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[leafday]

Part of the college experience is trying to figure out why your stomach hurts and realizing that you haven’t eaten a vegetable in over a month

[norristrii]

STAND BY ME.

You and your best friend, Lando, made a pact to marry each other if neither of you started dating anyone within the next 10 years—a promise Lando never fails to remember.

pairing. Lando Norris x bsf! fem! reader.

warnings. drunk lando, drunk decision, best friends to lovers, humor genre. part 2.

music. Better Off (Alone, PT.III) by Alan Walker // Stand By Me by Ben. E. King.

THE MEMORY WAS HAZY, but some moments from that wild, reckless phase of your teenage years stayed sharp as glass. You and Lando were unstoppable back then, two troublemakers who fed off each other’s impulsiveness. Whether it was sneaking out late at night, stealing booze from parties where you didn’t belong, or egging each other on to make the dumbest decisions imaginable, those days were pure chaos—and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

But one night stood out more than the others. The air was thick with the scent of summer, and the streetlights outside cast faint shadows on the walls of his living room. You were lying on his couch, limbs splayed as if the weight of the world didn’t exist, while Lando leaned back against the armrest, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was something unspoken between you, a familiarity that didn’t need words, and in that quiet moment, he turned to you with an idea.

“If we don’t date anyone by the time we’re 25,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with mischief, “we’ll get married.”

You turned your head, arching a brow at him. The absurdity of it made you laugh at first—a carefree, genuine laugh that echoed through the room. But as the words settled, you realized that, in some inexplicable way, it made sense. With Lando, everything always seemed to make sense, even when it shouldn’t. “Deal,” you said, matching his grin with one of your own.

The two of you even wrote it down, scribbling the pact on a scrap of paper you scrounged from his kitchen drawer. The handwriting was messy, barely legible, but it didn’t matter. At the time, it felt like you were cementing something sacred, a promise sealed not just in ink, but in the unbreakable bond the two of you shared.

Over the years, you found yourself navigating the ups and downs of teenage dating, testing the waters with a few boys along the way. But somehow, it always felt like Lando was there, lingering at the edges of your relationships, subtly or not-so-subtly sabotaging them. A missed call here, a well-timed comment there—it wasn’t overt, but the signs were undeniable. And, if you were being completely honest, you didn’t mind. There was a part of you that found it comforting, almost like you knew deep down that none of those boys could ever measure up.

Lando had his own share of girlfriends, too. There were moments when you’d watch from the sidelines, wondering if he’d found someone who might pull him away from you. But, time and time again, those relationships fizzled out as quickly as they began. You didn’t even have to try—it was as if some unspoken force kept pulling you both back into each other’s orbit.

The club buzzed with life, neon lights flashing and music thumping as you danced alongside your friend Alex. The energy in the room was infectious, pulling you deeper into the rhythm as laughter and excitement mingled around you. The celebration for the Las Vegas Grand Prix had brought together crowds of exuberant fans, drivers, and friends, and for you, it was the perfect way to mark the occasion.

You swore Lando had been there just moments ago, his unmistakable presence in the crowd. But as you glanced around, there was no sign of him. A fleeting thought crossed your mind—maybe he’d gone to the bathroom or stepped outside for air. It wasn’t unusual for him to slip away for a moment in the chaos of a party. You didn’t think much of it, instead letting yourself get lost in the music and the carefree spirit of the night.

Alex leaned in, laughing about something you couldn’t quite catch over the booming bass. You laughed along, the atmosphere too good to interrupt with stray thoughts. But still, somewhere in the back of your mind, the flicker of Lando lingered—a quiet, unspoken sense of anticipation that you couldn’t quite shake. This was his kind of scene after all, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he reappeared soon, grinning in that way that had always made everything feel lighter.

The club's music thudded in the background as Max tapped your shoulder, leaning close to make himself heard over the pulsating beat. “Y/n! Can you come with me outside?” he asked, his voice urgent enough to catch your attention despite the chaos around you.

