask him how he got here when you wake up and he’ll just mumble arbitrarily “through the door” before pulling you towards him and spooning you

Jason: Not as bad

He’s not as frequent as Dick where he also does it when he really misses you whether it’s random or he hasn’t seen you in a while and you’re awake. Though he does it more out of worry whether you're in danger, having a bad time, or sick or when he really needs comfort and support which equates to essentially you

Cares about privacy and personal space since it’s his first time in an actual relationship so he doesn’t want to cross a line

Also because being a crime lord-turned-vigilante isn’t the safest job career and can lead you to be put in danger

When it comes to coming over unannounced and taking you completely off guard though - yeah, he does that though

If you’re not there and he needs(wants) to see you, he’ll stay at your place and wait until you come back. Legit even texts where are you if he’s been waiting for a while and if you ask why, he’ll bluntly answer that he’s over your place 

Has surprised you in your own living room where he’d be casually sitting on the couch, helmet/muzzle off surfing through the channels, looking up and asking you what took you so long before cuddling with you and hanging out

Tim: Really Bad

Bold of you to assume he drops by only when you’re there. He drops by every time when he’s around regardless if you’re there or not because he’s always wanting to be around you

Occurred even before the two of you started dating, watching over you to make sure your life is going fine and no one or a thing is causing harm to you because that’s how bad he had and still has for you

Knocks on the glass window to get your attention if you’re there so he could hang out for a bit

Most of the time though you’re not there, so he sneaks in to make sure everything isn’t out of the ordinary and that you’re still okay

Always leaves a gift as a sign that he was there because he ironically feels guilty entering your home and at least he isn’t randomly dropping by empty handed, right…?

In a way it’s Christmas for half the year with how many times he comes over

Duke: Good

He was taught to be a gentleman so it’s extremely rare for him to crash unannounced

Always rings on the doorbell or knocks on the front door if it doesn’t have one while coming over after he gets the okay from you whether it’s in person, call, or text

Even when he’s suddenly wanting to see you, he gives you a heads up that he’s going your way and asks if it’s alright to stop by

The times he actually arrives unannounced is when he notices you’re going through something and he wants to cheer you up or help you out. Maybe even plan a mini, impromptu surprise party with food, flowers, or a stuffed bear in the tow

If not, it’s when something bad is going down and he wants to make sure that you’re safe and sound

Makes sure to knock on the window but most times, again, he’s getting your attention through the front door

Damian: Worst of the worst

Every day, every time, whether it’s because he’s bored, he’s wanting your affection, he needs something from you. Sometimes even when there’s no reason, it’s just because

Depending on his mood, he’ll casually enter your bedroom and stay there until you come back so he could get entertained by your reaction

Or purposely wakes you up by tapping the window so he could talk to you

Bet on him observing your sleeping form both out and inside your home, feeling the tingles in his heart how peaceful you look before he places the gift he got you at your bedside 

Of course, with a complimentary note that tells you not to think too into it, he only got it at a whim (it actually took him a few days to get the courage to get it for you)

Overall, it’s a reminder you’re not safe from him and it’s better to stay alert. Also the so-called “traps” you set up never work on him, so you can stop bother doing those now. He’s not a mouse

[aeth-eris]

★ what are you known for? - midheaven ★

★ aries midheaven ★ to gain recognition, individuals with aries in the 10th house must put in hard work, taking initiative and being unafraid to stand alone when necessary. their success often comes from their willingness to take risks and be the first to act, whether in starting a business, leading a project, or entering competitive fields like sports, military, or entrepreneurship. they build their reputation by consistently showing their courage and determination, often taking on leadership roles early and demonstrating their ability to manage high-pressure situations. they may face challenges such as impatience or aggressive competition, so they must learn to temper their impulsive tendencies with strategic planning and patience, ensuring that their bold moves lead to sustainable success.

★ taurus midheaven ★ to become known in their field, taurus midheaven individuals rely on their perseverance and methodical approach, often building their careers slowly over time through consistent and steady work. they focus on developing expertise in practical fields like finance, real estate, agriculture, or luxury goods, where they can see tangible results from their efforts. they often gain recognition by proving their reliability and by being the person others can depend on for stability and sound judgment. these individuals often start from the ground up, gradually establishing a solid reputation through hands-on experience, meticulous planning, and a commitment to quality. however, they need to be open to occasional change and innovation, as their preference for stability may sometimes limit their opportunities for growth.

★ gemini midheaven ★ individuals with gemini in the 10th house become known for their versatility and communication skills, but this requires building a network and proving their adaptability across various roles. they often have to work their way up by seizing opportunities in fields like journalism, marketing, education, or technology, where they can showcase their intellectual agility. to establish themselves, they engage in continuous learning, often acquiring multiple skills and taking on diverse projects or positions to build a well-rounded portfolio. they gain recognition by demonstrating their ability to think on their feet and effectively connect with others, but they must work on maintaining consistency and focus, as their tendency to shift interests can hinder long-term achievements unless they find a way to integrate their varied passions.

★ cancer midheaven ★ those with cancer in the 10th house gain recognition by building deep, supportive relationships and demonstrating their commitment to caring for others, whether in healthcare, hospitality, social work, or family-run businesses. they put in years of dedicated service, often starting in entry-level or hands-on positions to build empathy and expertise from the ground up. they work to create a nurturing, emotionally supportive environment in their professional sphere, becoming trusted figures who are known for their compassion and ability to connect deeply with clients or colleagues. the challenge for them is to maintain professional boundaries and ensure that their work doesn’t become overly personal, as they risk burnout if they become too emotionally invested without managing their energy effectively.

★ leo midheaven ★ for leo in the 10th house individuals, gaining recognition involves harnessing their natural charisma and creativity, often through careers that put them in the public eye, such as entertainment, politics, or leadership. they typically start by showcasing their talents, whether through performances, public speaking, or creative projects, and invest time in building a strong, noticeable public presence. they must work hard to build their brand, often taking bold risks and embracing opportunities for visibility. over time, they earn their status by consistently delivering high-quality work and inspiring others with their confidence and passion. however, they must be careful to balance their need for recognition with genuine contribution, ensuring that their pursuit of the spotlight is accompanied by hard work and substance rather than just the desire for fame.

★ virgo midheaven ★ virgo in the 10th house individuals gain recognition through precision, efficiency, and a meticulous approach to their career. they often begin in roles that allow them to develop specialized skills, such as healthcare, research, or administration, where attention to detail and problem-solving are critical. they build their reputation by consistently delivering accurate, high-quality results and improving systems or processes within their workplace. their path to success involves continuous learning, self-improvement, and taking on increasingly complex tasks that demonstrate their reliability and expertise. however, to rise to higher levels, they must overcome their tendency toward perfectionism and learn to delegate and trust others, avoiding burnout and overwork by finding a balance between their standards and practical realities.

★ libra midheaven ★ individuals with libra on the midheaven become known for their diplomacy, social skills, and ability to create harmony in professional settings. they often work in fields like law, public relations, design, or diplomacy, where they can showcase their talents in negotiation, aesthetics, and partnership building. to rise to prominence, they must put in the effort to develop relationships and build networks, positioning themselves as valuable connectors and mediators. they work to refine their image and approach, cultivating a professional reputation based on grace and fairness. however, to gain greater recognition, they must overcome indecisiveness and learn to make firm decisions, as their tendency to seek balance and please others can sometimes prevent them from taking decisive action when needed.

★ scorpio midheaven ★ scorpio in the 10th house individuals gain recognition through their intensity, resilience, and ability to transform challenging situations into opportunities for growth. they often begin their careers in investigative fields, psychology, finance, or crisis management, where they can delve deep into complex issues and emerge as experts. they put in the effort by embracing difficult, high-stakes roles that test their strategic thinking and emotional strength, building a reputation as powerful and capable of handling adversity. to achieve success, they must master their own tendencies toward secrecy and control, learning to collaborate and trust others while maintaining their authority. their career growth often comes from their ability to face and transform professional crises, turning obstacles into stepping stones for advancement.

★ sagittarius midheaven ★ sagittarius midheaven individuals gain recognition through their openness, optimism, and thirst for exploration. they often pursue careers related to travel, education, international relations, or publishing, starting out by seeking experiences that broaden their perspectives and expand their skills. they put in the work by immersing themselves in diverse cultures, learning new languages, or gaining knowledge that they later share through teaching or writing. to build their reputation, they must demonstrate their ability to adapt and thrive in different environments, often positioning themselves as experts on global or philosophical topics. however, to achieve long-term success, they must learn to focus their energy and commit to a specific path, as their restless nature may lead to frequent changes or an inability to settle into a stable career.

★ capricorn midheaven ★ capricorn in the 10th house individuals achieve recognition through hard work, discipline, and a strategic approach to career advancement. they often begin their professional lives by taking on structured, entry-level roles in fields like business, law, or government, where they can gradually climb the corporate ladder. they dedicate themselves to long-term planning, setting clear goals, and steadily building their reputation as reliable and competent professionals. their success comes from their willingness to take on responsibility and prove their leadership abilities, often working long hours and taking calculated risks to achieve their objectives. however, they must learn to balance their ambition with personal life, as their intense focus on career achievement may lead to burnout or neglect of other important areas of life.

★ aquarius midheaven ★ individuals with aquarius in the 10th house gain recognition through innovation, independence, and a focus on social change. they often begin in unconventional fields such as technology, science, activism, or social reform, where they can use their forward-thinking ideas to make an impact. they work to build their reputation by pushing boundaries, questioning established norms, and embracing new technologies or methods. to become known, they must network with like-minded individuals and become active in communities or movements that align with their values. however, to achieve greater success, they need to learn how to balance their need for freedom with the demands of professional environments, ensuring that their innovative ideas are effectively communicated and accepted within their field.

★ pisces midheaven ★ pisces midheaven individuals gain recognition through their creativity, empathy, and spiritual insight. they often pursue careers in the arts, healing professions, social work, or spiritual practices, where they can channel their sensitivity and imagination into their work. they must work hard to develop their talents, often starting with personal projects, artistic expressions, or voluntary service that allows them to gain experience and build their portfolio. they become known for their compassionate approach and the emotional depth they bring to their roles, often earning a reputation as intuitive and inspiring professionals. however, they may struggle with the practical aspects of professional life, requiring them to establish structure and boundaries to ensure that their idealistic pursuits are sustainable and not draining their energy or resources.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

ROUTE 666

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC

Summary: it’s the year 1984 and Star goes to a roadside bar off of Devil’s Highway that a friend of hers invited her to. What Star doesn’t know is that someone is waiting for her beyond the velvet drapes.

Warnings: SMUT. Lots of pussy licking. 18+ CONTENT. Mentions of blood.

Part One

The never–ending highway with its name that sparks negativity welcomes sinners from all over the nation. A challenging drive with a winding, mountainous terrain, known for its twists, turns, and a unique atmosphere. The route is famous for its association with the number 666, often linked to biblical interpretations of the "number of the beast," leading to a reputation for being mysterious and even cursed.

Route 666 was a notorious hot spot, an epicenter of sizzling sex shops, erotic peep shows, sleazy motels, strip clubs, good diner food, and risky bars. It was an adults–only, X–rated, pleasurable adventure for the more risqué crowd and home to one of Arizona’s famous roadside bars, Vaisseau. After moving to Arizona from Baltimore, Maryland, Star Dickens was ready to find out what really happened there after dark.

Star used to work for a big financial firm in Baltimore Monday through Friday. In Arizona, by evening, she lets her luminous hair down, takes off her glasses, and dawns a down right dirty persona that turns heads. Star works in pornography. VHS and camcorders of men worshiping her. She’s got charmig brown eyes and black hair.

She also has big beautiful tits. Her measurements are 43-24-36; natural full breasts. erotica and modeling, celebrated not only for her distinctive presence but also as a trailblazer in an industry where Black women were significantly underrepresented. Born in 1952, Star’s career took off in the late 1970s when she began modeling, quickly becoming known for her voluptuous figure and natural beauty.

Star became a beloved figure in the adult entertainment industry quickly, appearing in numerous magazines and gaining a substantial fan base. Her work during a pivotal era of cultural change highlighted the intersection of race and sexuality, pushing boundaries and challenging the norms of the predominantly white industry. Star’s performances and modeling work not only provided representation but also celebrated Black beauty in a genre that often overlooked diverse narratives and figures.

Cora, Star’s new friend and socialite, sat beside her while she drove her pitch black corvette.

Star glanced over at Cora, “Have you ever been to any of these topless bars and nude strip clubs around here?”

Cora responded in her thick, Southern accent, “Pigs Frolic?”

“Pigs Frolic?” Star repeated with a confused look on her face.

“That’s what they call it. Pigs Frolic. A lot of pigs tend to wallow in all the filthy diversions,” Cora said, and laughed in her cute, girlish manner.

The fire inside of Star’s curiosity grew wilder, “Let’s go to it then! How far is everything?”

“Not too far.” Cora shrugged while puffin in a cigarette Star lit for her. “Are you sure you want to go?” She rolled down the small window to blow out a lungful of smoke.

“Too late for that question, we already halfway there. I won’t rest until I know.”

Cora flicked her eyes at Star, “What will you do once there?” She raised her eyebrow with a sleek grin appearing on her face.

Star thought about that and, honestly, she had no idea what she would do. Dance mostly? Sight see? People watch?

“I don’t know what to expect. I’m just going as a tourist.”

Cora nodded and then smiled before taking another drag from her cancer stick.

“That’s why I’m taking us to the so–called infamous strip. I have a spot in mind first and then, from there, we’ll explore.”

A sly, naughty grin appeared on Cora’s face. Even without knowing all the details, a chill slithered down Star’s spine. Whatever this place was, it was sure to be an unforgettable experience. One to remember for eternity.

Once they arrived to the portion of Devil’s Highway filled with sexual activity, Star stared out at all the colorful lights reflecting the raindrops that remained on the car from a previous rain fall. In red and blue lights she read: DVDs, PEEP SHOWS, NUDE, NEW GIRLS, and SEX. They were in adult playland. Electric excitement filled her completely and she could feel her toes tingling in anticipation. Star crossed her legs to stop herself from squirming.

“Reminds me of Sin City,” Star noted aloud.

“Vegas? I love it. Didn’t you used to film there a lot?” Cora asked.

“I did. But the pay is better in Arizona. Next move will be California.” Star revealed.

Suddenly, the car began to slow down as it pulled onto a dirt road, veering away from the highway. Hidden beyond tumble weed and cactus, was the roadside bar. Star could feel her pulse thrumming the minute she stepped out of the car. Beyond her wondrous eyes shined a bar called Vaisseau.

It was an elaborate trucker hangout that attracted questionable guests. A club scene pulsating with energy, innovation, and pure adrenaline. This was an era of experimentation, where underground clubs and vibrant nightspots were the playgrounds for the young, restless, and creative. It was more than just a party; it was an experience. The line to get inside was outrageous for any roadside bar Star has ever seen in her thirty–two years.

“This joint is off the hook, huh?” Star asked, grabbing her hand bag from the back seat.

Cora laughed and nodded her head.

“Sure is, girl. It’s very popular.”

There was a diverse group of people waiting in line. Some smoked cigarettes and others chatted while the line moved quickly. After tossing her cigarette on the ground, Cora stepped on it, crushing it into the gravel and dirt. She sprayed her favorite peach–smelling perfume from her purse—something she did every time she smoked—and then adjusted her black bikini top beneath an elaborate fur coat to prevent her breasts from slipping out.

Star wore a black halter dress with a plunging neck line and a low cut back that cinched her waist and hugged her thighs. Beneath the dress she wore fishnets with rhinestones stitched into it and thigh–high scrunch boots in a bold red color. Her cheetah–printed hand bag sat on her shoulder. She smoothed her fingers painted maroon down her hips to pull the dress down over her generous backside.

Star surveyed the bar and its surroundings. Dark and miraculously foggy. There was no way she would be able to enter this establishment alone. It was definitely too dark and scary, leaving an unsettling feeling in her gut. She moved her eyes up to the club’s vivid flashing red sign above their heads.

“Vaisseau,” Star read aloud. “Nice…”

Vaisseau meant “vessel” in French.

“This spot better be slammin’.”

Cora hooked her arm with Star’s, “I like the place. The drinks are superb and there is plenty of yummy eye candy.”

Star’s pussy pounded. She was looking for fun, but ending with a few orgasms before the night is over didn’t sound too bad either. It sounded damn good actually. They walked to the end of the line with their three–inch boots clicking against the gravel and dirt. Lighting lit up the gloomy sky, which caused Star to jump a little. A roaring thunder accompanied the shortened sparks of quickened light. Star left her coat in the car, but she was too lazy to go back and get it.

The line moved so fast that they were at Vaisseau’s entrance in a matter of minutes.

The bouncer immediately caught Star’s eye.

“Wow,” Star whispered to Cora with her glossy, brown lips, “He’s nice…”

Star couldn’t see him clearly at first but she was glad to know he was a fine, bald brother standing a little over six feet. His skin was the color of café au lait.

“Mmm…he is. This is the only black–owned place on Route 666.”

Star cracked a smile as relief washed over her. Just what she wanted to hear.

“Welcome to Vaisseau,” the bouncer uttered with his sultry, deep voice as he took her I.D. first. He looked at Star to see if the picture matched, eyes growing wider with recognition.

“Star Vixen?” He gawked at her, hungry eyes raking over her body.

“Yes,” Star replied in a flirty manner, “Don’t need to ask if you recognize me. What’s your name, handsome?”

He smiled and bit on his lower lip. That’s when Star noticed sharp teeth. She froze for a moment before collecting herself when his gaze fell upon her face.

“Onyx.” He stated proudly.

“Onyx? Like a precious black gem? That name fits you.”

Laughing casually, he showed off his pearly whites that didn’t look so sharp this time around, “Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

He took a look at Cora’s identification and then removed the red rope from in front of the door.

As soon as they were inside the highly energized club, the music thumped through Star’s chest like a strong heartbeat. The air inside was so crisp it caused her to shiver a little. Topless dancers flanked each corner of the dark roadside bar with crimson lights flashing all over them. A mixture of synth–pop, glam metal, and funk music played. A dark, biker aesthetic gave some edge. The patrons twisted and writhed like sexual objects, grinding pelvis to pelvis and ass to groin. Arms up and clutching onto the back of necks. Firm hands on hips. Sultry gazes.

All the red accents against the black walls gave the effect of blood pumping through the veins of the building. They walked up to coat check, dropping their things off to free their hands. Star didn’t waist time bouncing to the beat, accepting a neon stamp to the top of her left hand before she swayed forward. She eyed the small vibrant ‘V’ that marked her hand before grabbing onto Cora.

They made their way over to the bar with difficulty, squeezing through the howling crowd that packed the dance floor like sardines. Watching sweaty bodies pressed up against one another, ready to fuck, made Star’s nipples harden. She bit her lower lip in arousal. She makes money off of arousal, but something felt different. Nothing was scripted. She was living in the moment.

Star snapped her fingers and rolled her hips expertly like she was crafted to dance dirty. The big fans flowing made the air blow, causing her voluminous hair to sway. Star closed her eyes and imagined that she was in the spot light, waiting to dance with the finest man. She adjusted her halter top to make sure her titties were pushed up just right. After all, they were money makers.

Her eyes immediately fell on a flashy bartender with long dreads who was spinning some bottles, juggling glasses, and engaging everyone around him. From the looks of it, he could be related to Onyx. Both of them had this everlasting beauty to them. Perfectly smooth skin; blemish free and porcelain. Eyes that shined like fireflies in the night.