“Of course,” you replied without hesitation, nodding as you turned to follow him. Something in his tone piqued your curiosity—Max wasn’t usually one for abrupt interruptions during a night out. You glanced back instinctively, your eyes scanning for Alex to see if he had noticed you leaving or was following you. The kaleidoscope of neon lights and swirling figures blurred in your periphery as you stepped away from the dance floor.

Max led the way towards the exit, his demeanor seeming slightly more serious than usual. The cool desert night air hit you as the door swung open, a stark contrast to the warm, frenetic atmosphere inside. You couldn’t help but wonder what was waiting for you out there—something told you this wasn’t just a casual chat.

The scene outside the bar was something straight out of a comedy sketch. Carlos, Oscar, and Charles stood in a perfectly straight line, their expressions overly serious, like they were guarding the entrance to some exclusive event. You blinked, trying to process what you were seeing. What the actual fuck?

Carlos cleared his throat with exaggerated drama, drawing all attention to himself. Oscar, playing along with equal flair, handed him a piece of paper as if it were some sacred document. “Ten years ago, on this day…” Carlos began, his voice dripping with theatrical gravitas. You turned to Alex, your face a mix of confusion and disbelief, only to find her grinning ear to ear, her phone held up to capture every second of this absurd spectacle.

Carlos continued, undeterred by your bewilderment. “Lando Norris and Y/n L/n made a pact that confirmed they’ll get married if they don’t date anyone else,” he declared, his tone so serious it was impossible not to laugh. You could feel your cheeks starting to ache from the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“And on this day, at the age of 25,” Carlos concluded, pausing for dramatic effect, “they appear to be both single.” His words hung in the air for a moment before the absurdity of the situation hit you like a tidal wave. You doubled over, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. The whole thing was so over-the-top, so utterly ridiculous, that you couldn’t help but lose yourself in the hilarity of it all. What was even happening? This was chaos, and you were absolutely here for it.

The trio parted like the curtain of a grand stage, revealing Lando standing there, his messy curls catching the faint glow of the streetlights. His white shirt was half unbuttoned, the casual disarray somehow making him look even more like the Lando you’d always known. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate yet slightly unsteady, his hands reaching out to gently take yours.

“Y/n, the love of my life,” he began, his voice carrying the unmistakable slur of someone who’d had a drink or two, but you didn’t care. The sincerity in his eyes was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “I hoped all my life to get to this day with you,” he said, his words soft but weighted with meaning.

You felt your breath hitch as he continued, his grip on your hands tightening ever so slightly. “Do you promise you’ll always stand by me, even though I’m a dick sometimes?” he asked, his tone shifting to something almost boyish, as if he were afraid of your answer. You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips despite the tears welling in your eyes.

And then, slowly, he began to kneel, his movements deliberate as he reached into his pocket. The world seemed to hold its breath as he pulled out a small box, the kind that could only mean one thing. “Y/n,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos of the moment, “will you marry me?”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you did both, the emotions bubbling over in a way you couldn’t control. “Yes,” you managed through your laughter, your voice trembling with joy. “Yes, I will.”

Lando slid the diamond ring onto your finger, its brilliance catching the faint glow of the city lights. It was exquisite, almost unreal, and the thought lingered—had he just pulled off some last-minute miracle, or had he been holding onto this ring, waiting for the right moment? Either way, the gesture felt deeply intentional, like he had always known it would lead to this moment.

As he stood up, his smile wide and genuine, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close in a hug that felt like home. His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft yet filled with all the emotions words couldn’t convey. It felt perfect—chaotic, surprising, and utterly perfect.

Behind you, the ever-lively Max broke the moment with a cheerful shout. “Can I be bridesmaid?!” His words were slurred with enthusiasm, drawing laughter from everyone around. You turned back to him, your grin widening as you replied without hesitation, “Of course, Max.”

The night had been unpredictable, filled with energy and celebration, but nothing could have prepared you for this—the moment you got engaged to your best friend on the pavement outside a club in Las Vegas. It was messy, spontaneous, and entirely unexpected, but somehow, it fit the two of you perfectly.

© norristrii 2025

@haniette <3

[magentasnoodle]

hmmmmmmmmmmmm

conceptualizing

I was told you should keep your portfolio as clear and simple as possible, because the main focus should be on the works

but i disagree! I guess i just dont feel like my skills are my best selling point, I don't actually have that much work to show and i feel like there are many artists who can deliver a similar or higher quality,

but then coming up with creative concepts and execute them, while having a wide range of abilities is slightly more unique?

at least i hope so

i think my biggest issue as an aspiring web designer, i that i'm designing websites like they are a video game

like this is a thing i made for my portfolio a while back, which was meant to be like a visual novel style with basic text dialogue at the bottom

and now I want to make a more extreme version of it which is more like a point and click adventure (clicking on the photos to see my work, clicking on me for about me, etc)

BUT IT'S SUCH A BAD WEBSITE!! like it's super fun but it's going to be so hard for people to actually figure out how to use it and find what they are looking for

NOT TO MENTION WEBDESIGN SHOULD PRIORITIZE MOBILE THESE DAYS and it wooont work on a tiny vertical screen without a mouse

i'm struggling

[malum-forev]

Casual

Summary: a glimpse into your secret relationship with Bucky. The one he threw away.

CABNW!Bucky x Agent!Reader

Part 2: More Than Casual?

“This is so, so wrong.” Bucky mumbles against your lips, hands tangled in your hair. 

“But it feels so right.” You counter, looking up at the heaving super soldier through your eyelashes. 

He wasn’t all wrong. It was heavily looked down upon for a senior member to fraternize with a younger trainee. But who cares when the two of you are under the influence of heavy alcohol and worn out from your most recent mission?

It should’ve ended after that. You were supposed to be a one night stand. But Bucky couldn’t get you out of his mind. And what bothered him the most was that you seemed unfazed. 

“Was it not as mind blowing for you as it was for me?” Bucky says in between deep thrusts, the wrinkle between his eyebrow creasing.

“What?” You ask breathlessly. A second ago you were on a mind numbing roll heading toward climax and now, he’s completely taken you out of it with just a couple of words. “What are you talking about.”

He dives deeper, making your eyes roll back. “You’re the best I’ve ever had in decades, and you just acted like I was average.”

You have to stop yourself from laughing. “Didn’t we agree that we were going to keep our little meeting low key?” 

“Low key doesn’t mean forget about it completely.” Bucky says with a huff. 

Your eyebrows raise. “You want recognition.”

“I want you to admit I’m the best you’ve ever had.” His voice is gravelly, his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to catch every single movement in it. 

“And if it wasn’t?” You challenge. 

“Then you’d be lying.” He trails his vibranium arm over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

“How do you know?” You whisper. 

“Because I was right there with you, doll.” He smiles against your lips, driving his hips up. 

A couple of hookups turned into him leaving an extra set of clothes at your place. Supposedly he only did it to make your meet ups more efficient. But you knew that the Sergeant was lying to you, and to himself. Every morning he’d make his way through your kitchen, making two coffees and cleaning up whatever you’d left the night before. 

A few months later, you cleared a couple of drawers for him. And Bucky gladly left his favorite Henley’s at your place along with his infamous leather jacket. 

Neither one of you knew what this was but you were having fun. And that’s what counted, right?

You liked moving up the ranks without having anyone undermine your work just because you’re sleeping with Bucky. And he liked not having to be vulnerable in front of other people. 

But soon, months turned into years. And before you knew it, Bucky was bringing you flowers every Friday and staying over more days than not. 

He’d share his fear of navigating the new world without a clear purpose. And you’d talk about how this job made you feel lonely most of the time. 