Star spoke closely to Cora, “You weren’t lying. The eye candy is unbelievable,” Star said to Cora, “Wonder who the sexy man behind the bar is.”

“Oh, that’s Legend.”

Star’s mouth dropped open slightly like she was trying to activate her jaw muscles for a feast, “Legend looks like a god!”

“Oh, he is,” Cora flashed Star a little coy smile.

Just when she thought she was in love with the muscular bartender with locs, a taller stud with cinnamon skin appeared at the end of the bar, as if he were hidden in the shadows. His efficiently lined goatee, bristled mustache, and curly fro with a decorative side part sent Star over the edge.

Broad shoulders. Sharp nose. Big lips. Sculptured jawline. Intimidating biceps showing through the leather moto vest he wore. So mouthwatering. His torso is sculpted with slight muscles and a delicious thickness. A gold cross chain hung from his neck and sat between his pecs. Leather pants outlined a heavy bulge and on his feet were biker boots. Tiny, gold hoops decorated his ears along with gold rings on his fingers and the flicker of gold on his teeth.

He looked like he smelled of bourbon, tobacco, leather, and vanilla.

Star was speechless and unashamedly checking him out. Like anybody else that crossed his path. The man was fucking sexy. Eyes that shined like glistening diamonds met hers. Star stared back, caught up in the trance of his eyes. Eyes similar to Onyx and Legend.

Dimples in each cheek framed a perfect grin.

Star’s heavy breathing halted as soon as she laid eyes on his shirtless, sculpted upper body. Eyes appearing dark brown locked with hers again and Star clutched her heart because it skipped a beat.

Cora’s voice cutting through the tension brought her back from her daze.

“Can you give us two shots of tequila, pretty please?”

As Legend poured the shots, Cora placed some money on the bar.

“Cora,” Star spoke breathlessly, “I have a weakness for chocolate,” she said into her ear, feeling her knees buckle.

“Got plenty of that ‘round here for you, girl…”

Star had to plant her feet firmly and lean up against the barstool to stop herself from fainting.

“Thank you, handsome,” Cora said with a grin.

Legend slid the two shot glasses in front of them with a well–practiced fluidity, not wasting a single drop in the dark wood bar top.

“Time to get drunk and groove!” Cora yelled before downing her shot.

Star downed hers as well.

They slammed their glasses down in unison.

Two more shots appeared.

Cora laughed, “How sweet of you, how’d you know we needed another?”

Legend pointed toward the end of the bar. Cora and Star’s gaze landed on the sexy–as–fuck man occupying the end of the bar with his back turned to it and elbows propped on top. He raised his glass of brown liquor before taking a sip.

“On the house. Stack’s got you ladies covered for the evening.”

“Stack?” Star repeated. She turned that name over in her mind, imprinting it to memory.

“He’s a good friend and partner. When he likes you, he tends to throw money at you. Flashy brother. Slick talk. But he mean business.”

No surprise there. All the women in Vaisseau’s were spellbound, fixated by the way he commanded all the attention in the room. He knocked the rest of his drink back before placing it on the bar and walking off. An emptiness filled Star’s belly.

Soon, the music picked up again.

“Oh, my God!” Star shouted, bouncing up and down, feeling the music propel through her, “Let’s hit the floor, Cora!”

“Right behind you, girl!”

They interweaved their fingers and held their arms high, hips oscillating to the funk beat. The fan’s did their best to keep them cool, but being surrounded by so many dancing bodies sweating and gyrating all over each other made it hard to breathe. But it was worth it. The music. The energy. Cora and Star pressed their fronts together and dirty danced, arms dropped over each other’s shoulders as they moved their hips and asses in a tight circle.

“Dammit! I love this place!” Star yelled over the loud music.

“Knew you would!” Cora circled Star, wrapping her arms around her waist from the back as they moved from left to right, “I think you have an admirer, Star.”

Star’s head swiveled to the right and there, leaning against a beam, was Stack himself.

“He probably recognizes you, Miss Star Vixen.”

“You think so? Star looked at Cora over her shoulder.

“Definitely. You must’ve changed that man’s life!”

Whatever it is, Stack didn’t give a hot damn about anybody else but Star. He didn’t blink. He just stared with this sexy smirk, occasionally licking his lips, and dragging his eyes lazily over her body.

It made her nervous and excited all at once. Had her stomach doing flips and her clit jumping like it had a mind of its own.

“I need to get a little tipsy, you want another shot?” Cora asked, letting go of Star’s waist.

“I’ll take another! Let’s go—”

“No no, stay here and enjoy yourself! I’ll be back!”

Cora whisked away and soon she disappeared. Star circled where she stood, stroking her sweaty right arm. A Prince song came on and Star closed her eyes, bringing her hands through her hair as her body rolled and teased whatever man had his eyes on her. She swung her head back and forth, hair hiding her face, feeling the music climb over her body, welcoming it.

She bowed her back and started whining her hips seductively like she does in her X–rated films. Star was tired of fucking on mediocre white dick for the cameras, she needed a dick almost as thick as her wrist and long enough to feel it in her stomach. No longer would she need to fake orgasms. Pretend the tongue wiggling in her pussy makes her cum.

She wanted the real deal. None of that make believe bullshit. She couldn’t even recall the last time she’d been fucked well and proper. Last good dick was back in Baltimore in her luxury downtown apartment on Charles Street.

As she raised her curvy frame, a strong hand pressed against her stomach, just above her sex. Trapping her.

Star’s breath hitched sharply.

A ghostly whisper teased her ears. Like she was in the presence of something inhuman.

The hand on her stomach guided her movements as Prince’s song continued. Her plump booty sat over a very obvious bulge, the dominant hand keeping her still. Star circled her waistline like she was hoola hooping slow. One arm elevated and her hand grabbed onto the back of a neck. The hand on her stomach was joined by another, both resting on the tops of her thighs. Whenever she moved, the man was right there with her. Expertly. Like his hips were made of jello.

Star’s brows pinched together and she nibbled on her bottom lip. This shit felt good…so good. Their bodies rolled up and down in unison, like he was fucking her from behind to a sultry electric guitar solo. Star felt her clit pulsate so intensely her knees almost gave in. The man behind her kept her steady, his expert hips bucking against her ass. Star felt her body jerk as the guitar reached a high point.

“Unhhhhhhh….”

It climbed higher

“Unhhhhhh…”

She moaned. Moaned so intense and beautiful. A face crashed into her neck, inhaling deeply. Star stilled her movements to calm her racing heart. A wet, warm tongue sampled her flesh. Star’s eyes became hazy slits.

Star…Star Vixen…

“I can’t believe it’s really you…”

A voice with a rich, Mississippi accent teases her ears.

“S–so you kn–know me?”

Star turned within his embrace, coming face to face with Stack himself.

He clenched his jaw tight and beyond a pair of shades his eyes locked with hers. He didn’t let her go. His hands were planted against her drenched back. Star had a hold of his shoulders. Stack dipped Star suddenly, an elevated breath escaping her mouth. She was back within his embrace, her stunned eyes fixated on him. Star reached up to remove his shades but Stack stopped her, gripping her wrist tightly. Star gasped. Heart damn near skipping a beat.

“I can’t see your eyes? They’re beautiful...please?” Star pleaded.

“Just let me enjoy you for a sec, baby…”

Stack brought her wrist to his lips and he gave her a sloppy kiss over her pulse. His brows furrowed and a deep growl echoed.

It echoed.

Star trembled.

“You smell delicious, baby…I love your work.”

Star smiled, “Thank you. Happy to be of service.”

“I watch your soft core nudes and lesbian peep shows all the time…my favorite are the close ups of your pussy…it’s so pretty…and always soaking wet…”

Star chuckled breathlessly, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, gorgeous. You make me weak…”

“How so?” Star quirked a brow.

“You felt me poking you from behind right?”

Star gave Stack an enticing smile.

Stack double–cuffed her booty, gripping tight over her dress. The him of the dress sat higher, giving anyone a glimpse of the under cuff of her ass. Juicy. Fat. A handful. Ass like that make you weak.

“Fuck,” Stack smirked at her, “I’m your biggest fan.”

“You want my autograph?” Star teased.

“I plan to get that…trust me.”

He dipped his head and Star could make out his shining orbs from the tops of his shades. Star shied away from his intense focus. Even hidden behind a pair of shades, she felt as if he were boring into her soul.

Cora.

“I have to go find my friend.” Star said.

“Cora?” Stack asked.

“Yeah…you know her?”

“I’ve seen her ‘round. Here,” Stack grabbed her hand, “Let’s go to the bar.”

Stack led Star back to the bar. The crowd parted for them as they walked. Star spotted Cora sitting at the bar, flirting with Legend. Legend motioned with his head towards Star and Cora whirled around. She smiled knowingly before clapping her hands.

“Encore!” Cora exclaimed as she shook her ass to the music.

Legend poured another shot for Star and a whiskey for Stack. Stack trapped Star at the bar, standing behind her like he was claiming her as his. The ghostly whisper tickled her ears again as Stack leans in, pressing his nose against her neck, dragging it up to her hair.

Star clanked glasses with Cora before drinking the shot. It burned going down. She frowned her face and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Star started bouncing her body to the beat, ass knocking into Stack’s crotch each time. She swept her hair from her face to glance over her shoulder at him.

“Do ya’ like what ya’ see?” Stack asked after licking his lips.

“I do,” Star admitted timidly.

“Actin’ all shy, Star?” Stack questioned teasingly.

Star smiled wider, she felt her skin grow hot from the inside.

“Where are you from?”

“Mississippi. You?”

“Baltimore.”

“I love B–more. Very welcoming.”

Star nodded her head in agreement, “Never been to Mississippi. Maybe you can show me around sometime,” Star flirted, a small part of her afraid he would reject her.

Despite being a porn Star, her dating life was lack luster. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been on a date or shown interest in a man outside of her performing.

“I’d show you the Delta anytime, baby.”

Star took it a step further, “But since we here now, maybe you can show me what it’s like to fuck with a Mississippi man,” she hinted, leaning closer to him.

Stack smiled broadly, staring at Star beyond his shades.

I got a motel cross the highway. Come stay wit’ me tonight.”

Star caught Cora nudging her suggestively. She elevated both brows, a silent way of expressing that Star should definitely spend the night with Stack.

Star didn’t need convincing, she already had her mind made up.

Star cleared her tightened throat, feeling herself get even hotter, “I will,” Star spoke with a confidence.

“Aight. Come wit’ me.”

Cora shooed her away, “Go on! I plan to get a room myself! Have fun!”

“You sure?” Star asked her friend.

“I’m all good! Legend here keepin’ me company. Ain’t that right?”

Legend winked at Cora in response, causing her to giggle.

As Cora flirted with Legend, leaning over the bar and practically face to face, Star could make out Legend’s hand easing inside her bikini top. Cora flashed Star a cunning wink and a devilish smirk.

More devilish than Devil’s Highway.

@eggnox @blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[x1asirene]

push n' fracture ! — caleb 夏 (f1 rider! au)

— ! lexical count : 5.7k words

— ! affinity : caleb (xia yizhou) x fem!reader

— ! essence : caleb doesn’t do rivals. especially not when they’re plastered across your skin. jealousy twists into something sharp and dangerous as possession takes over, and the line between love and obsession blurs. tangled, messy, and burning with tension—this is about claiming what’s his, no matter the cost.

— ! precautionary : fem!reader, use of ‘y/n’ and feminine pronouns, f1 rider!caleb, sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, intense physicality, car crash (non-fatal), semi-public setting, slight degradation, overstimulation, roughness, dom!caleb, rivalry-based tension, angry sex

— ! writer’s foreword : just crash-landed home from, brain leaking out my ears, and what did i do? rest? recover? touch grass? no. i opened my laptop and immediately started writing this unholy, feral filthfest. if this fic makes no sense or feels like a fever dream, blame the caffeine overdose and my sleep deprivation. also, send help (and snacks). preferably both.

— ! soundtrack in play : ohmami by chase atlantic

this is my only account. any similarities between this work and others—published or unpublished—are entirely coincidental. i pour a great deal of time, care, and emotion into what i create. it is against both my principles and my moral compass to plagiarize or steal from the work of others. i hold deep respect for the creators who came before me, and i would never knowingly compromise the integrity of their work or mine. furthermore, i do not condone the use of AI in the creation or replication of fanworks. everything here is original and made with clean intentions.

minors dni. this work contains dark, mature themes and is intended for adult audiences only. accounts that do not clearly indicate age in their bio or blog will be blocked without warning. this is for my safety and yours—respect boundaries, respect creators.

you weren’t even wearing his team hoodie.

no red bull colors. no little sticker of his number on your cheek like you wore in monaco. no subtle sign that you were his—not even a glance in his direction. instead, your shirt clung to your skin in the dry desert heat, speckled with sun and cropped enough to bare your ribs when the desert wind blew. that tight mclaren crop tee clung to your skin, the bright tarocco tone screaming his rival’s colors as you stood too close—way too close—to rafayel.

it all started with a laugh. just a laugh. nothing more.

you’d meant nothing by it—just a shared joke with rafayel in the hospitality lounge before qualifying. rafayel leaned toward you with that signature half-grin, elbow on the counter of the lounge, head tilted just enough to make it intimate. charming. relaxed. fucking smug. his hand had brushed your arm when you’d thrown your head back, the soft trill of your giggle carried into the desert air. head tipped back, fingers brushing his arm as you caught his eye and giggled at something he said. a soft, unconscious motion. a friendly exchange. nothing malicious, nothing overt.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it in the way caleb’s jaw locked during the driver briefing—helmet held by its chin bar, fzipped up to his collarbone, gloves hooked around two fingers—and for the first time in his career, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or DRS zones. his jaw flexed tight enough to cramp as he watched rafayel lean in closer, and watched you—his girl, the girl who should never let anyone that close—giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear like it wasn’t a fucking dagger straight through his sternum.

“caleb,” his engineer’s voice crackled through the headset. “you alright, mate? you seem out of it—everythin’ okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. swallowed hard, blinked once. his grip clenched tighter around his helmet, the carbon fiber started to dent. “…peachy.”

he didn’t look at rafayel again. didn’t need to.

he’d already decided.

i’ll deal with you later.

P2 on the grid.

of course it was P2.

rafayel sat in his mclaren like he already had the win wrapped around his fingers, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the top of his wheel, the other giving a little mock salute to the crowd through the visor cam. caleb didn’t look at him. his gloves were already tugged tight, helmet sealed, eyes locked forward—but all he saw behind the visor was the orange shirt stuck to your back in the heat with the stupid bold mclaren settled on the fabric right over your heart. his number and name nowhere in sight.

“radio check,” his engineer called.

he didn’t respond.

“caleb? radio check, mate?”

his voice finally came through, taut and venomous. “loud and fucking clear.”

there was a beat of silence. a pause on the line, “you good, man?”

he forced a breath through his nose. “let’s just get this over with,” over the loud hum of the engine, all he could hear was the echoes of your laugh with that shithead rafayel.

“five lights on,” the race director counted. “and it’s lights out and away we go—!” rafayel’s launch was clean—but caleb was rabid. the red bull fired forward like a predator loosed from the leash, barely missing P3 as he launched straight into turn 1 side-by-side with the mclaren. rafayel closed him off with a hard brake, forcing caleb out wide on the dirty part of the track, but caleb didn’t lift — not even when his front wing came within centimeters of rafayel’s rear.

“he’s driving like he wants to fuckin’ kill me,” rafayel spat over comms, his voice crackling. caleb didn’t respond on his own. he was too busy chasing. he spent the first dozen laps locked inside DRS range, not even trying to overtake clean—no, every move was calculated pressure. he drove like he wanted rafayel to feel him breathing down his neck. every brake was late. every corner exit was close enough to make the mclaren engineer panic.

“back off, caleb!” his own team barked at one point. “you’re risking a collision!” but caleb didn’t care. he wanted him to feel cornered. to know that he was prey. because he was. you don’t put your hands on her, he thought darkly as he tailgated out of turn 10, and walk away unscathed.

you were on the pit wall by then—wearing orange, still—and caleb saw you glance up at the timing tower. every time his number lit up right behind rafayel’s, you tensed. he saw it.

good, he thought. watch me. watch what i do to the man who touches what’s mine.

it built slowly—tire wear creeping in, temps rising, his rear losing grip in sector 3. still he stayed out, defying every team call to box. lap 26, rafayel’s tires began to fail. the tires wore down. rear traction faded. lap times dropped. still, he didn’t box. ignored every pit call.

“caleb, come in, we’re losing compound.”

“negative.” his voice came back hoarse. “i’ve got him.”

lap 28, rafayel’s grip was breaking—caleb could see it in the rear twitch. turn fourteen, he closed in so tight the slipstream pulled bits of rubber into his halo. he could’ve tapped the diffuser with his nose cone if he wanted. could’ve unstitched the seams of that mclaren.

“final lap,” came the call. “no funny shit, caleb.” but it was too late for that. he already knew where he’d do it. turn 13. fast. blind. unforgiving. he waited for the right moment, nudged inside, and turned in early.

the contact was immediate.

carbon fiber shredded. both cars locked up in a scream of tire smoke and screeching brakes. rafayel’s mclaren spun violently off the racing line, back end slammed against the barriers, dust pluming into the air. caleb’s red bull skidded into the gravel with a thunderous jolt.

yellow flags. double waved.

red flag. the race was over.

rafayel was out. caleb’s engine stalled in the gravel. static choked the radio. “what the fuck was that?!” screamed race control. he didn’t answer. not until he saw the red flag and the dust settle. not until he saw your face on the edge of the pit wall go white.

he didn’t attend the press conference. didn’t even unbuckle until a marshal banged on his cockpit. his PR rep trailed after him with panicked eyes and a clipboard full of damage control bullet points, but caleb walked right past him, suit still half-zipped, jaw clenched hard enough he could swear his teeth would crush with the pressure. they tried to stop him. camera caught his shoulder. reporters called his name—he didn’t even turn his head.

no interviews. no apologies. no explanations.

let them speculate. let them talk.

he didn’t give a single damn.

because rafayel wouldn’t touch you again.

not after this.

you didn’t speak the entire drive back.

he’d refused the medical tent. ignored the swarm of reporters like they weren’t even there, brushed past the PR team screaming his name with a pace so brutal you’d had to jog to keep up. he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at you. just reached back once—wrist tight, fingers wrapping around yours—and yanked you with him through the mess of the paddock and straight into the red bull private lot.

the silence was suffocating. not tense in the way people usually meant it—not awkward, not uncomfortable. it was a pressure chamber. the kind that made your ears ring and your chest hurt. you could hear every turn signal click, every swipe of the wiper across the windshield, even the way caleb’s grip on the wheel creaked under his gloves. he hadn’t taken them off. still in his fireproofs, zipper low on his chest, collarbone glistening with sweat and dust, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap.

the door slammed shut behind you with a vicious bang!—a sound that echoed like a gunshot off the walls—and it made your shoulders jerk involuntarily. he didn’t say a word. didn’t glance back. just stalked across the living room like the adrenaline was still burning through his blood, ripping open the fridge like something in it might anchor him, steady the fury in his bones. but even from where you stood, you could see the tremor in his hand. the way his fingers gripped the handle too hard. the tension still coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound to the point of rupture.

he wasn’t calming down. not even close.

the silence throbbed around you, thick and charged. you shifted on your feet, breath shallow, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat.

“caleb—” you started, voice small.