Your fellow agents would always try to set you up with whoever they knew. You’d politely decline the blind dates, not missing the way Bucky would give whoever would be your potential date, a tougher routine. 

And Bucky, well, no one was really trying to set him up with anyone. 

But your favorite part was work functions. Galas and charities where the two of you would act like strangers only to go back home to the same address. It was like a game for you two, until it wasn’t. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” you nod your head, ordering a cocktail at the bar. 

He tilts his head. “Agent.”

You should have known something was off, his eyes were dull and his voice sounded tight. But you assumed it was just because of the setting. Bucky never felt comfortable in places like this. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask under your breath.

“Nothing,” his voice is clipped. 

A photographer comes close to you two, holding up his camera and getting a picture before either one of you could object. 

“Delete that,” Bucky snaps. “Now!”

“What’s gotten into you?” You hiss, waving away the innocent photographer. 

“We can’t be seen together.” His blue eyes look everywhere but yours. “It’s not good for my image to be with a former widow.”

Your jaw slacks. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Sure, Bucky had expressed some interest in running for congress but you never thought he was serious. And between constant missions and Bucky staying back, you weren’t quite up to date with the man you’ve been seeing for three years. 

“I hired a publicist,” He shoots a look back to a man standing close to Sam. “He recommends I stay away with my former team. It looks better for my campaign if I focus on the future, rather than the past.”

“The past?” Your breath gets caught in your throat. 

Bucky looks down at the floor. 

“So us…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. 

“Us?” Bucky raises his eyebrows, questioning all those years of you two. 

You scoff. “Drop the act, you know what’s between us.”

“Look, these years have been nice,” Bucky gulps. “But we both knew that we were just playing around.”

“Playing around?” You raise your eyebrows, a knot forming in your throat. 

“Casual.” He shrugs. 

“Was it casual when you chased after me in Bangladesh?” You challenge. “Was it casual when you asked me to stay because you wanted to feel me at night? Was it casual when you said you loved me?”

Bucky finally looks at you. “You have to understand, congress means I can make an impact-“

You finish off your drink. “Listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes, this is the last time I let you speak to me. From now on, we’re strangers—better yet, you’re dead to me.”

“C’mon, it doesn’t have to be like this,” he tries to hold your hand but you escape his soft grip. 

“Good luck, Congressman Barnes,” your eyes get glassy. “I hope you get everything you want.”

You never look back, not wanting to let him see how much he hurt you. 

Author's Note: hihiiii please remember I posted the first chapter of my book All For The Crown, it's on my page. I'd love it if you guys could take a read and leave me a comment! Thanks as always for all the love! My asks are always open!

[skyrigel]

Serial killer! Simon Riley x afab!reader | for @softiecakess

Simon opened the door soundlessly, not wanting to wake you up if were asleep, he opened the refrigerator as he sat the strawberry ice cream tub in freezer, his eyes darted towards the doorway when he saw you, your blanket hoisted up like a cape. His smile broke into a grin when you rushed to him, jumping up in his lap and wrapping your legs around his waist, he twirled you around with a kiss in your hair, sniffing the warmth and a scent that screamed, home.

" you're home ! " You kissed his cheek, the skin under his eyes, his nose tip, his chin, the corner of mouth, twinkling as he bumped his nose to yours, warmth spreading and tingling under your skin.

" I am home." He whsipered, bringing your knuckles to his lips as he kissed each with tender and raw affection, you gaze dropped to his hands, his skin was scrapped. You frowned up at him, he exhaled softly.

" Where did you get them ? " You narrowed your eyes as he walked into bedroom, Simon shrugged it off with a hard kiss pressed to your mouth and all your thoughts vanished with the feel of his tongue prying it's way in you, his teeth nibbling softly on your soft lips, urging obscene noises from you. He placed you down on the soft bed with a delicate palm behind your neck, and held you there with his arms pinning your wrist above you head, your mouth arching up for more, more of him and his feel.

" Just a guy, nothing much." He kissed your your jaw as he left the words, trailing your skin, he never left any questions unanswered, never lied.

" Oh." You moaned, " You okay? not hurt��� don't get into fights..ah," His hands slid under your shirt, gripping your soft warm flesh, " I don't want to see you hurt.." it came shaky and almost lost when Simon's mouth curved in delight, he pulled your shirt above your head, giving your wrist a break.

" ofcourse princess." He kissed your collarbone, looking deep into your eyes as he lowered his mouth to catch your hardened nipple between his lips, his eyes dazzling as you arched back, panting his name, again and again and again.

_

" Strawberry or chocolate ? " He cocked his lips, watching you with a devouring hunger, hands shuffling in the drawer.

" Strawberry...." You dazed, your cheeks warm and flushed as Simon bent down to kiss your sweaty forehead.

" I knew it babe." He chuckled, like he knew something you didn't.

Masterlist

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[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 8: October 2023

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...I think that's it?

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

Max wasn’t someone who forgot how to be an adult.

He was a World Champion. He kept a strict training regimen, remembered which hand luggage worked best for long-haul flights, and could navigate a grid penalty strategy like it was second nature. He wasn’t helpless—not at the track, not at home.

But still, there was something quietly astonishing about how easy his life had become since Isabelle moved in.

It started off small.

After the first race weekend they spent apart post-move, he came home expecting the usual chaos—half-unpacked suitcase, laundry to do, a fridge with maybe one sad yogurt and some questionable cheese.

Instead?

His suitcase was already unpacked. Laundry sorted and in the wash. There was a folded stack of clean gym clothes on the bed, and a small sticky note on the bathroom mirror in Isabelle’s tidy handwriting:

Welcome home. You did great. There’s soup in the fridge and the cats missed you.

He’d blinked at it for a solid minute before laughing quietly and thinking, Huh. That’s new.

But it didn’t stop there. 

By the third race weekend, it had become a rhythm. The fridge was magically stocked with all the foods he craved after long travel days—cut mango, chocolate granola, oat milk, the fancy yogurt he’d once mentioned liking. 

His sim racing gear? Charged and ready before he even thought to use it. A small corner of the closet had somehow become better organized than Red Bull’s race strategy board.

She started refilling his supplements without saying a word. She pre-scheduled his haircuts, left Post-Its on the mirror when he needed to sign something for the team, and quietly placed noise-canceling earplugs in his carry-on.

And she worked. Isabelle had a full-time job. Not a desk job where she could casually scroll through her phone or delegate her way through the day—she was an architect, doing interiors, managing clients, deadlines, contractors. Max had seen her calendar. It looked like someone had lost a game of Tetris.

And somehow—somehow—she still remembered to order new toothpaste before they ran out. Or add his vitamins to the grocery list. Or restock the snack drawer in his sim room without ever saying a word.

It wasn’t flashy. She didn’t make announcements about it. She just did it, quietly and efficiently, like she always had.

It wasn’t until Max found himself halfway through folding his laundry before realizing he hadn’t had to fold laundry in over a month that the realization hit him fully:

Isabelle had spent most of her life running in the background of other people’s chaos.

He’d seen it before, on the edges of Leclerc family race weekends. Isabelle, the sister who stayed back to make sure Arthur had the right tie packed, or that Charles had signed the right forms. The one who found a florist for Lorenzo thirty minutes before an event, or remembered which water bottle brand their mother liked for travel.

She had always been the quiet buffer.

The fixer.

The forgotten problem-solver.

And now… she was doing it for him.

Not because he expected it. He didn’t. He’d told her repeatedly he could handle himself. But Isabelle wasn’t someone who waited to be asked. She anticipated, gently rearranged the world around her people, and made their lives easier before they even noticed they were stressed.

He found her that night curled up on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, laptop open with her architectural renders glowing softly against her face. She was eating grapes and typing one-handed, her legs tucked under her like always.