“take it off.” his voice was low, sliced through the air like a whip.

you froze. your mouth parted, a breath catching in your throat. “w-what?”

he closed the fridge slowly. deliberately. then turned.

his eyes were black beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, dark and molten like they hadn’t cooled since the second his front wing clipped rafayel’s tire in that brutal turn. he took a step toward you, slow and controlled, like a predator choosing exactly how to pounce. “the fucking shirt,” he said, voice low and thick with venom. another step. “take it off before i rip it off ‘ya.”

your stomach dropped. you looked down instinctively. that stupid, traitorous mclaren tee still clung to your sweat-damp skin, streaked with grime and faint splashes of champagne from a podium that wasn’t his. that bright orange logo burned against your chest like a brand, and suddenly it felt radioactive.

you didn’t move. you hesitated.

and that was all it took.

two strides, and he was on you.

your back hit the wall so fast the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. the world narrowed—your heartbeat screamed in your ears, adrenaline flared under your skin, and caleb was there, crowding you in, body a furnace, heat rolling off him in waves. his fingers hooked the hem and yanked—not teasing, not even urgent. violent. the fabric caught against your arms, dragged over your skin so fast it left a burn, your hair tangled and pulled, nipples tightening into stiff peaks in the sudden rush of cold air.

caleb tossed the shirt onto the floor like it disgusted him.

“you wanna wear his colors?” he muttered, voice low and curling with fury. his breath hit your collarbone, his words too close, too hot. “wanna sit there in his fucking garage and giggle at his jokes while he stares at your tits through my windshield?”

tone wasn’t raised. he didn’t have to shout. it was the quietness that made it worse—quiet like a threat wrapped in velvet. quiet like a knife at your ribs.

you breath stuttered, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. “c-caleb, i wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“shut it,” he snarled it, close enough for your lips to brush, and the force of it made your breath stutter. his hands came up—hard—gripping your waist, rough fingers digging into your hips like he meant to leave marks, like he wanted to brand you into him, carve out any memory of someone else’s eyes on your skin. caleb dragged you forward, chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours like war drums.

“i don’t want your pathetic excuses,” he ground out. “you don’t wear his name. you don’t smile at him.”

the silence after was suffocating.

his fingers curled tighter around your sides. his mouth hovered near your jaw, breath ragged and warm, chest heaving with every inhale like he couldn’t catch it. rage coiled off him in waves, not loud anymore—just molten, buried deep, a kind of fury that didn’t explode. it consumed. slow. controlled. and it was deadly.

and it was all aimed at the thought of him touching you.

of you letting him.

caleb’s thumb ghosted over your ribs, rough and possessive, tracing the bare skin now exposed in the absence of that damned shirt.

his mouth crushed against yours before you could speak—hot, brutal, punishing. all teeth and fury, like he wanted to bite the silence from your tongue, like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him to the present. he didn’t kiss you so much as devour you, lips bruising, jaw tense with barely-contained rage, breathing you in like you were air after drowning.

his hands were everywhere—frantic, careless. they slid down the arch of your spine, fingers pressing into every vertebra like he meant to memorize the shape of you, then sank lower, palms gripping your ass with bruising force. he hauled you against him so hard your breath fled, pelvis grinding to his through the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. he was already half-hard. already throbbing through the thin barrier between you. the press of it against your lower stomach made your knees tremble.

and then his gaze dropped.

his eyes caught on the denim. the sound that tore from his throat was less a breath and more a mocking scoff.

the low-rise shorts clung to your hips like sin, skin peeking out from under the frayed hem, teasing with that reckless kind of innocence that only made his fury burn hotter. they sat just high enough to hint at modesty but dipped scandalously low, hugging the softness of your waist like a taunt.

slowly, he reached down—deliberate, fingers flexing—and let his hand splay flat over your stomach. his palm was hot against your skin. the heel of it rested against the waistband, and then—without breaking eye contact—he slipped his thumb beneath it. just the barest intrusion. a single brush of rough skin over the delicate swell of your mound, not enough to touch you properly, but enough to make your whole body jerk with a whimper.

“these,” he sneered. “you wore these to the paddock? while he was watching?” his voice dropped into a guttural rasp. you opened your mouth to protest, but his voice cut you off—deeper now, dipped into something feral.

“he was probably fucking imagining what you looked like bent over the pit wall in ‘em,” caleb rasped, and the way he said it—like it sickened him, like it possessed him—made your stomach twist.

his eyes darkened—and in one swift, brutal motion, he popped the button on the shorts with a flick of his thumb. the metallic click echoed in the room like a shot. then his fingers gripped the zipper and yanked it down so roughly you gasped, fabric jerking against your hips before it slid down to your thighs, pooling at your feet in a useless, tangled heap.

he didn’t stop. his hand moved fast, unforgiving—already pulling your panties to the side before you had time to react. the elastic scraped the crease of your thigh, baring you to the chill of the room and the heat of him, and still, he didn’t look away. didn’t blink. just stared down at your cunt like it had betrayed him, like it belonged to him and had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have.

“c-caleb,” you stammered, your voice catching, high and desperate, “you’re being—,” but the words dissolved on your tongue.

because his fingers were there, already brushing against slick heat, already groaning under his breath like it physically hurt him that you were wet for this—wet for him, even now, even after everything.

you could hardly breathe.

your head lolled against the wall as his fingers fucked you open—deep, firm, unrelenting. You were soaked, the wet sounds of it obscene in the charged silence, broken only by the staggered hitch of your breath and the rough rasp of his. your thighs were trembling, barely holding you upright, and caleb didn’t let up. he wouldn’t let up.

his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and absolutely feral. “you’re not even trying to stop me.” your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a soft, cracked moan. “yeah,” he hissed. “that’s what i thought.”

he drove his fingers in deeper, curling them just right—pulling a strangled sound from your throat. your hips jerked helplessly, and he groaned as your pussy clenched, dripping all over his knuckles.

“f-fuck,” you gasped, arms scrambling for purchase across his chest, clutching at the fabric of his fireproofs like he was your anchor. “c-caleb, i—nnh, please—”

you whimpered, broken and breathless, voice catching on each gasp. “i-i didn’t mean—nnh ahhh—d-didn’t mean to—”

“you wore that fucking shirt. wore his team, his number, his name. you meant it.” his teeth dragged over your neck, biting down hard enough to make your legs quake. “don’t act like you don’t like this. like you don’t love being fucked dumb right after i almost took him off the track.”

you sobbed out a noise that barely resembled his name—“p-please, i—oh, god—”

his fingers hit that spot again, and your body jolted, hips rocking into his palm like you couldn’t help it. the muscles in your stomach tensed, fluttering around the edge of your climax. he felt it, saw it, and laughed—low and delighted.

“oh, baby… gonna cum, aren’t ya’?” he mocked, breath hot against your jaw, eyes glittering. “you’re so easy. just a couple fingers and you’re already soaking me. dripping like a goddamn whore.”

“p-please—ah—please, i can’t—” your words broke apart, swallowed by the sounds of your own whimpers as your orgasm built sharp and unbearable. “i-i c-can’t hold it, caleb, i—fuck—”

“then don’t.” his hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “let me hear how mine you are.” and you shattered. a sobbing, shaking mess.y our body locked up, thighs clenching around his wrist as you came with a choked cry—wet and slick and pulsing so hard around his fingers you felt your knees threaten to give out. caleb held you upright through it, murmuring dark praise between your panting breaths.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” he pressed a kiss to your temple—mockingly tender, wicked and warm. “so good when you’re ruined.” his fingers slipped free with a wet noise, glistening in the low light. he brought them to your lips, eyes still sharp and burning. “suck f’ me, will ya’?”

you blinked, dazed, mind swimming in the haze of pleasure and want. slowly, obediently, you parted your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them just before his fingers slid into your mouth. the taste was warm, messy—you, tangled with him—and the sound that escaped you was soft, shameless, utterly desperate.

caleb’s groan rumbled low in his throat, eyes darkening as he watched every motion, every subtle shift of your tongue curling around his fingers. “god, you look so pretty like this,” he rasped, dragging those soaked fingers out with a sharp pop that echoed in the quiet room. “dumb little mouth wrapped around what’s mine.”

you whimpered, the sound raw and fragile, knees trembling as they brushed his in the cramped space. your body sagged into his, burning and unsteady, craving his touch like air. then that smirk—slow, sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife dragged through silk. his voice dropped even lower, slow and deliberate, thick with dark amusement. “think we’re done?”

your breath hitched, caught in your throat as his eyes bore into yours, unblinking and heavy with promise. the room seemed to pulse around you, heat swelling in your skin, every nerve ending screaming alive. you tried to shake your head, but your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling: “n-no—please…”

his fingers curled in a slow, possessive grip against your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered just inches from his. “behave,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel. “because i’m nowhere near finished with you.”

his mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands gripped your hips, holding you so tightly it was almost painful—but you didn’t care. you were already melting into him, breath shallow and fast, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning bell.

without hesitation, he ripped open his fireproofs, pulling out his thick, heavy cock, already leaking thick beads of precum, flushed red from holding back for too long. he shifted, pressing the full length of himself inside you, inch by agonizing inch, his body a hot, solid weight that filled every space. your breath hitched sharply, a stuttered moan slipping free as your walls stretched and clenched around him, tight and trembling.

your body jolted—smack!—as he bottomed out in one punishing motion. he didn’t stop to let you adjust. he just started fucking you. hard.

“is this what you needed?” he snarled, teeth at your throat again, biting down—hard. “some real fucking? not the attention of some weak little paddock rat.”

you sobbed, arms flying to his shoulders, clawing for purchase. he drove into you over and over, hips snapping up—wet noises echoing through the room. your slick ran down your thighs, onto his, then pooling onto the floor.

“fuck, you’re mine,” he growled into your hair, voice thick with need and possession. His hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “say it. say it or i’ll fill you up and walk out without another word.”

“i—i’m yours!” you sobbed, legs trembling. “caleb, please—i’m yours, i’m yours! a-always yours!” another slap to your ass—sharp, loud. then his hand gripped your hair, yanked your head back, and his teeth sank into your shoulder—deep, a bite so hard it made stars dance behind your eyes.

“you wear my number. my colors. my fucking name on your back. not that mclaren shit or anything else. never fucking again.” caleb’s hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust a brutal claim that sent your body shuddering beneath him. his teeth grazed your collarbone, sinking in deeply with a savage bite that left a bruised crescent burning hot against your skin. You gasped, head thrown back, breath shattering into sharp sobs that mixed pain and pleasure so fiercely your whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“fucking feel that, yeah?” he growled against your skin, voice thick with venomous hunger. your hands ripped down his sides, nails clawing cruel lines along his ribs as caleb dragged his teeth lower—trail of sharp bites blooming bruises along the curve of your tits, marking you with brutal possessiveness. “you think that idiot could ever fuck you like this? make you cry out, beg, lose your goddamn mind? no chance.”

you whimpered, caught between sobs and desperate moans, hips jerking instinctively with every ruthless stroke. “n-no—! only you, caleb! please—fuck, please mmm—!” your voice broke, breath hitching in a ragged stutter as your muscles clenched around him tighter, convulsing in waves of scorching overstimulation that stole your ability to think straight.

“bark f’me, sweet girl,” his teeth sank deep into your hip, biting down hard enough to draw a gasp, pleasure twisting with pain in a raw knot of sensation that made you cry out and claw at his back. “say you’re mine. my filthy little wreck, mine.”

“’m yours! yours, caleb!” you sobbed, body trembling, tears stinging your eyes as relentless orgasms crashed over you, folding you in a violent, layered tangle of ecstasy. your voice came out breathless and shattered, “please, don’t stop! i—i’m gonna—f-fuck, i’m gonna—please, i’m c-cummin’!”

“tell me,” he snarled against your neck, voice low, dark, teeth grazing skin like a threat, “tell me who you’re cummin’ for. me or that pretty little fucker?”

his hips snapped up cruelly, deep and fast, dragging a sob from your lips. his hand stayed locked tight around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who owned every gasp, every tremble.

“you!” you cried out, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. your nails dug into the fireproofs still half-wrapped around his waist. “you, sir—only you, ah, fuckkk—!”

he grinned, vicious and possessive, like your surrender was his prize. “yeah?” he hissed, slamming into you again. “say it louder. make sure even that bastard hears it next race.” caleb didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder, rough and relentless, like he was trying to erase any trace of rafayel from your body—if there’d ever been any. one hand gripped your hip bruisingly tight, the other still curved under your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to hold his.

“damn right,” he growled, sweat-slick and flushed, but no less in control. “say my name. not ‘sir.’ not ‘please.’ mine.”

your whole body jerked with each thrust, barely able to keep upright, tears streaking your cheeks. “caleb—! caleb, i’m—i’m yours, i swear—”

“louder,” he barked, voice edged in a snarl. “c’mon, sweetheart. want you hoarse for me. want that voice ruined so you can’t say shit to anyone else.”

you shattered then—crying his name, choking on your moan as your body seized, shaking, breaking apart in his hands like it always did. and he didn’t let up. not when you came, not when your body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

“too much?” he murmured mockingly, breath hot against your temple. “too bad. i haven’t had enough yet. not till i’m sure he knows you walk funny tomorrow ‘cause of me.”

he crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your desperate sounds with a hungry roar, his fingers digging deep into your hips as he drove you harder over the edge. your walls fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing uncontrollably as you teetered on the brink—then tipped.

your body convulsed violently, a flood of sensation so fierce it wracked every nerve ending. you cried out, a broken, trembling sound filled with pure, overwhelming need. his thrusts became more savage, relentless, “mine,” he rasped between clenched teeth, voice thick and harsh as he chased his own climax, “only mine. gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll be leaking my cum for days.”

the force of him stole your breath again as another orgasm ripped through you, your body arching wildly. you trembled, clinging to him, sobbing his name like a prayer. he chased you over the edge, one hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other bruising your waist as he came with a shuddering, broken groan—low, guttural, right against your skin—his teeth sinking into your neck as he spilled hot and thick inside you, every pulse of him a claim you’d never shake.

he stayed still a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, panting like he’d survived a battle. then—slowly—he pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden empty ache, your slick and his own, trailing down your inner thighs.

your body was still quaking when caleb carried you, trembling and ruined, to the couch—his grip bruising, but reverent. his jaw was tight, his breath still shallow from the exertion, and the whole room still reeked of sex and heat and rage. your thighs stuck to his fireproofs, slick and smeared, and your chest rose in ragged, shallow pants as he laid you down like you were something precious—but barely.

"look at you," he muttered, his voice hoarse with raw satisfaction. "still shakin’. you don't even know your own name, do you?"

your only answer was a weak, broken sound—something between a whimper and a plea. he chucked, low and dangerous, fingers brushing your jaw as his other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open again just to look. but then—he stilled.

his thumb stopped where it had been tracing, reverent in its own brutal way. his gaze, once burning with hunger, flickered—hesitating. you blinked through the haze clouding your vision, and there he was again: caleb, not the fire-eyed predator but the boy who used to hold your hand under the covers during thunderstorms, the boy who always laced your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold to do it yourself.

“…fuck,” he murmured, and something in his tone cracked open. he exhaled hard and let your thigh fall gently against the couch cushion, his body sinking beside yours, no longer looming—folding. a different kind of tension took its place, quieter, older. his hand cupped your cheek again, softer now, trembling faintly.

"you okay?" he asked, and his voice was lower. wrought with guilt, with fear, with love. "talk to me, love. tell me you’re okay."

you nodded, just barely, then leaned into his palm with a broken little sound. “o-okay…’m okay,” you breathed, voice ragged but true.

he closed his eyes.

for a moment, caleb didn’t say anything. just let his forehead press to yours. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t keep anchoring you to him. then, with careful arms, he pulled you into his lap—blanketing you in the throw he’d once haphazardly tossed on the couch. your legs curled over his, trembling.

“you’re shaking,” caleb murmured again, his voice low and rough, like gravel coated in velvet. the heat radiating from his body pressed against your back was a fierce, solid warmth that somehow grounded you, but you could still feel the tremors racing through your limbs—shaky, fragile, like you were made of glass. his arms tightened around you, not crushing, but possessive, protective—as if he wanted to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

his lips brushed your skin like a feather in slow, feather-light kisses. first your bare shoulder, where the soft warmth of his mouth left a trail that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. then along the hollow of your collarbone, his breath hot and steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and sweat from the race—intoxicating and unmistakably him. when his mouth ghosted to the corner of your lips, he paused, lingering like he was memorizing your shape, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quickening pulse beneath.

“you scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he breathed, voice husky and trembling with emotion, the raw vulnerability undercut by the fire of his obsession. “the way i feel about you... it’s not normal. maybe it’s because… i love you more than you realize.”

his hands roamed slowly now, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive tenderness that set your nerves alight. one palm slid down the curve of your side, fingers pressing into your hip bone, grounding you in the heat between you. the other curled in your hair, thumb brushing your temple softly, coaxing the tension out of your clenched muscles.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “just be here with me.”

your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his gaze—dark, intense, burning with a hunger that softened only when it landed on you. the sight made your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet ache that spread through your limbs like wildfire.

your fingers twined tightly in the thick fabric of his fireproof suit, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. you curled into him, the solid beat of his heart against your palm a grounding anchor amid the storm of emotion crashing through you. no words came—only the soft press of your lips against his jaw, the whisper of a kiss that said everything you couldn’t say aloud.

caleb’s breath hitched sharply, eyes darkening with a fierce tenderness as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped silently down your cheek, his touch so gentle it made your breath catch. his smile was fragile, barely there—but real. like he was offering you a piece of his soul wrapped in vulnerability.

“you’re everything to me,” he confessed, voice thick and laden with something bittersweet, a promise and a curse intertwined. “every lap, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. you ruined me, and i don’t ever want to be put back together.”

his arms squeezed you tighter, possessive and fierce, a silent vow to keep you safe and claim you utterly. the heat from his body seeped deep into your bones, steady and relentless, chasing away the shadows that lingered inside you.

your hand rose to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, memorizing the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. “l-love you..i’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. a soft, possessive smile curved his lips. “yeah,” he said, voice low and thick with pride, “only mine.”

when he kissed you this time, it was different—slow and tender, a deep press of lips that spoke of ownership and devotion, not just need. his mouth was warm and soft, roughened by days on the track and sleepless nights, and the taste of him—smoky, faintly metallic, and utterly intoxicating—settled deep inside your senses. his hands cradled your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you were his, that you belonged here, to him, in this moment.

“sleep,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle, a soothing promise that wrapped around you like a blanket. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyelids fluttered closed, sinking fully into the fierce, steady warmth of his arms. his heartbeat thrummed against your back, a wild, unyielding fire that burned only for you—and you let yourself be consumed by it.

caleb didn’t sleep. not for a second.

he stood bare-chested in front of the fire, the room thick with heat and shadows that flickered like ghosts on the walls. the dry crackle of the flames filled the silence, but inside him, a storm still raged—cold, sharp, relentless—but not for you, no, never.

his knuckles bore the faintest traces of dried blood where he'd gripped the wall to steady you, but the ache there was nothing compared to the sharp edge of his hatred for rafayel. the mclaren tee lay crumpled at his feet—a stubborn reminder that wouldn’t fade.

he bent down and picked it up slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric, a silent vow burning hotter than the fire before him. with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it close. he traced the soft cotton absently, the smell faint but familiar, and it stabbed at him like a fresh wound. the color—too bright, too loud—reminded him of everything he hated to admit. he fed the shirt to the flames, watching the orange cotton curl, blacken, and twist in on itself. the smell of scorched cloth filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the rancor that still coiled tight inside.

he didn’t blink until the last ember faded to ash, eyes cold and unyielding, mind still racing with bitter thoughts.

rafayel had crossed a line.

and caleb’s fire wasn’t ready to die down—not yet, not ever.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[chilling-seavey]

The Patriarchy (gr63)

↳ A/N So @sadiethekoala encouraged my curiosity of dabbling in writing/posting my 'darker' kink content so...here you go 🫣

↳ Summary: Of course George is a feminist; but who is he to deny you when sometimes you just want him to treat you like his property.