“You know,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her, “I haven’t had to do a single thing since I got home.”

Isabelle didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I haven’t done laundry. My flights are in my calendar. My snack drawer is mysteriously refilled. I have socks again. And coffee. And peace.”

She blinked, paused her typing, and smiled. “It’s really not that much.”

“It is,” Max said gently. “You work ten hours a day and somehow still run this apartment like it’s an F1 garage. I don’t know how you do it.”

She shrugged a little, looking sheepish. “I like doing it. I like making things easier for the people I love.” 

“Do your brothers ever thank you?”

She hesitated. “I don’t think they realize half of what I do,” she admitted drily. 

Max nodded slowly. “Well, I notice. Every little thing. You don’t have to do it all, but when you do… I see it. And I’m grateful. Really.”

Her smile wavered just a little, like something fragile cracked open inside her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’m not used to hearing that.”

Max pulled her laptop from her lap, set it gently on the coffee table, and tugged her into his arms.

Max cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye. “I see it now. All of it. Every time you notice something before I do. Every time you put something away or refill something I didn’t even realize was empty. You’ve made this place feel like home.”

She smiled softly. “That’s what love is, isn’t it?”

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Arthur: I’M SCREWED.

Lorenzo: Again?

Charles: What now?

Arthur: I FORGOT MY ANNIVERSARY.

Charles: …

Lorenzo: …

Charles: You absolute moron.

Lorenzo: You have ONE job.

Arthur: HELP ME.

Charles: Help you??? Maybe try remembering important dates next time?

Lorenzo: Yeah, I don’t really see how this is our problem.

Arthur: ISABELLE. SAVE ME.

Isabelle: What kind of dinner does she like?

Arthur: She likes Italian? And wine? And… romantic lighting?

Isabelle: ��Do you know anything about your girlfriend?

Arthur: I KNOW I LOVE HER AND I DON’T WANT HER TO DUMP ME.

Isabelle: Right. I’ll take care of it.

Arthur: YOU’RE A HERO.

(20 minutes later)

Isabelle: You have a reservation at La Chèvre d'Or at 8 PM. I also ordered that perfume she keeps in her bag and had it gift-wrapped. It’ll be at your place in an hour.

Lorenzo: Oh, while you’re at it, what should I get my girlfriend for her birthday?

Isabelle: Jewelry. She’s been eyeing those gold earrings from Cartier.

Lorenzo: You’re actually a genius.

(Several hours later)

Isabelle: You’re welcome, by the way.

Arthur: Huh?

Lorenzo: For what?

***

Max was still buzzing with adrenaline when he finally stepped into his apartment, championship celebrations still ringing in his ears. The moment he closed the door behind him, silence settled over him like a warm blanket, the contrast almost jarring after the chaos of the paddock.

And then he saw her.

Isabelle was curled up on the couch, one of the cats nestled beside her, a book resting open in her lap. She must’ve heard him come in because she looked up immediately, her expression softening.

“Hey,” she said, setting the book aside. “How does it feel?”

Max huffed out a breath, toeing off his shoes and crossing the room in a few quick steps. “Like I need you,” he muttered, dropping onto the couch beside her and pulling her into his arms.

She let out a quiet laugh but didn’t resist, settling against his chest as his arms tightened around her. “That exhausting, huh?”

He buried his face in her shoulder. “So many people. So much noise. This is better.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You did just win your third world title. Kind of a big deal.”

He smirked against her skin. “Mm. They wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Annoying, really,” she teased.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. The soft glow from the nearby lamp illuminated her features, her eyes filled with something quiet and fond.

“You should’ve been there,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along her jaw.

She sighed, shaking her head. “You know why I wasn’t.”

He did. She wasn’t ready for the cameras, the attention, the inevitable questions. And he would never push her into something she wasn’t comfortable with.

But fuck, he wished she had been there.

Still, she had waited up for him. She was here. That was enough.

His thumb traced slow circles over her hip as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You watched?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “You were incredible.”

His chest tightened at the quiet sincerity in her voice. He’d spent the entire night surrounded by people telling him how great he was, how historic his achievement was. But this—hearing it from her—meant more than any of it.

He let out a long breath, finally starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in. “Come to bed with me?”

She nodded, taking his hand as they stood. As they made their way toward the bedroom, one of the cats darted ahead of them, already claiming Max’s pillow.

Isabelle laughed. “Looks like you’re not the only champion in this house.”

Max just smiled, pulling her close again as they climbed into bed. “Doesn’t matter. I already have everything I want.”

They settled into bed, limbs tangled, warmth shared beneath soft blankets. The city was quiet outside the windows. The adrenaline was finally ebbing.

And then, just as the stillness settled, Isabelle spoke.

“You never ask,” she said quietly.

“Ask what?”

“Why I haven’t told them.”

She didn’t have to specify who them was.

Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It wasn’t that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He had wondered—more than once—why she still kept their relationship a secret, why she hadn’t told her brothers, her mother, anyone. But he had never pushed.

“Do you want to tell them?” he asked carefully.

Isabelle was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she looked up at him, her gaze steady.

“No.”

Max blinked. That wasn’t the answer he had been expecting.

She sighed, shifting so she was facing him fully. “It’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Or because I don’t care.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s because you’re important to me.”

His breath hitched slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting her continue.

“My whole life, I’ve felt like I had to fight to be noticed. To be heard. And with my family, it’s always been about Charles. About Arthur. About Lorenzo. I love them, but—sometimes, it feels like I’m just a shadow in their lives.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want us to become something that gets brushed aside, just another footnote in their world.”

Max’s jaw tightened. He had seen the way her family overlooked her, how they spoke over her, how they forgot things that should have mattered. And now, hearing it from her directly, it made something inside him ache.

“So you kept us just for you,” he murmured.

She nodded. “Just for me.”

Max reached out, his fingers threading through hers. “I don’t mind,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “If you want to wait. Whatever you decide—I just want to be with you.”

She squeezed his hand, and he lifted it to press a kiss against her knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“I hope you know,” he added quietly, “that you’ll never be a shadow to me.”

A small, wobbly smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

“I know,” she whispered.

Max let the words settle between them, his grip on Isabelle’s hand firm but gentle. He could feel the warmth of her fingers, the slight tremble she tried to hide. He had never truly understood what it felt like to be overlooked—his entire life had been under a spotlight, from karting to Formula 1. But Isabelle? She had spent years fading into the background of her own family’s story.

And yet, here she was, choosing to keep him separate from all of that. Not because she was hiding him, but because she wanted something that was only hers.

He squeezed her hand lightly. “You know,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I’d never let them brush you aside. If they knew about us.”

She let out a quiet breath, her eyes flickering down to where their hands were intertwined. “I know,” she admitted. “But that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Max frowned. “Then what is it?”

She hesitated, then sat up a little straighter, pulling one knee up to her chest. “If I tell them about us,” she said slowly, “it changes things. Not just for me, but for you. For us.” She exhaled. “Suddenly, I won’t just be Isabelle anymore. I’ll be ‘Max Verstappen’s girlfriend.’ And to them, that will mean something.”

He stayed quiet, letting her put her thoughts into words.

“They’ll look at me differently. Maybe they’ll suddenly start paying attention, maybe they’ll act like I matter more just because you matter. And I don’t want that.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pushed forward. “I don’t want their attention just because of who I’m with. I want them to see me.”

Max felt something twist in his chest. He had never thought of it like that. To him, she had always been important. But her family? They had overlooked her for so long, and she didn’t want their sudden interest to be because of him.

“You think they’d only start noticing you because of my name,” he said quietly.

Isabelle gave him a small, sad smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s only cared because of who you are.”

That stung. Because she was right. He had seen it time and time again—people wanting to be close to him because of what he could offer, not because of who he was. The idea that her own family might finally pay attention to her for the same reason made his jaw tighten.