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 3.5k

↳ Warnings: 18+, NSFW, light drinking, patriarchy kink (major fetishization of traditional gender roles), arguably free use kink, breeding kink, heavy degradation and dumbification and objectification (name calling like 'slut', 'whore', and 'bitch'), spanking, spitting, hair pulling, restraining, dirty talk, choking, rough unprotected sex, aftercare is NOT written in this fic but take it that it will be IMPLIED (aftercare is a MUST after intense and degrading scenes like this!!!).

George had been proud of you for as long as he had known you. You were a hardworking and determined woman and he loved seeing you pursue your career so strongly and passionately. It was honestly one of the things George admired you most for. You weren’t someone to take anyone’s shit and certainly not when it came at the expense of your beliefs, passions, or those you cared for the most.

In a man’s world, you pushed the boundaries of what a woman was capable of and George, of course, backed you every step of the way. Especially while so invested in a vastly male-dominate sport such as Formula 1, George only grew more and more aware of the prejudices and disparities that were hidden between the lines. And, in such, he always made himself publicly viable as someone who believed in equality without bounds.

Behind closed doors, that very same belief lingered. In your Monaco apartment, you equally divided up household chores and tasks, shared the responsibility of cooking, and came to mutually agreeable terms that made your life together that much more enjoyable and refreshing. A relationship built on trust and equality, it was the balance of give and take that left you both as strong as ever. 

What came with the ease of your relationship was open communication and, with that, a bit of a pre-disclosed agreement from months before that George had figured you had forgotten about. It was something said haphazardly one night when the two of you were wine drunk and cuddled up on the living room floor; a little secret you had been harbouring, whispering to him plainly about your deepest desires. Your smiling confession was something so unlike your natural persona that for a moment he had thought you were entirely joking. But you were serious, pleading with him that if he ever saw you donning that vintage blue gingham dress, that he had your unspoken consent to push the hazy boundaries into a roleplay vastly different from what you were familiar with sharing together. George agreed to your terms and thought it wouldn’t ever really come to fruition. 

It was a joke, he was sure of it. No fiercely independent woman such as yourself ever wanted to be treated under such taboo, out-dated, and almost cruel mid-century gender roles. Right? 

Until on Thursday night when George came home from media duties just about the time you had finished making dinner, finding you donning that sweet 1950s gingham dress and matching white kitten heels. It was the last thing he had expected to come home to, falling to a surprised stop as he entered the apartment to the smell of a delicious meal waiting for him. 

You smiled over at him in the foyer and hurried over to take his jacket off of him, “Welcome home, love.” 

“Hello.” George said slowly, letting his arms slip out of his collared jacket as you carefully pulled it from his shoulders. His suspicions were simmering as you leaned in to kiss him once before hanging up his jacket in the front closet. He asked a tentative, “What’s all this for?”

You tucked your hand in the crook of his arm and led him over to the table that was neatly made up with two place settings, “I figured you had a long day at work and wanted dinner as soon as you got home.”

“Yeah...that’s nice.” George said, testing the waters a little. 

He sat down and watched you walk over to the bar cart to pour him a drink, topping it with a few ice cubes before bringing it back over to him. You set the short glass in his hand and left a kiss to his cheek and headed into the kitchen again, your heels clicking over the hardwood floors. George watched you silently, sipping his drink and leaning back in his chair with his left hand drumming a slow quiet pattern on the mahogany table top as you bustled around the kitchen to finish up. 

“You look pretty today, love.” he tried. 

You smiled to yourself as you plated the food, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t far out of George’s mind that he wanted to marry you one day - although he always told himself that was for years in the future - but there was something about the stereotypical domesticity of it all that seemed to...enlist a change in him. At first hesitant about carrying through with your agreement, he suddenly felt a flutter of something curious deep within him, wanting to try this out for himself. And if you wanted it? Who was he to deny you that? 

“Was work alright?” you asked sweetly as you brought over two filled plates and set them on the table. 

“Yeah, it was hectic.” George set his half finished drink down on the table and pushed his chair back a little to lead you onto his lap. You obeyed, perching yourself on his thighs, staring at him quietly as he eyed you up. His blue eyed gaze traced the side of your dress up to the clothed curves of your breasts and then across your collarbones, your neck, and jaw, finishing at your rouge painted lips. He swiped the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip and pulled it down gently to watch it fall back into place, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” you replied, your voice a sweet drawling purr as your arm draped around his shoulders, manicured fingers toying with the seam of his Mercedes team shirt. 

Your soft words made a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth and he set his hand down on your thighs right at the hem of your dress, patting your lap gently before he gave a gentle squeeze to your flesh. 

He pressed you on with a cheeky, “How much?” 

“Way too much,” you answered, an angelic smile on your lips, knowing exactly what you were doing when you punctuated your reply with a, “sir.”

That word always snapped something in him, digging right down to his raw desire to just have you at that exact moment the three letters fell from your sweet lips. 

The sudden speed at which he moved made you gasp, forced off his lap as he stood. He pushed you right up against the edge of the table until the edge was pressing right against your pelvis and your hands fell flat against the wood surface. The filled plate rested, steaming, between the frame of your hands. 

“Is that so?”

He was right behind you, his body pressed up close and his breath right against your ear. His hands slid down your straight arms before resting right on top of yours, holding them down on the table. 

“Is that why you wore this pretty little dress for me?” 

“Yessir.” you breathed shakily, your heart already racing with anticipation. Your home cooked meal sat warm on the plates in front of you but any appetite for real food was gone; you were too busy craving him instead. 

“Yeah?” George growled against your ear as he pulled up the bottom of your dress, having to take a few handfuls to successfully bunch up the dress and the voluminous petticoat underneath. When he had enough of the fabric in one large hand, he used his other to slap down hard against your ass.

The sharp spank echoed through the apartment and you gasped forward at the impact. It wasn’t often that George got rough with you - he was more the sweet and gentle type within his passion - so the rare times the more dominant side of him came to the surface, you capitalized on it. Especially now, when something much more intense seemed to have come over him, like he was really ready to go all out to give you exactly what you had confessed to him that you wanted. 

You withered as he pushed his hand around your waist and under the bunched up fabric of your dress to slide over the front of your panties, pressing his whole hand down on your pussy, the heel of his palm right over your clothed clit. His lips met your neck in sloppy kisses, moaning lowly as he felt how warm you were under his touch while he sucked hickeys into your skin and breathed you in completely.

“Baby…” you whispered, “What about dinner?”

“I don’t want it.” he reached around you and shoved both plates to the side and out of the way, clattering the cutlery and a fork fell to the floor in his bit of an aggressive rush. He then bent you forward over the table and spanked you hard again, “I want my pretty little housewife to take my whole fucking dick while I fuck her like my own personal little whore.” 

You could have sworn you could have dripped down your thighs at his demand, biting back your eager grin as he held your head down against the table by a tight grip at the back of your neck. He spanked you again with his other hand, once, twice, a third time. A pink handprint was undoubtedly appearing on the curve of your bum where he hit you. Unperturbed, George just linked his finger in the thin fabric of your panties to pull the waistband higher, giving him a full canvas of your perfect ass for him to slap his palm down harder. 

“Please.” you squeaked out. 

“Please what, my love?” George pressed, groping your ass before spanking you hard again. “I hope you’re not trying to tell me what to do right now. You know who’s in charge here.”

You let out a little whimper in silent submission, your cheek still pressed to the table top from where he held you down. George then linked his finger around the lace of your underwear and followed the fabric right down between your legs where you were already soaking through the material. 

“Really missed me, huh, sweetheart?” George taunted, gently pinching your clit to pull a sharp gasp from your throat. Then, without warning, he grabbed the thin material of your panties in his fist and tore it right off you. 

The slight sting of the ripping fabric over your hips and the rough grunt that left his chest with his strength had your teeth sinking tightly into your bottom lip through a small whimper, hands still pressed flatly to the table top on either side of your head. 

“Fucking hell,” George chuckled darkly, lifting up the puffed skirt of your knee length dress again to keep it bunched up around your middle, “you look so fucking pretty like this.”

“Please, sir.” you breathed, pushing your hips back on him until the front of his slacks were pressed up snugly between your legs. 

You could feel the bulge in his pants and how it was pulling the fabric taut. It made your mouth water, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip again with a small hum, desperately grinding back on him to somehow get him right where you needed him most. 

“God, you’re such a pathetic little slut, my love.” George tisked, slapping his hand down on your ass one more time before shoving you forward again, trapping you entirely between his body and the edge of the table. He kept you there firmly while he worked to unpin his belt, the faint clinks of the metal buckle and what it implied had your pussy fluttering in anticipation. With his belt undone and slacks unzipped, his large hands groped your hips and followed your desperate motions back against him, grinding against you a little more with your feet planted securely on the floor in your kitten heels. 

George didn’t even strip completely, he just pushed his pants and boxers down to the tops of his thighs just enough to pull his dick out and then he was shuffling up close behind you. 

“Please, fuck me. I need you so bad, sir.” you whined. 

“Listen to you, sweetheart; calling me ‘sir’ like a submissive little bitch.” his voice was low and gravely, full of lust. 

He took his hand from the back of your neck to, instead, wrap around your throat to pull your chest off the table. This way, he could lean forward and brush his lips over the shell of your ear while his dick pressed teasingly up against your entrance, feeling the way your body shivered at his words. 

“Yeah, you like me calling you my little bitch?” George purred right into your ear, his hot breath falling against your neck and raising the hairs on your arms while his fingers squeezed the sides of your throat, “Wearing this pretty little dress...making a shitty little meal to get my attention...just asking for me to fuck you stupid.”

“Yeah.” was all you could whine out, lashes fluttering. 

“Yeah?” he mocked you tauntingly, barely giving you a moment's warning as he pushed inside you strongly. 

Your mouth fell open in silence as he stretched you out, letting out a soft little squeak at the pressure he spread across your hips. Your hand squeaked across the wood table as you tried to find something to hold onto, ending up reaching up to grasp his wrist.

“Fuck.” George huffed stiffly, his hips flexing against yours, tightening his hand around your throat. “Love this tight fucking cunt.” 

He started rocking into you slowly at first, savouring each stroke as if to feel you all, to give you every inch, and his slow breaths fell against the side of your face warmly. 

“So good.” you whimpered, pushing back on him in steady time, “You’re so big, sir.”

“Yeah, you love my cock, don’t you, sweetheart?” he spoke lowly, “Been waiting for this all day, huh? Wanting me to come home from work and fuck you full?”

“Yeah. Please.” you cried, pressing your palms down harder on the table top as he sped up. 

He shoved into you a bit harder, grunting hard against your ear until all you could focus on was him; the stretch he pushed through your body, the smell of the light alcohol on his breath and his familiar cologne that still dotted his shirt from that mornings application, and his hand around your throat. 

“Oohh, God.” you squeaked out, mouth falling open as he took you over the side of the dining room table. 

“Good girl.” George said lowly against your ear, his salacious words a lustful chant, “My good little housewife...good little fucking whore. So pretty and submissive for me. Gonna let me fuck you how I want, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir, please, please, please-” you begged shakily. 

“Yeah?” George pulled your head back by your throat, finger and thumb pressed right up under your jaw to hold you tightly. 

Your head was almost bent entirely back to look at him upside down, your mouth agape as a flurry of pleasured sounds tumbled from your lips uncontrollably. He fucked the sounds from your throat with practiced ease, the dishes on the table rattling with every firm ram into your body as he took you how he pleased. 

You squealed loudly, hands rolling into fists on the table top as tears pricked your eyes through the painful pleasure he expertly pushed through your whole body. He held you in place with one hand fisting your dress and petticoat over the small of your back and the other squeezing your throat until your mouth was falling open through little gasps. 

“That’s it.” George groaned, pulling your head back towards his shoulder before he was pinching your cheeks between thumb and forefinger to spit loudly in your mouth. “Want me to put a fucking baby in you, sweetheart?” 

The words were unexpected but the way your body clenched so hard around him that he almost lost it right then and there was his answer enough. He shoved two fingers in your mouth and picked up speed a little more, groaning hungrily against your cheek

“Yeah, you do. Gonna get you nice and full and pregnant. My pretty little wife’s gonna look so good knocked up.” 

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, please-” you mumbled through his fingers, words barely sensible as you drooled down his palm involuntarily as he kept you gagged. 

“Oh my God, baby.” George gripped you tighter, fucking you harder and faster until the table was nearly scraping across the hardwood floor with every thrust. “Gonna make a fucking mess of you...cum so fucking deep inside you. Gonna knock you up like my good little bitch.” 

“I need it! Fill me up, baby, please!” you cried messily, clawing at the table as your pussy pulsed strongly around him. 

“You need it?” he cooed, “You need me to cum inside you? To make you a mommy? Hm?”

All you could do was stumble out a chant of, “Yeah, yeah, yeah-” 

In one swift movement, George pulled his fingers from your mouth and tangled his hand in your hair to shove you down against the table again. You caught yourself on your forearms with a squealing gasp, sliding forward under his controlling hand until your chest was flat to the table and your fingers could wrap around the opposite edge of the table. The slick lewd sound of your skin colliding filled your modest apartment as he ravished you from behind, harmonized so prettily with your shared breaths and moans. 

“I want you to cum for me, sweetheart.” George spoke through his teeth as he held you face down on the table, “Show me how good I can make my pretty little wife feel while I pump her full of cum.” 

His other hand slipped around your waist under the plethora of fabric from your dress without faltering the firm thrusts he gave you. His fingers were easily coated in your slick wetness as they blindly found their way between your legs, making it almost effortless for him to rub easy circles over your clit. You fell perfectly silent at his added touch, gripping onto the edge of the table even tighter as you felt that indescribable warmth coiling strongly within you. In seconds, your eyes were nearly rolling back and your toes were curling in your heels as you came around him, gasping and panting and moaning as your body clutched right down on him like a vice. 

“That’s it!” George groaned loudly, shoving into you faster and more desperately to help you draw out your orgasm, “That’s fucking it, baby. I’m gonna put so many babies in you…show off that you’re mine. My perfect little cockslut housewife. Begging to be fucking knocked up. Shit-” 

Oversensitive from your orgasm, his aggression had you whining loudly, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. He wasn’t letting up, taking exactly what he wanted from you, just how you had begged him to all those weeks ago in your tipsy confession. Your eyes were screwed shut with pleasure that bordered on the precipice of pain, unable to control the way you cried out until your voice echoed through the apartment. George slapped his hand over your mouth.

“Take it.” he ordered through his teeth against your ear, “You’re gonna take my whole fucking load until you’re dripping like a pathetic little bitch.” 

You whined into his warm palm and felt him twitch inside you as your muscles pulsed around his thick length. 

“Fucking...take it.” 

George came hard, bucking into you sloppily through loud moans and grunts. His eyes scrunched closed through it, fingers pressing you harder into the tabletop as he shot thick warm spurts deep inside you. You could only grab onto his arm as he filled you up, withering behind the erotic feeling of him claiming you completely. His moans were heavenly and you nearly came a second time at the overwhelm of it all and his hand that was wrapped around the back of your neck only tightened as he finished. 

He let you go after a second and you pushed yourself up from the table, your arms straight and hands flat as you glanced back at him over your shoulder. George’s lips grazed your jaw and he left a few lazy kisses over your skin as you both took a moment to catch your breaths, lingering in the post-orgam bliss together for a moment longer. His hands ran down your sides warmly and you let out a shaky sigh. 

George then reached a hand up to gently tilt your chin towards him with a soft, “Come here.”

You kissed him sweetly, sharing lingering kisses with his dick still pressed up nice and deep inside you. After a few moments, he leaned back to look at your face and he gave your hand a squeeze before shifting back from you and pulled out slowly. Your body ached as he left you empty but his fingers pressed themselves between your legs instead. 

He could feel your heartbeat right there, not to mention how soaked you were, dripping his cum out and onto his fingers, hidden under the skirt of your dress as it fell back down around your thighs. George left a little kiss to your shoulder when he finally pulled back and he gave your bum a little pat before he was zipping up his pants again, 

“Order us a pizza, sweetheart. Dinner got cold.” 

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[yey56]

HARLEY SAWYER X PSYCHOLOGIST READER pt2.

That day wasn't something you could easily forget.

It started as any other day, after the moment you had with the doctor a few weeks ago, he received a call from the office of Elliot Ludwig, claiming there was an important matter to discuss. He left not without savoring once more your lips.

That day, while you were conversing and trying to help process the changes to a little girl now turned into a toy, one of the other phycologist, Martha Hendswort, one of the few friends you had there; told you that Elliot was expecting you in his office.

You didn't exactly despised Elliot, unlike Harley who took the man for a rotten idealist, you though of him a wise man who was far to kind for his own good. Someone who learned to put the foot down when it was already to late...

Once you arrived there, the man awaited for you seated in his chair, looking at a photograph on top of his desk, his mind wandering somewhere you couldn't see.

Finally noticing your presence, he gave you an apologetic smile. Nothing good could come from that look that was silently apologising for something he hadn't even said yet.

You greeted him as usual, with a light hearted manner. Jokingly sucking up with him-you look good Eliot! New glasses?- you said while he spared you a little smile.

He finally took a more serious stance and started the conversation- (Y/N), as I've said to Harley before, both of you together have reached great progress with your projects...-he paused looking at you trying to find a way to deliver the blow delicately- You both have achieved great things and the company is grateful for that... But, I cannot longer ignore your lack of boundaries regarding the... Subjects of your experiments.- he looked at you again.

So... This is about me and Harleys methods, I'm sure we can get to some kind of middle groun- Ludwig suddenly interrupted you- No, I don't mean that. I've talk about this with him as well. I don't think you should be directing the experiments no longer. This experiments should not be made in name of progress but in name of humanity, and I think that's something you have forgotten- he finally finished.

You felt a shiver go down your spine- What?- you whispered forrowign your brows- do you have any idea how much we- How much I have invested in this project-in -in those children?!- you tone was still moderately calm, but getting more threatening.

Harley lacks the humanity needed for this project-His tone still calm, trying to soothe your anger- unlike him, you do have that trait but you have chosen to ignore it in favour of your own curiosity, your own agenda.-He expressed severely- you are a brilliant psychologist, the best one I have in here and working with you has been enlightening from all points of view but I cannot keep ignoring your recklessness...-He finalised.

You looked at him, without talking, still half processing what he just told you- So you're firing me? After all the time I've invested here?- Hou said, resentment was starting to get more noticing in your voice.

No! Of course not, neither you or Sawyer are fired, just... Relocated.- He explained- I've assigned sawyer to Dr whites lab and you... Well I think it would be great if you could work in the innovation department, under Pierre's direction...-Your eyes didn't leave his- You're asking me to quit the career I've been building for the past 11 years to work under that lousy coward?- You asked in reference to the nervous nature Pierre seemed to have since you once accidentally scared him while being in the corner of a dark place.

You are great at innovation, I know you talk frequently with the design department and your adaptable nature will be very helpful there.- Ludwig, observing that you still weren't really on board with this said- look, I don't expect you to understand right now but at least give it a try. I've never known you for saying no to a challenge. I will ask Pierre not to be so restrictive with you.- his attempt to cheer you up where useless

You only raised from the chair and proceeded to get out of his office. You knew you weren't going to quit because that would mean you turning into one of them.

You kept walking through seemingly infinite corridors, tightening your fists to the point your knuckles were turning white.

You arrived to your office in the lower levels and started to take out certain objects you knew you would need with you for your relocation. You had on top of your desk the file of 1322-Doey and in one of your open drawers, a photo with you in the kindergarten area with the kids that now composed the toy.

With the box with your belongings in hand, you started walking towards Harleys office, at least to notify him about your new place of work.

The place was empty, which was strange. You were aware that Sawyer didn't have any surgery scheduled so it was not normal for him to not be there.

The following days you didn't see Sawyer at all, you asked the staff around, asking if they had seen him, no one had.

It was hard adapting to work with Leith. Both of you always thought your proposed designs were better than the others so of course there were always conflict between you two.

Strangely, you manage to work it out for a couple of weeks. Using your knowledge in psychology, in child psychology and using data of sociological studies from children.

You proposed new updates to the backpack, a tool used by the employees of the factory. Also you found ways to improve the designs of some toys. Something that Pierre respected, even if he didn't admit it put loud.

And you were even able to design a toy that got launched to the public! Pianosaurus, a funny dinosaur that was also a piano.

Sadly, this toy was also included to the experimentation list. And in no time, you own creation took live. Sadly it didn't work as well as the company expected since some of its cognitive and coordination abilities failed, therefore, it was discarded and abandoned in an old enclosure.

The sudden disappear of Harley worried you. You knew he wasn't fired and you knew he was not in the factory. Finally fed up with the doubt you decided to go check the staff record to see if he even had checked out of his work hours (which he almost never did).

You left the designs you were working on to improve Doeys resistance of the cold and wandered through he corridors to check your theory of Sawyer never leaving the factory.

Before you could get to the next corridor, three voices stopped you. You couldn't hear much since they where inside one of the labs of that area but you could make out Leith's voice, saying something about having gotten rid of someone.

And something along the lines of "damned doctor"

You are well aware of what "taking care" of someone meant here. You had suggested it a couple of times with unloyal stuff but something about the timing of the conversation seemed off.

Before you could get away from that area again, you felt something hitting your head and the only thing that could be heard in that hall was the crash of your belonging against the floor.

————————————————————————

[Tape recording: The doctor]

[Dr white]: Oh, it looks like he's waking up

{The doctor}: where am I, what... Is this?... Oh no they didn't, those backstabbing traitors

[Dr white]: Dr Sawyer? can you hear me?

{The doctor}: White?! White is that you?! Who else is there with you?

{The doctor}: You enjoying watching me writhe like on of them- *Groan in pain*-my head feels like it's splitting in two *groan*- This is wrong, you must have done something wrong.

[Dr white]: Some disorientation is to be expected it'll-

{The doctor}: Who gave you the order? You spineless cowards, after all I've done for this project, for this company-

(Lith Pierre): I gave the order, Sawyer

{The doctor}: Leith Pierre... of course it'd be you, YOU have no idea what kind of mistake you've just made.

(Leith Pierre): Really? From where I'm sitting, you're the one who keeps making mistakes that need fixing. You and (Y/N) were warned.

(Leith Pierre): We gave you both so many opportunities to clean up your messes, but you just couldn't do it could you?

{The doctor}:What, do you think YOU can do better?? Nobody else can do what I do. You need my knowledge, my intellect!! You need (Y/N) and they will not collaborate!!

(Leith Pierre): Why do you think you're sitting in there right now, and not in Boxy's stomach? Let me tell you how this is gonna go, Sawyer. From now on you're here to give the lab boys answer when they need them and carry out procedures when and how we tell you to. That's it

(Leith Pierre): You'll be an open book to us whenever we want. So fight or have in, or whatever because either way we own the infrastructure you're wired into. Here's your first task, find us Dr (Y/N) (Y/L/N) so they can join you.

{The doctor}: You'll die for this Leith. When I get my hands on you you're a dead man!!!

(Leith Pierre): This temper is a bad look on you Harley!

[Tape Ended: The doctor.]

————————————————————————

[Tape recording: the escape]

(Y/N): What?- Where?-

Dr 1: are they- no I can't be- they're waking up *mumbling*

Dr 2: it cannot be!- increment the dosis!

(Y/N): what... Are you-? What do you think you are-? *Groans*

Dr 1: don't move- restrict them!!

(commotion sounds)

Dr 1: wait! Dont!- (static)

(Crashing sounds)

(Screams)

(Y/N):*groans* so... This is what you were trying to do... To me?

Dr 2:*coughing* Lab 19... Dr (Y/L/N) is *coughing* awak-

(Gunshot)

Leith :* through the phone* Dr? Dr?!-

(Static)

[Tape recording: the escape]

————————————————————————

You felt cold with the operation robe you had on, a harsh contrast with the warm blood that was scattered over your upper torso after stabbing one of the doctors with a scalpel.

Your ears ringed. After quickly taking the gun off the scientist body you aimed at the other one who was calling who you supposed was Pierre.

You shot him before he could end his message. You took the documents they had half completed on the desk: Experiment 1812- (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

You broke the papers with disdain. You though of Harley, were they doing the same to him? It wouldn't be so unusual to think that Pierre might have try to remove Sawyer out of the equation.

You then remembered that Leith must have sent someone to neutralise you, so hurrying you went out of the operation room,with the gun in hand, to the control room. Sawyer, Leith and Ludwig were the only ones with a key but Harley had made you a copy without the other two knowing. Of course, that copy was confiscated from you when you were left unconscious.

Once you got to the control room, you started noticing the cold on your bare feet, the blood dripping from your clothes and the rushed footsteps that seemed to be getting closer each second.

You punched the door in the handle repeatedly in desperation to get in. And just before you could see Leith rushing to you at the end of the corridor, the door automatically opened on its own, letting you in.

It immediately closed right after you and the sound of the mechanical lock echoed in the room, all of this followed by Pierre's hits on the door.

You ignored it, concentrating on the several cameras that formed the room. Complete access to he enclosures of the experiments.

1160-Boxy boo, 1163- Pianosaurus, 1166- Yarnaby, 1170- Huggy Wuggy, 1188-Catnap, 1222- Mommy long legs... To mention some of them.

In desperation, Pierre started shouting, already imagining what you would do in your anger.

(Y/N)!! Stop this. You are not thinking straight! They will kill you, all of us!!!- he said completely desperate, attempting to convince you to stop whatever you were planning, banging the door even harder.

You were always aware that what you did was not good, neither moral, neither human. But you did it either ways.

You understood their pain, specially their anger, you would be angry to in their place. Now you needed that anger, you needed that rage against Pierre and all of Playtime Co.

Even if you would be affected in the process, right now you don't care what might happen to you, you only care of what will happen to Pierre.

You pressed the bottom with no hesitation, the red lights illuminating the whole compound. You could hear Leith's shouts of desperation- WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!- WHAT HAVE YOU D- his voice sounded like murmurs, likely because of the effect of the anesthesia inside you.

Actions have consequences Leith, sooner or later both you and I were going to face them, I just accelerated the process.- you said with a mocking tone that brushed insanity-Im just helping you learn how to take responsibility for your actions.-you finished with a harsh tone in your voice.

While this was happening, the monitors in your back started to flash images of a single eye surrounded by static.

————————————————————————

Harley had observed through the cameras that now were part of his system how you escaped the operation room leaving two corpses behind. The moment Leith left the room in which his monitor was in to go and stop you, he started taking over the system.

He wanted to make you know what had happened to him, that he hadn't manage to escape and was now trapped there.

He opened the door to you once he catched on what you were trying to do and he tried to comunicate with you through the monitors in the room. You seem so angry and so full of adrenaline that you didn't notice how he couldn't even voice a though through the speakers.

Once Leith had escaped the corridor, hoping to save himself, he saw you sprinting out of the room to a direction that was way to familiar for him. The enclosure of 1322 or like you liked to call them: Kevin, Jack and Mathew.

He knew how much you insisted in refering to the experiments as there original names. You used to say that it helped them to stablish trust with you and he still insisted in naming them after their assigned numbers.

You arrived at the enclosure of the doe mass, while he tried to figure out how to control more of the systems so he could reach you.

Get out, come on- you said to Doey who looked at you as if you were the sunlight.- but- but what's happening, why is there so much noise?- he asked afraid- I freed them, all of them, come on, here is no longer safe- you said rushing him and sparring him the details of your actions.

But the doctor!- the bad people, they are going to hurt us- to starve us- he started having a meltdown- I don't know where Harley is but with the chaos that has ensued out there we can still hide somewhere they won't find us. Quick!- you were trying to rush the toy to the exit. You remembered that Harley mentioned you that there were building more floors deeper and deeper but they were still very much isolated from the rest of the factories system.

You guided the toy through the stairs and the chaos and while you were waiting for him to open a door from the other side, you took the opportunity to search in on of the few computers nearby some information that may lead you to Harley. You tried cameras, reports and all kinds of stuff but you couldn't find anything recent.

Harley didn't have access to the computer you were using. Growing more and more desperate he could feel himself getting overloaded until one of the nearby cable started igniting.

Doey quickly wrapped you around him and started running without a clear direction while the whole placed burned, dragging you both deep enough to not be found for a while.

————————————————————————

Harley was beyond furious, he was frustrated, defeated. Backstabbed by his coworkers and confined into a screen.

When The Prototype found him, he didn't face him with fear. He was well aware that he was useful for him and only for that, The Prototype would keep him alive. But he also knew that it was a means to an end. The prototype needed the doctor for his abilities and intellect but the doctor knew that, for the prototypes plan to actually work, they needed you and your ability to stabilise the toys mental state.

You had made sure to establish a relationship of trust and even some kind of bond between you and the toys. With some of them more genuine than with others. He never understood that, and for a long time he mistook it for simple compassion but the explanation you gave him catched him completely by surprise.

Why do you insist on bonding with those... Creatures, hmmm?- he asked you with his hand on the bridge of his nose and his glasses in the table.- are you aware what you are doing to them?right? Trying to save your morality is impossible here.

You laughed silently while eating a piece of sandwich.- this is lot about mortality, Harley- you responded to him. He felt oddly good when you pronounced his name. You usually referred to each other by surname but he could get used to hearing his name from your lips more often- Do you realise that those experiments are incubators of anger and resentment right? They are essentially human. Humans reaped from their bodies.-you took a bite- that, plus the abuse they endure from the guards, only breeds anger, anger that is eventually going to explode in our faces.- he looked at you curiously. Finally understanding your point.

You continued after he nodded, agreeing with you- By letting them know I empathise with them, which I do by the way, I'm basically letting them know I'm not much of an enemy but more of a shoulder to cry on. You understand?- your reasoning was calculated and based on assuming the worst but after all, you were right. He hadn't missed how much closer you had got to him, standing up with your hand on the top of the chair he was sitting in.

The experiments who demonstrated intelligence were not happy with the stuff at Playtime co and that was no secret. He finally understood what was your strategy. A point of view he had never seen before but one that made sense nonetheless.

That's how Harley understood that, in order to control the whole place and assure the prototypes plan, they needed you. That way he could have a valid excuse to give to the prototype for wanting to reach you and have you with him. That way you weren't perceived as his weakness and you could stay alive out of usefulness.

But he was going to find you, one way or another, sooner or later. He wasn't know for being a patient man but he could wait. He just needed time and nothing more. Just time...

————————————————————————

Doey finally put you down on the floor and you both stopped, catching a moment to breath.

You were in some sort of underground sewer, you didn't know where it would take you but as long as you were not in the upper levels with the rest of the free toys, you were safe for now.

Hey kid, how are you going?- you asked Doey who was starring at the ceiling, hearing the vague screams that could miraculously reach the underground.

Those screams are from...- he started, not daring to finish that sentence- (Y/N)... What have you done?.- you leaned against a wall, still dizzy from the remaining anesthesia in your body- What?- you asked, not expecting this reaction- Those screams!! They are from people, the toys are eating them!! Why did you do this?!

You paused a moment, not knowing what to respond. Keeping eye contact with the toy- I got fed up- you weren't exactly lying on that answer- I'm making it up for my actions, I was an accomplice in captivating you,in captivating them. Now I'm freeing you.- you took a deep breath, trying to clear your mind- look, I understand that you are upse-

NO, YOU DON'T!!!- He screamed- you try but you don't- He started sobbing- you don't hear them! you get to have silence, you don't hear the voices! the kind voices that always lie!! Your kind voice won't deceive me anymore- he stared at you, furious.

You got serious, taking a stance and looking him dead in the eye, you told him- I'm not a kind voice, Doey. I'm an honest voice and I made that very clear since the first moment I met the three of you.- he stayed silent after your statement, pouting, like a child would take after being scolded by their parent.- I will tell you the honest truth...if you can handle it. - you looked at him and proceeded- I don't think it's a good idea that we stick together. Kevin, you're obviously angry at me and I won't force you to change that. I'll let you cool down. Search for me when you are ready. .- and with that you turned and leaved, not willing to defy a 400 kg of mass

Doey extended an arm in your way trying to reach you before you would go down another path than him. You were the most similar thing he had to a parent, to a friend down there and he felt lost without your help and guidance.

The toy stayed there, sulking and trying to keep himself at bay.

You wandered through the sewers until you found a way out to a set of underground halls with a few computers to settle in. You stayed there, thinking about what to do next, what to eat. The only option where the toys of course. But mostly you spend your time wondering, wondering where could Harley be, if he even was still alive after what you did.

And Harley, well... He was determined to obtain absolute control over the whole facility, upper and lower levels. Searching to find certain germ that had crawled inside of his system, and former heart.

Searching for the direct culprit of the hour of joy...

The picture of the Kevin, Matthew Jack and Y/N

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 1: New Beginnings

Your heart hammered against your chest as you stood outside the imposing glass building. KQ Entertainment loomed above you, reflecting the morning sunlight in a way that seemed almost intimidating. You reached up to touch the scent blocker patch behind your ear—a nervous habit you'd developed since starting to wear them. The familiar smooth texture beneath your fingertips provided a small measure of comfort.

"Just breathe, Y/n," you whispered to yourself, adjusting the strap of your shoulder bag. "It's just an interview."

But it wasn't just any interview. This was for a position as an assistant to ATEEZ—one of the most successful alpha idol groups in the industry. As an omega, you knew the challenges of working in this alpha-dominated field, which was precisely why the scent blocker had become such an essential part of your daily routine. In this world, being an omega often meant facing prejudice or unwanted attention, especially in the entertainment industry.

You squared your shoulders and pushed through the revolving doors.

---

Hongjoong tapped his pen against the desk, reviewing the resume one more time before the next candidate arrived. Park Minwoo, their manager, sat beside him, scrolling through his tablet.

"This one looks promising," Minwoo commented, adjusting his glasses. "Bachelor's degree in Business Administration, internship experience with another entertainment company, fluent in English."

Hongjoong nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. The pack house had been chaotic lately—eight alphas living together without proper administrative support was proving to be more challenging than anticipated. Their previous assistant had left abruptly to pursue his own music career, leaving them with a mountain of unorganized schedules and paperwork.

"We need someone organized," Hongjoong said, running a hand through his blue-tinted hair. "Someone who can handle the chaos of eight different personalities and still maintain their sanity."

Minwoo chuckled. "That's asking a lot."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Both men looked up as the door opened and the receptionist peeked in.

"Ms. Y/n L/n is here for her interview," she announced.

Hongjoong straightened in his chair, adjusting his posture to project the confident alpha leader image that came naturally to him. "Please send her in."

---

You stepped into the meeting room, your hands clasped tightly together to hide their slight trembling. The space was modern and minimalist—all clean lines and neutral tones. Your eyes immediately fell on the two men seated at the table.

The one on the left you recognized instantly: Kim Hongjoong, ATEEZ's leader. In person, his presence was even more commanding than on screen. His piercing gaze assessed you with quiet intensity, and though you couldn't detect his scent due to your blocker, there was an undeniable aura of alpha authority that surrounded him.

"Ms. L/n, thank you for coming in today," the older man said, rising to greet you. "I'm Park Minwoo, ATEEZ's manager, and this is Kim Hongjoong, the group's leader."

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," you replied, your voice steadier than you expected. "Thank you for considering my application."

Hongjoong gestured to the empty chair across from them. "Please, have a seat."

You settled into the chair, placing your portfolio on the table. As you arranged your documents, you could feel Hongjoong's eyes on you. There was something in his gaze that made you feel both scrutinized and... something else you couldn't quite identify.

---

Hongjoong couldn't explain the strange sensation that washed over him the moment you entered the room. There was something about your presence that immediately captured his attention. Despite your obvious nervousness—which you were trying admirably to conceal—you carried yourself with a quiet dignity that he found intriguing.

What puzzled him most was that he couldn't detect your scent. Most people, especially those who weren't idols, didn't bother with scent blockers. The absence of this crucial piece of information made his alpha instincts strangely alert, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

"So, Ms. L/n," Minwoo began, "your resume is quite impressive. Could you tell us a bit about your experience at JYP Entertainment?"

Hongjoong watched as you launched into your answer, noting the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about your previous work. There was a genuine passion there that resonated with him. He found himself leaning forward slightly, drawn inexplicably toward your energy.

"I primarily assisted with scheduling and coordination for trainee evaluations," you were explaining. "It taught me a lot about juggling multiple priorities while maintaining attention to detail."

"That's certainly a valuable skill for this position," Hongjoong commented, finding himself wanting to hear more of your voice. "Working with ATEEZ would involve managing eight very different schedules, personalities, and needs."

You nodded, trying not to be distracted by the way Hongjoong was looking at you. There was an intensity in his gaze that made your skin tingle, even though you knew he couldn't detect your omega status through the blocker.

"I understand that would be challenging," you responded, "but I believe my organization skills and adaptability would be assets in that environment. I've always thrived in dynamic workplaces where no two days are the same."

Minwoo nodded approvingly. "That's good to hear. This role would definitely provide that variety. Could you elaborate on your experience with international communications? The group frequently works with overseas partners."

As you detailed your language skills and previous international coordination experience, you couldn't help but notice that Hongjoong seemed particularly attentive. Unlike many alpha leaders you'd encountered who dominated conversations, he listened thoughtfully, his head tilted slightly as if absorbing every word.

"Your English proficiency would be particularly valuable," he commented when you finished. "We're expanding our international activities next quarter.

Hongjoong found himself increasingly impressed as the interview progressed. Your responses were thoughtful and demonstrated both competence and a genuine interest in the position. But beyond your qualifications, there was something about your presence that felt... right. He couldn't explain it, but his alpha instincts—usually razor-sharp when it came to assessing people—were practically humming with approval.

When you smiled in response to one of Minwoo's questions, Hongjoong felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest. He found himself wondering what your natural scent might be, then immediately questioned why he was so curious about it.

"The position also includes accommodation," Minwoo explained, turning to a new page in his notes. "We have a small guesthouse on the property where the members live. It's separate from the main house but conveniently located for the assistant role. Would that arrangement work for you?"

Hongjoong watched your reaction carefully. Living in such close proximity to eight alphas wasn't something everyone would be comfortable with, though the separate guesthouse offered appropriate privacy.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of on-site accommodation. You hadn't expected that part of the job description.

"A guesthouse on the property?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral despite your surprise.

"Yes," Minwoo confirmed. "It's more like a pool house—one bedroom, bathroom, small kitchen, and living area. Completely private, but close enough that you'd be available when needed. Given the often unpredictable schedule of idol life, having the assistant nearby has proven most efficient."

You considered this information carefully. Living so close to eight alpha idols would be... intense, to say the least. Even with your scent blockers, the proximity would require vigilance. But the arrangement also solved your current housing concerns—your lease was ending soon, and Seoul's rental market was brutal.

"Could I ask about the expectations regarding availability?" you inquired. "Would I be on call 24/7, or would there be defined working hours?"

Hongjoong appreciated your practical question. It showed you were thinking seriously about the position and its implications.

"We respect work-life balance," he assured you. "There would be standard working hours, typically 9 to 6, though flexibility would be needed for special events or comeback preparations. Emergencies might occasionally require off-hours assistance, but those are compensated with time off. The guesthouse is meant for convenience, not to have you at our beck and call around the clock."

Something in him wanted to reassure you, to make you feel comfortable with the arrangement. The idea of having you nearby stirred something protective in his alpha nature that he didn't fully understand.

Minwoo nodded in agreement. "We've structured the position to be demanding but reasonable. The previous assistant found the living arrangement quite convenient, especially on busy days when early starts or late finishes were necessary."

You nodded, relieved by their response. The arrangement actually sounded ideal—a private living space with reduced commute time and presumably reduced rent, given it was part of the compensation package.

"That sounds reasonable," you said with a small smile. "I appreciate the clarity."

The interview continued for another twenty minutes, covering everything from your technical skills to your ability to handle stress. Throughout it all, you couldn't help but notice how Hongjoong's gaze kept returning to you, curious and assessing.

"One last question," Minwoo said, "Why ATEEZ specifically? There are many idol groups seeking administrative support."

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, genuinely curious about your answer. He watched as you took a moment to consider your response, appreciating that you didn't launch into a rehearsed answer.

You took a deep breath, deciding honesty was the best approach.

"I admire ATEEZ's work ethic and creativity," you began. "I've followed your career since debut, and what stands out to me is how the group has maintained authenticity while growing in popularity. That kind of integrity is rare in this industry, and it creates an environment I'd be proud to contribute to."

You paused, then added, "Plus, I think there's something special about supporting artists who are pushing boundaries and creating their own path. It would be meaningful work, not just a job."

Your answer resonated deeply with Hongjoong. The values you highlighted—authenticity, integrity, creativity—were precisely what he and the others strived for. The fact that you recognized and valued those qualities spoke volumes.

A strange sensation tugged at him, something primal and instinctive. Despite not being able to detect your scent, his alpha senses were responding to you in a way he'd never experienced before. There was an inexplicable rightness about your presence that his rational mind couldn't explain.

"Well said," he commented, exchanging a quick glance with Minwoo. The manager gave a subtle nod, and Hongjoong felt a surge of satisfaction.

Minwoo closed his tablet case, signaling the end of the interview. "Thank you for your time today, Ms. L/n. Your qualifications are impressive, and we appreciate your thoughtful responses."

You gathered your portfolio, heart still racing. "Thank you for the opportunity. It was a pleasure meeting you both."

"Before you go," Hongjoong said suddenly, "would you be available to see the guesthouse today? It might help you better understand the living arrangement we've discussed."

Minwoo looked slightly surprised at Hongjoong's suggestion—showing the accommodation usually came after an offer was made—but he quickly adapted. "That's a good idea. If you have time, of course."

Hongjoong wasn't sure what had prompted him to make the suggestion. It was unconventional to show candidates the living quarters before making a hiring decision. But something in him was reluctant to let you walk away just yet. He wanted—needed—to see how you would fit into their space, their world.

The way your eyes lit up at his suggestion sent an unexpected wave of satisfaction through him.

"I would appreciate that," you replied, trying to contain your excitement. Being invited to see the accommodation felt promising—surely they wouldn't show you if they weren't seriously considering you for the position?

"Excellent," Minwoo said, standing. "I have another meeting to attend, but Hongjoong can show you the property if that's acceptable?"

You nodded, suddenly very aware that you'd be alone with the alpha leader. "That would be fine, thank you."

Hongjoong rose from his chair, and you couldn't help but notice the graceful confidence in his movements—the mark of an alpha comfortable in his authority. "My car is in the basement garage. Shall we?"

---

The drive to the ATEEZ residence was surprisingly comfortable. Hongjoong had expected to feel that same strange tension that had permeated the interview room, but instead, a natural ease settled between them. He found himself sharing anecdotes about the group's daily chaos—Wooyoung's notorious prank wars, San's habit of misplacing important items, Seonghwa's desperate attempts to maintain order.

"It sounds like a handful," you commented with a laugh that made something warm unfurl in Hongjoong's chest.

"That's putting it mildly," he replied with a smile. "Eight alphas under one roof is exactly as chaotic as you'd imagine. Seonghwa and I try to maintain some semblance of order, but it's a losing battle most days."

As they turned into a gated community on the outskirts of Seoul, Hongjoong found himself curious about your living situation. "Do you currently live with roommates?" he asked, trying to frame the question casually.

"I share an apartment with two betas," you answered, gazing out at the upscale neighborhood they were entering. "They're both graduate students, so it's a fairly quiet living arrangement."

You didn't mention that as the only omega in the apartment, you were always conscious of maintaining your blockers and keeping your status private. It wasn't that you were ashamed of being an omega—far from it—but you'd learned early on that in professional settings, being known as an omega often led to being underestimated or, worse, inappropriately pursued.

The car turned into a private driveway, and your eyes widened at the sight of the house—or rather, mansion—that came into view. The main building was a modern architectural marvel of glass, wood, and stone, sprawling elegantly across manicured grounds.

"This is where ATEEZ lives?" you asked, unable to hide your awe.

Hongjoong smiled at your reaction, feeling a strange pride at being able to impress you. "Home sweet home," he confirmed, parking in front of the main entrance. "The company arranged it when our second album went platinum. The guesthouse is around back, near the pool area."

He led you along a stone path that curved around the side of the main house, noticing how you took everything in with wide, appreciative eyes. The landscaping was immaculate—a requirement from Seonghwa, who insisted that their surroundings influence their creative energy.

"It's beautiful," you murmured, and Hongjoong found himself watching your profile instead of the familiar grounds.

They rounded the corner to reveal a gleaming infinity pool that overlooked the city below. Adjacent to it stood a smaller structure that echoed the main house's architectural style—the guesthouse.

"Here we are," Hongjoong said, retrieving a key card from his wallet. "The previous assistant left two weeks ago, so it's been cleaned and prepared for whoever takes the position."

Your stomach fluttered with nervous excitement as Hongjoong held the door open for you. Stepping inside, you were immediately struck by how lovely the space was—far nicer than your current apartment.

The guesthouse opened into an airy living area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool and the Seoul skyline beyond. A small but well-equipped kitchen occupied one corner, with a dining nook beside it. Modern, comfortable-looking furniture filled the space without making it feel cramped.

"This is gorgeous," you said honestly, running your hand along the back of a plush sofa. "Much nicer than I expected."

"The bedroom and bathroom are through here," Hongjoong indicated, gesturing toward a hallway but respectfully remaining where he stood to give you space to explore on your own.

Hongjoong watched as you moved through the space, taking in your reactions. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing you in this environment—as if you belonged here. The strange pull he'd felt in the interview room persisted, even strengthened, as he observed you exploring what could potentially become your home.

He stayed in the main living area, giving you privacy to check the bedroom and bathroom. Your delighted exclamation upon discovering the luxurious shower made him smile.

When you emerged from exploring the bedroom, your eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "This is amazing. The whole place is beautiful."

"So you could see yourself being comfortable here?" Hongjoong asked, surprised by how much he wanted your answer to be yes.

"Absolutely," you replied without hesitation. "It's perfect—private but accessible." You gazed around once more, already imagining how your belongings would fit into the space. The thought of living here, so close to ATEEZ, sent both excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

A sudden realization made you pause. "I just realized—you haven't shown me my actual workspace yet. Where would I be working most days?"

Hongjoong seemed pleased by your question. "There's an office in the main house that would be your primary workspace, though you'd have flexibility to work from here when appropriate. Would you like to see it?"

You nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

As they walked back toward the main house, Hongjoong found himself unusually aware of your presence beside him. There was something about your energy that felt complementary to his own—a calming counterbalance to his intense focus. The alpha in him responded to this balance in ways he couldn't articulate.

"Fair warning," he said as they approached the main entrance, "some of the members might be home. They're not expecting us, so..."

"So be prepared for chaos?" you finished with a knowing smile.

Hongjoong laughed. "Exactly."

He swiped his key card, and the front door unlocked with a soft click. As they stepped into the spacious foyer, the sound of bickering voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.

"Right on cue," Hongjoong muttered with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

You followed Hongjoong into a stunning open-concept living area where two of the ATEEZ members—Wooyoung and San, you recognized—were engaged in what appeared to be an intense debate about a video game controller.

"I had it first!" Wooyoung was insisting, reaching for the device in San's hands.

"But I called dibs yesterday," San countered, holding it out of reach.

Neither had noticed your arrival yet, and you bit back a smile at their playful argument. This glimpse into their real lives, away from cameras and stages, was endearing and humanizing.

Hongjoong cleared his throat loudly. "We have a guest," he announced, his voice taking on a subtle but unmistakable alpha authority that immediately caught the other two's attention.

Both heads turned simultaneously, and you felt yourself being assessed by two pairs of curious eyes.

San froze mid-motion, the controller momentarily forgotten in his hand. A strange sensation washed over him the moment he laid eyes on you—like recognition, though he was certain he'd never met you before. Despite not being able to detect a scent from you (likely due to blockers, which many wore in professional settings), something about your presence immediately captured his full attention.

"Hello," he said, his voice coming out softer than intended. He straightened, a smile spreading across his face as he stepped forward. "I'm San."

Beside him, Wooyoung seemed similarly affected, his previous argument completely abandoned as he moved closer with undisguised interest.

"Wooyoung," he introduced himself with a charming smile, his eyes never leaving your face. "Are you our new assistant?"

"This is Y/n L/n," Hongjoong interjected before you could answer, noticing the immediate interest his packmates were showing. "She's interviewing for the position. I'm showing her the office and facilities."

Something protective flashed briefly in Hongjoong's expression as he observed the way both San and Wooyoung were looking at you. He couldn't explain the sudden territorial feeling that surged through him—it made no logical sense, yet his alpha instincts were unmistakably activated.

"Nice to meet you both," you said with a polite bow, seemingly unaware of the subtle shift in dynamics.

"The pleasure is ours," Wooyoung replied, his tone notably warm. "We've been drowning in scheduling chaos since Minhyuk left. Please tell me you're organized and capable of herding cats?"

You laughed at Wooyoung's question, feeling surprisingly at ease despite being surrounded by three alpha idols. "I've been told I have a talent for creating order from chaos. Though I can't claim any specific experience with cat herding."

San's eyes crinkled with amusement. "That's basically what managing our schedules is like. Especially with this one," he nudged Wooyoung, who feigned offense.

"I'm perfectly cooperative," Wooyoung protested, then winked at you. "Most of the time."

You found yourself charmed by their dynamic and the way they so easily included you in their banter. There was something about their energy that felt welcoming rather than intimidating, despite their alpha status.

"The office is this way," Hongjoong said, gesturing down a hallway. Was it your imagination, or did his hand briefly hover near the small of your back as he guided you forward?

San watched as Hongjoong led you away, noticing the subtle protectiveness in their leader's body language. It was unusual—Hongjoong was typically more reserved with new people, especially potential staff members. Yet there was an unmistakable attentiveness in the way he oriented himself toward you.

"She seems nice," Wooyoung commented once you were out of earshot, his tone casual but his eyes still fixed on the hallway where you'd disappeared.

San nodded, feeling a strange reluctance to see you go. "Yeah." He paused, trying to identify the odd sensation that had come over him when you entered the room. "There's something about her..."

Wooyoung met his gaze, an understanding passing between them. "I felt it too."

---

Hongjoong showed you to a well-organized office with a large desk, multiple monitors, and a wall of filing cabinets. Large windows provided natural light and a view of the garden.

"This would be your main workspace," he explained. "The previous assistant kept everything meticulously labeled, so the transition should be relatively smooth."

You moved around the space, taking in the organized chaos of schedules pinned to a massive corkboard and color-coded folders labeled for each member.

"It looks like a good setup," you commented, already envisioning yourself working here. Something about the space, and the house itself, felt inexplicably right. "I appreciate you taking the time to show me all of this."

Hongjoong watched you examine the office, feeling increasingly certain that you were exactly what the team needed. Your questions were thoughtful, your manner professional yet warm. The strange pull he felt toward you remained, but he made a conscious effort to focus on the professional aspects of the potential working relationship.

"Do you have any other questions about the position or living arrangements?" he asked.

You considered for a moment. "Just one—when would you need the person you hire to start? My current lease ends at the end of the month, but I could potentially arrange things sooner if needed."

"The position is available immediately," Hongjoong replied. "But end of month would work well for transition purposes. We're between comeback preparations right now, so it's a relatively good time to train someone new."

You nodded, trying not to let your excitement show too obviously. Everything about this opportunity—the role itself, the living arrangement, even the brief interactions with the members—felt promising.

"Well, I think I've seen everything I need to," you said. "Thank you again for the tour."

As Hongjoong drove you back to the KQ building where your interview had begun, he found himself already thinking of you as their new assistant. The decision wasn't technically his alone—Minwoo and the company would have input—but his alpha instincts were rarely wrong about people, and they were practically shouting that you belonged with them.

"We'll be in touch very soon," he promised as he pulled up to the building entrance. "Likely within the next couple of days."

"I look forward to hearing from you," you replied, gathering your bag. "Regardless of the outcome, it was a pleasure meeting you and seeing the facilities."

As you stepped out of the car, Hongjoong rolled down the window. "Y/n," he called, using your first name for the first time. "For what it's worth, I think you'd fit in well with us."

The warmth in his voice sent a flutter through your chest. "Thank you," you responded sincerely. "I think so too."

You watched his car pull away, your heart racing with anticipation. Something about the entire experience felt significant—as if you'd just taken the first step on a journey that would change your life completely.

Little did you know just how prophetic that feeling would prove to be.

Next>>

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[corsairier]

dc x dp prompt: in which Danny accidentally becomes an alien

So I'm not super caught up on the modern day dp fandom lore, but what i am very familiar with is pre-2016 dp fandom lore. And that lore tends to take a much more sci-fi slant than a lot of the current magic stuff I've been seeing circulating around, so... what if we took that and put it in a batfam crossover?

Picture this: Danny is sixteen, he's told his parents he's a halfa, and despite all his fears, things actually went... well? They apologize for how they've treated Phantom, they reaffirm they still love him as their son, and things are surprisingly okay.

Except... ghosts are still their biggest interest in life, and researching ghosts is their entire passions and careers. And they've got a kid right there who not only is a ghost, but a rare type of half ghost who could give them a completely different set of data than any of their previous research! And he's their kid, so why not just go and ask Danny how he's feeling about helping them out with their research?

And Danny is, well... his friends and Jazz are all super happy for him that Maddie and Jack accepted him, and they think it's sweet at first that they're trying to bond with Danny over this. So he feels a bit pressured to go along with it, even though it feels incredibly invasive to have his parents asking him all these things. But they're his parents, and he does feel grateful for them not trying to vivisect him, so it can't be that bad, right?

But it just escalates.

His parents have never really been great with boundaries, especially when it comes to ghosts, and at some point Danny realizes that there's not really a point where either of them will truly stop. They keep asking him for blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, marrow samples, anything that can help understand him inside and out. They know ectoplasm can bring inanimate things to life or infuse life into the dead, so it quickly becomes Hey Danny, what if we injected human blood into a ghost? And Come watch us infuse ectoplasm into these frozen mice! and Danny, come help us out with this project!

Vlad won't even come in between any of this, not after Danny let slip that he wasn't the only halfa out there. Maddie's affections are a lot less attractive to him when it feels like being a lab rat under her microscope, and the coward seems more than happy to leave Danny to his fate while he goes and lives it up in his mansions. His friends are sympathetic, sure, but they don't really get it beyond usual "parents suck" complaining. it's not like Danny is actually in any danger.

Jazz at least takes it seriously, but she's off at university by then and she can't just drop everything to get into fights with their parents telling them to leave Danny alone. So Danny starts spending a bit more time than he probably should exploring the Ghost Zone and tumbling through portals, just to see where it leads him. It's stress relief, you know. Jazz would approve of him getting out of the house to clear his head.

The fact that some of these portals happen to connect dimensions isn't something he's expecting.

Neither is the fact that dimensions have their own rules, and in order to pass between dimensions, they must undergo changes as needed to fit those rules. Someone with magic cannot exist as is in a dimension without it, and the dead cannot walk in a dimension where the rules of life and death are drawn by different lines.

Danny winds up in Gotham with a body that feels unlike his own, the majority of his powers and his ghost half seemingly beyond his reach. He still thinks he's human (probably), but something about him isn't quite right. He feels odd, where he lands, and something about the air and the weather just doesn't sit right in his bones.

He's hungering for... ectoplasm, maybe? He can't put a finger on it, only that he's starving without it. Danny can't quite figure out how to get his way back—and he's not sure if he really wants to, if it means going back to playing house with his parents.

Then the Bats, from their own perspective, stumble across a medical mystery—one that doesn't want to be solved.

One that's absolutely sick of people trying to research everything about him.

And there's no way a being like him could be from Earth, right?

Batman is convinced he's an alien seeking amnesty on Earth. Tim's got his bets on an experiment escaped from some dark and corrupt lab somewhere. Dick's thinking the kid's a Meta with the kind of powers those with bad intentions would kill to have.

Jason, for what it's worth, really just wants to know how this bandaged and ill kid ended up in one of his safehouses—especially considering it's not accessible from the ground floor.

---

I've been chipping away at a fic for this, but I'm not sure if it'd be something modern dpxdc fans would be interested in? Feel free to use this idea yourselves for anything if it piques your interest LOL, just credit me in the AN if you post it to AO3. I just think it's really funny to have Danny having incredibly boring "i feel i can't enforce boundaries with my parents" problems and then the Batfam seeing what it all looks like from an outsider's POV and coming to some very severe conclusions based on what they can pick up on because it's really not a good look.

Danny voice. No my parents are fine except for all the experimenting on me. Jason voice. THE WHAT.

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm in Love (SMAU ft Lando Norris) part ii

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

series: part i

end of January, 2025

1st week of February, 2025

[Excerpt from Red Carpet interview]

Hi Y/N L/N! We're so glad to see you here. First of all, congratulations on your win at the Australian Open.

“Thanks so much! I’m really excited to have started the year this way.”

We’re excited too – and very happy that you could make time to come here to London for this. Your calendar must be incredibly full.

“I do try and always have a week off after the Grand Slams at least, but the WTA Tour schedule has definitely filled out over the years. It’s always a bit of a puzzle to both ensure I can play enough, win points, and at the same time strike that right balance in terms of fitness.  Both mentally and physically.”

And yet you’re adding work for yourself by not only being a top athlete, but now also a brand ambassador for Dior. What made you want to do this?

“It’s a really cool opportunity to just play dress up from time to time, to be honest. Plus, I love that they recognise athletes and sports can be high fashion, too. I always think of how incredibly inspiring Serena Williams is, both on and off the court for breaking boundaries and for showing that sports and fashion can go really well together.”

Did you get any time to relax at all?

"Weirdly, this almost feels relaxing to me, because of how much time you have to carve out and focus on yourself – without any performance target attached to it. But I’ve also taken some time to hang with my friends and family."

You’re turning 27 this year as well, and you’ve been a pro athlete for almost 10 years now. Obviously last year wasn’t the best for you, performance wise. Has that made you reflect on what those performance targets will look like in the future? What’s something you’ve learned in that time?

"I mean, the main goal for me would be to achieve a Career Grand Slam – and just play the best tennis that I can possibly play. And in terms of what I’ve learned, I would say that it’s to choose your friends, your team very wisely. Sometimes I’ve regretted missing major events, and sometimes I’ve regretted giving people too much room in my life. You need people who help you keep that balance.” People who keep you grounded, who tether you. Because being a pro athlete means you have to be really selfish from time to time, and it means sacrifice. I don’t see my baby niece as often as I’d like, for example. But it’s just the way it is."

2nd week of February, 2025

3d week of February, 2025

[Transcript excerpts of Quadrant video]

“Alright so we’ve got our pro-athletes here, ready to battle it out in a game of Wii Sports,” Max starts, quickly introducing Lando and Y/N.

“You are going to lose so bad, Norris,” she says.

“Oh I see, we’re already starting the trash talking,” he retorts. “Haven’t even started the game yet.”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it? Are we also going to play Mario Kart after this, just to see if Lando has what it takes to beat me on there?” Y/N asks eagerly, turning to Max.

“No fucking way, you always cheat!” Lando exclaims, with Y/N heard protesting in the background. “No I don’t, I just use the shortcuts that exist in the game! That is legitimate!”

(...)

“Birdie gets a birdie,” Lando cheers, though Max quickly chides him for encouraging the competition. “What? It’s not like she’s going to do it again, she’s terrible at this game,” Lando adds, motioning at the otherwise abysmal golf score that Y/N’s Mii character has racked up.

“Hey! She is right here, and she is currently in the lead after winning the bowling and tennis already.”

(...)

“Do you feel good about beating up a girl?” Y/N pouts, after losing the boxing match between her and Lando. He immediately makes a face, spluttering out an indignant “no!” that elicits a laugh from Y/N.

“Alright, that’s enough from both of you. With Lando’s win, it’s now tied again with only baseball to go. We’ll allow you both to consult your coach before starting this next round.”

They both turn to their coach for the day, one of the other Quadrant members, before taking their places – Wii Remote and Nunchuk in hand.

“You ready?

“Ready,” they nod, looking incredibly competitive. They even try and push each other to mess up their scores, devolving into a tickle fight halfway through. “No, Y/N stop, stop, I can’t - I’m crying,” Lando laughs, face red with tears streaming down his face.

“Does that mean I win?” She looks up from where she’d all but tackled Lando onto the ground, but then Max just shakes his head.

“It’s very close – but you’ve got one more pitch to go. You’re gonna need to let Lando hit it, or at least try to.” As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he blanches. Y/N rolls her eyes but starts uncontrollably giggling nonetheless.

“I regretted it as soon as I said it,” Max apologises profusely, but the camera zooms in on Lando who’s trying to hide his face behind both his hands, wheezing as Y/N tries to stand up and compose herself. Once they’ve finally managed to continue, it’s Lando who has the tiniest edge over Y/N.

“Ugh, well. This better not be a bad omen for me this season, but I guess I’d quite like to see you win the championship, Norris.”

“That’s actually very sweet,” he slings his arm around Y/N’s waist, then cracks open the champagne and pours it out over the two of them, with Y/N shrieking loudly at the cold, stickiness.

"So glad that's not part of tennis traditions."

4th week of February, 2025

[Excerpt Exit Press Conference]

“BBC Sport here. Your track record on hard court against Iga is not the best, now with 4 wins and 5 losses. How does that affect your training moving forward?

"Well, it was really close – so I feel like those type of numbers don’t really mean that much when it comes down to just a handful of winners or errors. Iga and I have played each other quite often, and she’s just an incredibly strong player. There’s a reason she’s had a long run at #1 and has returned to that spot for now.

In terms of training, I mean, we’re moving to gravel soon so it’s a completely different ballgame. Literally. We might run into each other again at Indian Wells, so of course we’ll come up with a plan – but my focus is already shifting towards the next Grand Slam, to be honest.”

Question from ViaPlay. Indian Wells is of course known for being the Grand Slam of the West and it’s one of the few 1000s tours where both ATP and WTA players meet. Last year, you entered into the mixed doubles with your then partner. Is that something you’d consider doing again in the future?

"Thanks for the question, but no. I’m playing singles, I’m not ready to mingle – I’m ready to pringle."

Will you actually have time to pringle, as you say? Or is it straight back to training for you?

"I’m going to spend a few days just hanging out, especially because I now have an extra day off all of a sudden. So I’ll try to make the most of that, then switch gears. Thanks."

A/N: Hope this uploads from the airport!! lol - next part coming March 14th, featuring Indian Wells, an interview faux-pas by Y/N, and of course some very fast cars 👀 part iii available here now

♥ likes, comments, reblogs are always very much appreciated ♥

taglist: @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne

[autumnmobile12]

Natsuo is more like his father than he wants to admit...and it is both tragic and unsettling.

Disclaimer: Not a criticism of Natsuo. I actually like this character. It is just a comparison study and a commentary of actions vs reactions. Natsuo is NOT a bad person for any of his choices.

He does what he wants without regard for what the people around him want.

Sure, he'll go along with certain requests, like going to the family dinner because Fuyumi asked him to.

However, rather than be a polite host, he decides he'd rather embarrass his sister by being angry at their father all through said dinner and making things awkward for their guests. He didn't have to be there. Whoever he's talking to on the phone after the fact, maybe the girlfriend, he apologizes for bailing on their plans. He didn't even have to white-lie to Fuyumi. He straight up had other plans that night. So there are two ways you could look at this:

He conceded to a request to support his sister...then half-assed it.

Or he canceled his plans and went out of his way to be a prick.

He's not wrong for hating his father, that is 100% a normal reaction to an abusive parent, but he is wrong for not establishing his own concrete boundaries or respecting Fuyumi's.

Like Endeavor, Natsuo is pretty isolated within the family.

Mom’s out of the picture and contact with her is limited.

We all know what his relationship with his father is like.

His closest sibling 'died' when they were kids, but even then, Touya and Natsuo's relationship wasn't a good one. We know Touya spent years trauma-dumping on Natsuo, and little bro took it like a champ. Supporting one's siblings like that is admirable, but it does highlight a key difference between the brothers. Touya has memories of a happy childhood with their father. Natsuo does not. So he had to listen to his older brother crying for a past he knows nothing about, which had to have brought on a little resentment. "At least Dad loved you once. I never even got that much."

As stated above, Natsuo doesn't see eye to eye with Fuyumi. At least not enough that he respects her decision to forgive their father. Whether he supports that decision or not, he should love his sister more than he hates their father, and starting shit unprovoked over a dinner she asked him to be at is not a supportive decision.

His relationship with Shouto is hard to gauge. They were raised apart, sure, but they lived in the same house. So the fact that he didn't know Shouto's favorite food until he was fifteen is...odd. Natsuo never tried to have a conversation with him in passing? But I have a theory about that. With how Shouto behaved in the very beginning of the series, the mirror-image of their arrogant father, I think Natsuo had a, “Fuck, now there’s two of them," moment and actively avoided association with his younger brother. This may have contributed to him moving out even though he attends a college that's close enough that that he can casually stop by for dinner.

He Actually Does Get Violent.

Not with other people, thankfully, but he does slam his fist against the door in this scene, which is an act of aggression.

This makes for an intense moment in animation, sure, but if you saw a person do this in real life, you’d be nervous about where that fist is going next.

I already went over this in the Endeavor analysis that I made a few months back, but the gist of it is taking out your anger on inanimate objects is unhealthy because you're training your brain to associate anger with violence, which has the potential to make it harder to dissociate in the long run.

In his own way, he did abandon his family.

Fuyumi tells him to leave the family circumstances to her....and he just left her to it? She went to college to become a teacher and made a career work in spite of living in a volatile home. The series doesn't say where Natsuo is a student at, but he clearly lives close enough to home that he can drop by for a visit, so it's not like he went to some prestigious university out of town.

So yeah. Left his remaining brother and sister to their father.

The other point, though, is he's canonically studying medical welfare.

Medical welfare is the consideration of patient wellbeing, preserving individual dignity, promoting quality of life, and taking a holistic approach to healthcare that applies mental and emotional care to a patient, not just physical.

So it's ironic this is where his brother ends up and he says absolutely nothing about it. Nothing about promising to come see him, nothing about asking the staff if this really the best arrangement they could come up with, no promises to Touya that he'll figure something out. He just ghosts and, like their father, that is really hypocritical.

In the end, he puts his own hate and feelings above everyone else’s.

This one's pretty closely related to my first point, but it does bear reiterating for the finale. Natsuo's decision to never see his father again is ultimately going to hurt his family more than it's going to spite Endeavor.  Going no-contact is a healthy choice and I don’t fault him for it at all.  But if he sticks to it, it’s going to lead to some serious ramifications down the road.

If he's strict enough to refuse to be in the same vicinity as Endeavor:

He won’t attend Touya’s funeral and support his grieving mother and siblings if Endeavor will be there.

Since we see in the epilogue Rei stays with Endeavor, Natsuo visiting her is going to be complicated.

If Fuyumi gets married, she might want her father at the wedding. Is Natsuo going to skip his sister’s wedding out of spite?

If Shouto gets married and decides to let their father be there, same story.

If Endeavor outlives Rei, will Natsuo miss her funeral?

And finally, Natsuo might have to come to terms with the fact his own children may want to meet their grandfather, which is a decision he can only control until they’re legal adults.  He can tell them how much of a monster Endeavor was all he wants, but those kids may still be curious about meeting the man in person, especially if they hear stories from other family members and know the former No. 2 and No. 1 is their grandfather.

I’m not saying Natsuo should forgive Endeavor, or even stop being angry with him because he has every right to his anger. But if he still wants a relationship with the rest of the family, he is going to have to exercise some form of compromise.  Especially with his children because he unfortunately has all the hallmarks to become the next Kotaro Shimura. This is a society where kids want to be heroes, and then there's Natsuo who has a history with the dark side of hero society, no matter the good Shouto does.

[satellite-evans]

you don't have to be sorry

Pairing: Harry Styles x reader

Summary: Harry learns why you refuse to let him pay, uncovering your painful past.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: past abusive relationship, little angst, fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Harry had always found joy in giving. Growing up, even when he didn’t have much, he’d learned that the look on someone’s face when you did something kind for them was worth more than anything money could buy. That lesson had carried over into his adult life, especially once his career took off and his world expanded in ways he’d never anticipated. He loved surprising his family with impromptu vacations, treating his friends to dinners just because, and going the extra mile to make everyone around him feel cared for.

When he met you, he found himself wanting to do those little things even more. Your smile was infectious, your laugh a melody he didn’t know he’d been missing until you came along. You were so strong, so independent, and it only made him more drawn to you, your kindness, and your spirit. From early on, he’d noticed that you carried yourself with an ease that spoke of someone who’d learned to take care of themselves, and he admired it. You were thoughtful, always prepared, and fiercely capable of handling things on your own.

Still, that didn’t stop Harry from wanting to treat you. From the beginning, he’d try to pick up the tab here and there, take you out for meals he knew you’d love, or surprise you with little things—your favorite flowers, a new book he thought you might enjoy. But each time he tried, you’d flash that polite, unwavering smile and insist on paying your own way. It wasn’t just a gesture, either. It was firm, unyielding, and Harry quickly learned that it was one boundary you weren’t willing to compromise.

He brushed it off at first, thinking maybe it was just the way you were. And in a way, he appreciated your independence. He knew you’d never take advantage of his generosity, and that was part of what made him feel so strongly for you. But as time went on, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle ways you’d tense up when he offered to pay, how your expression would harden slightly when he’d suggest covering the check. It was almost as if his offers triggered something in you, something you seemed determined to hide but couldn’t fully suppress.

And so, he kept quiet, telling himself not to pry, to respect your independence. Yet, as the months went on, he found that it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he wanted to be the one to pay, necessarily—it was that he wanted to feel like he could express his love without it feeling like a violation. He wanted you to feel comfortable enough to let him in, to let him care for you in a way that didn’t make you feel trapped.

One evening in late autumn, he planned a special dinner. The two of you had been talking about going to this small bistro on the outskirts of town for a while. It was an intimate spot with candle-lit tables and soft jazz playing in the background, and Harry knew you’d love it. The idea of spending a quiet, meaningful night there with you had stayed on his mind for weeks.

The evening was perfect. The glow from the restaurant’s lanterns bathed the room in a warm, amber light, casting a soft radiance on your face that made you look even more beautiful than usual. Your laughter floated through the air as you both shared stories and exchanged glances, and Harry felt the gentle comfort of being in your presence, something he’d come to treasure more than he’d ever thought possible.

When the bill finally arrived, he reached for it out of habit, ready to do what he’d long hoped to: treat you to something special, just because he wanted to. But, as always, you beat him to it, your card already in hand, that same polite but unwavering determination in your eyes.

“Please, love,” he murmured, placing a hand gently over yours before you could hand the card to the waiter. “Let me take care of this one, alright?”

Your smile faltered just for a second, and he saw a flicker of something in your eyes—something that didn’t quite match the confident independence you usually displayed. It was a look of hesitation, one that seemed out of place for you, and Harry couldn’t ignore it any longer. The moment was brief, gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough to stir his concern.

As the two of you walked out of the restaurant, Harry held your hand, feeling the cool night breeze brush against your skin as you strolled down the quiet, lamp-lit street. His mind was still on that moment at the table, the look in your eyes that hinted at something more, something you’d been keeping from him.

He stopped walking, gently pulling you to a halt beside him, his fingers still laced with yours as he looked down at you, his eyes soft and filled with a quiet concern.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, his voice low, careful. “I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but… why don’t you ever let me pay? I know you’re independent, and I love that about you. But… it feels like there’s something more to it. Like you’re keeping something from me.”

You met his gaze for a moment, but quickly looked away, shifting under the weight of his words. He could see a hint of tension in your shoulders, the way your hand tightened slightly around his, as if you were bracing yourself against an invisible force.

“It’s… it’s not about you, Harry,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I hope you know that. This is just… it’s something I’ve had to do for myself.”

He nodded, encouraging you to continue without saying a word. He could see you struggling to find the right words, the weight of something unspoken pressing down on you, as if the memories you carried were too painful to release.

“My last relationship was… it was complicated,” you finally said, your voice wavering slightly. “My ex… he was controlling. It wasn’t like this—it wasn’t done out of kindness, or love. It was… it was about power.”

Harry felt his heart sink as he watched you, his own feelings of helplessness swelling inside him as he realized just how deeply those past experiences had affected you. His fingers tightened around yours, as if to ground you, to remind you that he was there, listening.

“He… wouldn’t let me pay for anything either,” you continued, your gaze distant as if you were looking back at a memory you’d tried to bury. “He wouldn’t let me work. He’d tell me it was because he wanted to take care of me, but it was… it was more than that. He made sure I depended on him for everything. And whenever I used his money, he’d remind me that I wouldn’t have anything without him.”

You swallowed hard, the pain in your eyes raw, the vulnerability in your expression stark against the mask of strength you usually wore.

“It was like… like every time I let him pay, he took a piece of me with it. I felt like I was losing myself, one little piece at a time.”

Harry felt a swell of emotions surge through him, a mix of anger, sorrow, and helplessness. He hated the thought of you going through that, hated the idea that someone had taken advantage of your trust, had tried to mold you into something you weren’t. The thought of someone treating you that way filled him with a protective instinct he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Oh, love,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he reached up, gently brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you went through that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

The warmth of his hand against your cheek was grounding, soothing, a reminder of the safety you felt with him—a safety that was new, unfamiliar, and terrifying in its own way. You looked up at him, feeling the walls you’d carefully built around yourself begin to crumble, the armor you’d worn to protect yourself falling away under the gentle strength of his gaze.

“I didn’t want to feel that way again,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath. “When I finally left, I promised myself I’d be independent, that I’d never let anyone have that kind of power over me again. I didn’t want to feel… trapped.”

Harry listened, his heart breaking for the pain you’d carried alone for so long. He wanted nothing more than to reach into those memories and erase every moment of hurt, to go back and shield you from the scars that man had left behind. But he knew he couldn’t change the past. All he could do was be here, fully and completely, for you now.

He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in a warm, protective embrace, as if his presence could somehow shelter you from every painful memory, every scar that still lingered. You felt yourself relax in his hold, the tension in your body melting away as you allowed yourself to simply be, to feel safe, without fear.

He held you for what felt like an eternity, his hand gently rubbing your back in slow, comforting circles. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your shoulders, his gaze filled with a tenderness that took your breath away.

" I'm sorry." You said in a whisper, almost unhearable to him. Almost.

“ Oh lovie. I’m here for you,” he said softly, his voice a gentle promise. “You don’t have to carry this alone. You don't have to be sorry. I’ll never make you feel that way, I promise. You’re safe with me.”

The sincerity in his words touched something deep within you, and for the first time, you felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could let go of the past. You took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders as you allowed yourself to lean into his warmth, to trust in the quiet strength of his presence.

“Thank you, Harry,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of gratitude and relief. “I don’t think you know how much this means to me.”

He smiled, brushing a gentle kiss to your forehead as he took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as you continued your walk down the quiet street. The world around you felt different somehow, softer, brighter, as if the warmth of his love had transformed the cold night into something beautiful.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Harry glanced at you with a playful grin. “You know, I was thinking… if you keep insisting on paying for everything, I might just have to start charging you a fee for dating me.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh really? And what would that fee be?”

“Let’s see… one home-cooked dinner a month, plus unlimited cuddle time, and maybe a few spontaneous trips to the ice cream shop,” he replied, feigning seriousness with a cheeky smile.

“Sounds like a bargain, but you might want to raise your rates. I’m a high-maintenance girlfriend,” you shot back, a playful glint in your eye.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “High-maintenance? lovie, I don’t know if I can handle that kind of pressure.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll throw in a free consultation on how to keep your wallet healthy. You know, just in case you want to save up for our future yacht,” you teased, your tone light.

“Ah, yes! The yacht. I’ll need a solid financial plan for that one,” he said, nodding dramatically. “Maybe we should just start a joint account: ‘Harry and Y/N’s Fund for Epic Adventures.’”

“Only if I get to choose the adventures,” you countered with a grin.

“Deal! Just promise me one thing,” he said, suddenly serious.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“Promise you’ll never stop being you—independent, sassy, and always ready to take the lead when it comes to dinner bills,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

You laughed, feeling your heart swell. “Oh, I won’t! But fair warning: you’ll always be my favourite plus-one, even if you are a bit of a freeloader.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Freeloader? I’ll have you know, I bring a lot to this relationship—like charm, good looks, and the occasional serenade!”

“Okay, you’ve got a point there,” you conceded, shaking your head with a laugh. “But just wait until I hit the jackpot. You won’t know what hit you when I start treating you!”

With laughter and lightness in the air, you both continued your walk, the future feeling bright and filled with promise, all while playfully nudging each other along the way.

[springtyme]

heyy love, could you do an aaron hotchner x fem bau reader where they dated in secretly for a while but then he broke up with her. the reason he broke up with her is because he is her boss and that always was something that made him feel doubtful about their relationship. it’s up to you if you want to end it with an happy ending.

thank youu

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐀𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 ♡

Thank you so much for the request, dear anon! Such a lovely one and I was so happy to write for Hotch! mwah <3

Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader || Main masterlist || Spotify

summary: You suspect that you've been in love with Aaron Hotchner since you first laid eyes on him three years ago. Now you're on your way to Idaho to go on your first case together since he broke your heart two weeks ago.

word count: 4.5k

warnings/tags: Angst and fluff. Boss/employee relationship. Hurt/comfort. Heartbreak. Kissing. Sharing a bed. (first time I write for Hotch, so please bear with me) Haven't proof read yet. I don't know if I really like how it ended up tbh, but maybe it's just because I was really tired while writing it..?

You keep your gaze on the pages of the book, despite the words keep blurring together and after having read the same paragraph four times over, without even having registered what you have read. You’ve given up on actually getting any reading done, but you don’t want anyone talking to you right now and you still have almost four hours left before you land in Idaho. So you keep eyes glued to the book, hoping that the act of pretending to read will deter any unwanted conversation.     

You can feel his eyes on you, not all the time, but you feel how his gaze occasionally lingers on you. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you sense his presence nonetheless.  

Taking in a deep breath you look up from the book to steal a glance in his direction, catching his eye for a brief moment before he looks away. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, a hint of longing that mirrors your own. But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by the stoic mask he wears so well as he continues his conversation with Derek. 

The last two weeks have been painful, filled with a whirlwind of emotions and unanswered questions since Aaron had ended your relationship, before it even had a chance to really begin. It’s been three years since you joined the BAU and from the very beginning you had felt drawn to Aaron Hotchner in a way that defied logic and reason, like there was a connection between you that transcended the professional boundaries of boss and subordinate. 

A silly crush is what it had started as, but the more you got to know him, the more you realized that what you felt was far more than just that. It was a deep, undeniable attraction, a connection that went beyond the surface level. And as time passed, that initial spark grew into something more profound, something that stirred your soul and filled your heart with warmth. 

Sometimes you had let yourself hope that he felt the same way, that the moments of shared glances and unspoken words between you held a deeper meaning, but you had never dared act on it, or let yourself get your hopes up too high. The reality of Aaron’s position as your boss and the boundaries it imposed had always stood as a barrier. The unspoken rules of professionalism, the fear of risking his or your career and the harmony of the team had kept your feelings hidden, buried beneath layers of duty and obligation. 

It was three months ago that things had changed between you. It had been a moment of vulnerability, a shared confession during a late-night conversation with the raw emotions of the aftermath of an exceptionally harrowing case that had laid bare the depths of your emotions, and the longing that had simmered beneath the surface for so long had reached a point of no return. 

He had kissed you that night and it was sweet and tender, yet charged with unspoken desire and desperation. It was a moment of surrender, a brief glimpse into a world where the barriers between you could be broken down and the feelings you had both been suppressing could be allowed to flourish. 

The next couple months had been a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confessions, each one deepening the bond between you in ways that words could never fully capture. There were secret meetings in secluded corners of the BAU office, stolen kisses in the quiet of the night, and shared glances that spoke volumes without a single word being uttered.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, a shadow began to loom over your newfound connection. Aaron had started to act distant and reserved, his once warm and affectionate demeanor now replaced by a noticeable aloofness. And two weeks ago on a night where the both of you had stayed late to finish some reports he had told you that it all had been a mistake, and that the two of you should maintain a strictly professional relationship moving forward. 

His words had cut through the air with a sharp finality and landed like a heavy blow, shattering the fragile hope that had still lingered within you. Aaron’s eyes had been averted, unable to meet your gaze as he spoke the words that shattered your heart.

You steal another glance at Aaron, watching as he maintains his composure in conversation with Derek, his mask of professionalism firmly in place. 

You turn back to your book, the words still a jumbled mess on the page. You can’t pretend to read anymore, not when your heart is heavy with memories and unspoken words. With a sigh, you close the book, making Emily, who is seated across the aisle, glance up from the case file she is reading with a questioning look. 

You offer her a faint smile, attempting to convey a sense of normalcy despite the turmoil swirling within you. 

“You okay?” she asks as she sets aside the case file. You appreciate her gesture, knowing that Emily’s intuition often went beyond words.

You take a moment to collect your thoughts, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing down on you. With a small nod, you offer Emily a reassuring smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a lot on my mind,” you reply softly, the words carrying a weight that belie their simplicity.

Emily nods in understanding, her gaze holding a sense of sympathy. “He’s an idiot, by the way,” she says with a wry smile, and you feel how your heart stops for a second, panicking at the thought of Emily uncovering the truth of what has unfolded between you and Aaron. 

“What do you mean?” you stammer, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for Emily’s response.

Emily just smiles at you as she picks up her file again. “We’re profilers, it’s not hard to read between the lines,” Emily says with a knowing glint in her eyes, her smile reassuring and understanding. “And you’re not as hard to read as you think, it’s clear that you have been dating someone, you have been looking like a smitten kitten for months, it’s been really cute to see, by the way, but something has changed recently. You’ve been distant, and often lost in thought sulking,” Emily continues, her tone gentle yet perceptive. 

It’s not like it really surprises you, given how perceptive Emily is, and how deeply you’ve been feeling the shifts in your relationship with Aaron, but you had still hoped that you could have hidden your feelings from colleagues. 

“So, yeah, whoever he is that has you feeling like this is an idiot, you’re clearly a catch,” Emily says with a reassuring smile, her words carrying a sense of warmth and understanding.

You feel relief wash over you, though Emily has sensed that you’ve been heartbroken, she hasn’t figured out that it is your boss that has been the course of it. 

“Thanks, Em,” you say, offering the dark haired woman a tired but grateful smile.

Emily returns your smile. “If you ever need to talk or just... not talk, I’m here,” she offers, her voice warm and reassuring.

“I appreciate that,” you say, and you do really mean it, but you know that you’re not ready to talk about any of this yet. “But I think I’ll try to take a nap first, hopefully clear my head a bit before we land.” 

“Mm, sounds like a plan,”Emily responds with a soft chuckle. 

Grabbing the blanket from the empty seat next to you, you lean back in your seat, engulfing your body in the soft, fluffy material. 

Before closing your eyes you cast one last glance at Aaron, his profile etched against the soft glow of the cabin lights. The memories of stolen moments with stolen kisses floods your mind, mingling with the ache of his recent rejection. You feel a pang in your heart, a mix of longing and sorrow, as you turn away, curling up in your seat, closing your eyes to the world outside.

You pull the blanket closer around you, the soft warmth of the blanket envelops you, cocooning you in a sense of comfort and security, providing a shield against the turmoil of your heart. The gentle hum of the airplane engines lulls you into a state of relaxation, the rhythmic sound serving as a soothing backdrop to your thoughts and emotions. 

As you feel yourself drifting further into the realm of sleep, your senses start to weaken, the sounds of the airplane cabin fading into a distant murmur and you barely register the tears gently sliding down your cheeks before you drift off. 

· · · · · 

You’re softly pulled out of sleep by the gentle touch of a hand on your shoulder. As you slowly flutter your eyes open, the soft glow of the cabin lights illuminates the figure beside you.

“Hey, sleepyhead, we’re about to land,” Derek’s voice is warm and filled with a hint of amusement as he gently rouses you from your slumber.

You blink a few times, the remnants of sleep still lingering in your mind as you adjust to the reality of the present moment. With a small smile, you offer Derek a nod of gratitude. Slowly, you sit up in your seat, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as you get ready for touchdown. 

As the plane begins its descent, you feel a mix of emotions swirling within you - longing, sorrow, and a hint of resignation. The turbulence of your heart echoes the turbulence in the jet cabin as you start dissenting onto a lower altitude.     

As the cabin lights dim in preparation for landing, you look up to find Aaron’s eyes looking in your direction, his gaze briefly meeting yours before he looks away, a shadow covering his features in the soft glow. This would all be so much easier if he would stop looking at you all the time.    

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your emotions as the plane continues its descent. The mix of longing and sorrow in your heart feels almost suffocating, but you push it aside. You have to focus, have to keep your head clear for the sake of the case, you are a professional and you are not going to let your emotions cloud your mind. As the wheels touch the runway with a slight jolt, signaling your arrival in Idaho, you

And as the team disembarks from the plane and makes their way to the awaiting SUVs, you feel a sense of resolve settling within you, happy to no longer be confined to the limited room of the jet cabin and as you step out into the crisp evening air, you release a sigh of relief. 

You watch Aaron walk ahead of you, his posture rigid and his expression unreadable as he walks to one of the cars and you beeline for the other. You keep your gaze fixed outside the window for most of the car ride, watching the landscape pass by in a blur as the car speeds towards its destination, a little sleepy town about an hour away. 

As you and the team arrive at the local police station, you can feel the tension between you and Aaron simmering just beneath the surface. The case at hand requires your full attention, and you push aside the turbulent thoughts and emotions that threaten to consume you as you focus on the task at hand.

Throughout the evening and early night, you work alongside the team, profiling the unsub and piecing together clues to hopefully catch the unsub before they strike again. The familiarity of the work, the rhythm of profiling and investigating grounding you in the present moment, making you go into a state of laser focused professionalism. You find a sense of purpose in the work you do, a reminder that you are more than the turmoil of your emotions.

But as the night wears on, the team regroups at the hotel to get a few hours of sleep before continuing the investigation in the morning. You find yourself standing outside the small hotel, looking up at the dark, star lit sky and as you turn to head inside and join the rest of the team, you feel your heart do a little jump in your chest as you see Aaron standing a few feet away, his gaze fixed on you, his usual stoic expression faltered, his brown eyes softening as they meet yours.   

For a moment, the world around you seems to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing in the quiet night, and suddenly, you know that the decision you have made to the hard choice you’ve struggled with for the past two weeks is the right one. 

 Without saying a word, you walk towards him, a mix of uncertainty and determination coursing through you. As you come to a stop in front of him, he opens his mouth to speak, but you raise a hand to silence him. “Not here,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper, and you gently take his hand, leading him towards a secluded corner of the hotel grounds. 

As you come to a stop, you turn to face him, the dim light of the night casting shadows across his face. With a heavy sigh, you search his eyes for any sign of the man you once knew, the man who had kissed you with such tenderness and held you with such care, the man you think might’ve even loved you. You had loved him, had long before he kissed you, and you still love him.

 “Aaron, I…” you begin, trailing off as you feel all the words in your head leave you as you look into his eyes, remembering that night he had kissed you for the first time. It had been a late night just like this one, it had been the first time you had ever called him by his first name. 

“Let’s sit,” he says, his voice gentle yet strained, as he guides you to a nearby bench. You both sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavily between you. Finally, Aaron speaks, his voice raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for hurting you, for leading you on, for... for everything.” His words are filled with regret, and you can see the pain in his eyes, a pain that mirrors your own. 

He reaches out his hand, hesitating before resting it on yours. His touch is soft and hesitant but filled with unspoken longing and you feel how your heart skips a beat, how you have missed the feeling of him touching you, even if it’s just the slightest of touches. 

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, his voice now barely above a whisper. 

‘But it did hurt, it hurt so, so much’, is what you want to say. But as you look into Aaron’s eyes, filled with regret and vulnerability, you find yourself unable to form the words, the intensity in the warm, chocolate brown depths of his gaze rendering you speechless. You see the conflict within him, the turmoil of emotions swirling beneath the surface, and you feel the need to avert your gaze.  

You look down at his hand on yours, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine in the balm night air. For a moment, you allow yourself to savor the familiar sensation, the connection that still linger between you despite the circumstances.

Aaron’s hand tightens slightly around yours, a silent plea for understanding. “You deserve so much better than that,” he murmurs, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.

You take a deep breath, the words forming in your mind before you speak them out loud. “Maybe I don’t want you to decide for me what I do and don’t deserve,” you say, looking up at him again, your voice steady despite the feelings swirling within you. Aaron’s eyes widen slightly at your words, a mix of emotions crossing his features.

Now it’s his turn to be lost for words, which for some reason seems to give you a bit more courage. You fill your lungs with another deep breath before opening your mouth.  

“I’m quitting,” you declare, your voice firm and resolute. You’ve been struggling with making the decision, but as you look at Aaron now, face lit up by the soft moon light you know that it is the only decision for you, you are never gonna be able to let him go if you keep working for the BAU. “I’m turning in my resignation letter when we get back from this case.”

Aaron’s eyes widen in shock, his grip on your hand tightening even more as he processes your words. The weight of your statement hangs heavy in the air between you, the unspoken implications of what this means for both of you settling in. You can see how a myriad of emotions flicker across his face – surprise, concern, and perhaps a glimmer of something else that you can’t quite place.

“You can’t do that,” Aaron’s voice is firm but filled with a mix of concern and resignation, his gaze searching yours for any sign of doubt

You can’t help but feel a pang of hurt at his words, it’s not like you had expected him to be happy about your decision, but a little, and probably naive, part of you had hoped that he would acknowledge that it would be the solution to how the two of you could be together, hoped that he still wanted that. But you’re not leaving the BAU for the slim chance that you can be with Aaron. You’re quitting because it’s become clear to you that it is the only solution. If the only time you can push aside the pain of being around him is when you’re actively investigating  a violent crime case, you have to let him go, and you can only do that by leaving the BAU. 

“Yes, I can… I have to, I think,” you say firmly, yet you feel your heart breaking a little by the thought of leaving. “I need to do this for myself. For my own well-being,” you continue, your gaze unwavering as you look into his eyes. “I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when it’s not.” 

Aaron remains silent for a moment, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. Finally, he sighs, a hint of resignation in his voice. “I never wanted it to come to this,” he admits, his voice heavy with regret.

“I know,” you reply softly, a tinge of sorrow coloring your words. “But we both knew the risks when we started this.”

“I should never have put you in this position,” Aaron says, his gaze dropping to the ground as he speaks. “I should never have kissed you that night. Ilet my own feelings cloud my judgment, and I hurt you in the process. I’m your boss, and I took advantage, and I-I hurt you, and…” 

“No, look at me, please.” You reach out and gently cub his cheek in your hand, making him meet your gaze. “Aaron, it wasn’t just you. I wanted it too, I wanted to be with you,” you confess, your voice breaking slightly with emotion. “I wanted to take the risk because I thought it was worth it. And maybe it was, for a while. But we can’t keep going like this, Aaron. It’s not fair to either of us.” 

Aaron’s eyes search yours, a mix of emotions swirling within their depths. “What are you saying?” he asks softly, his voice filled with a hint of desperation. 

“I’m saying that I need to let you go,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need to let go of this hope that maybe someday we could find a way to be together. I can’t keep holding on to something that’s only causing us both pain.” Tears gather in the corners of your eyes as you speak, the weight of your decision pressing down on you. But despite the pain, you feel a sense of clarity wash over you, a sense of liberation in finally speaking the truth. 

Aaron’s eyes soften, his hand coming up to gently grasp yours that’s still cupping his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret and sorrow. You offer him a sad smile, tears finally spilling down your cheeks as you lean forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek before pulling away. 

“Me too, Aaron,” you say softly, your voice filled with a mix of love and heartbreak. As you stand up from the bench, you turn to walk away, the weight of your decision settling in your heart. But before you can take a step, you feel a hand grasp yours, stopping you in your tracks. You turn back to see Aaron standing before you, his eyes filled with determination and a hint of something you can’t quite place. 

“I...I can’t let you leave without saying this,” Aaron begins, his voice wavering slightly. “I’ve been a fool. I’ve let my own fears and insecurities cloud my judgment, and in the process, I’ve hurt you. But I can’t let you go without telling you that I love you. ” 

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the depth of his confession washing over you like a wave. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope ignite within you, a spark of possibility that maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance for the two of you. “But what does that mean, Aaron?” you ask softly, your voice filled with a mix of hope and trepidation. “What are you saying?” 

Aaron takes a deep breath, his gaze unwavering as he speaks. “I’m saying that I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to live with the regret of letting you slip away. I want to fight for a future where you are a part of my life. I know it won’t be easy, I know there are risks and complications, but I can’t let you go without at least trying cause I love you.” 

Tears stream down your cheeks as you look into Aaron’s eyes, the sincerity and love shining within them filling your heart with warmth and longing. Taking a step closer to Aaron, you reach out to cup his face in your hands, meeting his gaze with determination. 

“I love you, too. I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you.” 

Aaron’s eyes widen in surprise, a mix of emotions flickering across his features. Without another word, he closes the distance between the two of you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss filled with passion and longing. The world falls away as you melt into each other, lost in the moment of shared love and desire as the man you love kisses you under the moonlight.

The kiss deepens, becoming a promise of the future you both want to fight for, a pledge to overcome the obstacles that stand in your way, a balm for the weeks of heartbreak. And as you break apart, breathless and filled with emotion, you feel how your entire body shivers, already missing the feeling of Aaron’s warm lips against yours. 

“You’re freezing,” Aaron frowns, quickly shredding himself of his suit jacket and draping it around your shoulders before wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. “Let’s get you inside.”

You nod, your heart swelling with hope and love as he takes your hand in his, leading you back to the hotel. Hotel might be a little generous; it’s more of a bed and breakfast, with so few rooms that the team had to pair up and share, but it was the only accommodation in town and it is not like you and the team aren’t used to having to share rooms from time to time. 

It turns out the rest of the team has already paired up and hit the hay, leaving only one room since you’re the last two to arrive. “Looks like you and I’ll have to share a room,” you say, a small smile playing on your lips, an hour ago you would be horrified by it, but now you’re absolutely thrilled about it.  

“Yeah, looks like it,” he says with a soft smile on his face as you get your keys before taking your hand in his again and leading you to your shared room.  

As you step inside, the warmth of the room envelops you, melding with the warmth of Aaron’s touch as he pulls you into his arms, his lips finding yours once more in a sweet, tender embrace. In the dim light of the hotel room, with the moon casting a soft glow through the curtains, the emotions swirling within you are no longer suffocating, but freeing, as you surrender to the love that has bound the two of you together.

As you finally break apart and look around it turns out that the room is a twin room, with two beds divided by a bedside table. It makes sense that your coworkers didn’t leave you to share a room with a shared bed. 

You share a knowing look with him before the both of you start to quickly get ready for bed, it’s late and you’re both exhausted and there is only a few hours till you’ll need to get up again. 

You share one last kiss before moving to your respective beds, but as you lay there, the distance between you feels unbearable. The man you have been pining over for three years has just a little while ago told you that he loves you after weeks of heartbreak and he lies so close yet you can’t even touch him? That’s ridiculous! 

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice filled with longing as you look at Aaron.

“I know,” he replies, his voice just as filled with yearning as he pulls his covers to the side letting you slip into the bed with him. 

You settle into his arms, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and you feel as if you’re finally coming home. The walls that had been built between you are crumbling down, allowing you to embrace the love that has always been between you.

As you snuggle closer to Aaron, his arms wrapped tightly around you, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. The turmoil of the past weeks fades away, replaced by a deep sense of contentment and love.

“I’m never letting you go again,” Aaron whispers, his breath warm against your ear, and you know that he means it. And you know that you never want to let him go either. 

With a smile on your face, and your heart full of love and hope, you drift off to sleep in the arms of the man you love, knowing that no matter what challenges lie ahead, you will face them together.