“Belle.” He turned to face her fully, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “I don’t care how long we keep this just between us. But don’t ever think for a second that I don’t see you. That I don’t love you for exactly who you are.”

Her breath caught, and he saw the way her eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t said it before—not like this. Maybe he should have waited for a different moment, something more planned, more perfect. But she deserved to hear it now.

She swallowed hard. “Max.”

“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “I love you, Isabelle. And it has nothing to do with your last name, or your family, or anything else. Just you.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him—like she was trying to memorize him, like she was searching for any trace of hesitation. She wouldn’t find any.

Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you too,” she whispered, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

But he did. And that was all that mattered.

***

The shift had started quietly.

Snide comments. Backhanded compliments. Passive exclusion from group meetings she used to lead. Isabelle’s project folders were “misplaced,” her samples “forgotten,” and her renderings were somehow always “accidentally deleted.”

But by now it was blatant.

Last week, she’d walked into the break room and found her concept sketches tossed into the trash beside half-eaten croissants.

Today, someone had keyed in over her CAD file—over it, not on a copy—and added a caption across the top of the screen in bold red text:

“Thanks, nepotism. We’ll take it from here.”

Isabelle stared at it for a long time, her stomach turning.

The worst part was that no one tried to hide it anymore.

When she glanced around the office, no one made eye contact. No one looked guilty. They just went on with their day like she was background noise.

Like she hadn’t worked twice as hard. Stayed twice as late. Fought for every inch of credibility.

 Like Max’s penthouse had erased everything she’d ever done before it.

She backed away from her desk, air thick in her lungs, and walked straight to the glass-enclosed materials library. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.

Breathed.

You live in peace, she reminded herself. You wake up next to Max. This doesn’t get to break you.

But it did hurt.

She didn’t cry—she wouldn’t give them that. But her throat ached with all the things she couldn’t say.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Okay I’m officially done. I just had the worst day and I need to get out of my own head.

Emilie:  What happened?? Are you okay?

Isabelle: Just… work stuff. People not listening. Clients who think Pinterest means they’re architects now. And my colleague took credit for something I spent three weeks on.

Emilie: I will start swinging.

Isabelle: Please do. Preferably with one of those cartoonishly large handbags.

Emilie: Already packed one. Where are we going?

Isabelle: Let’s go shopping this afternoon? I still haven’t bought birthday presents for Charles and Arthur, and if I stay in this office any longer I’ll start crying over the wrong throw pillow.

Emilie: Say no more. I’ll pick you up in 30. You can buy emotionally motivated gifts and I can be your moral support/human espresso.

Isabelle: You’re my favorite person.

Emilie: I know. And I’m dragging you to get cake after. No arguments.

***

Alexandra had only come in to browse.

The gallery had been quiet all morning, the kind of rainy-day lull that left her restless, so she’d taken a walk, turned a corner, and ducked into a tucked-away boutique that specialized in little luxuries—silk scarves, handmade ceramics, niche perfumes. The kind of place you didn’t go to with intention, just curiosity.

She was halfway to a display of glass jewelry trays when she heard a familiar voice.

“Alex?” 

She turned—and blinked.

“Emilie?”

The other woman—sleek dark coat, sunglasses perched in her hair, a woven tote filled with rolled linen and a jar of fig jam—smiled.

“I thought that was you,” Emilie said, her voice warm but always laced with sharpness, like she couldn’t quite switch off the part of her brain that was evaluating everyone in the room. “It’s been a while.”

Alexandra smiled. “Yeah, since the preview at the gallery. You were with that collector from Paris.”

“He’s still deciding between three paintings he can’t afford,” Emilie said dryly. “But I’m sure he’ll make a confident choice any day now.”

They both laughed.

And then Alexandra’s eyes shifted—to the person standing just behind Emilie, holding a pale blue shopping bag and smiling politely.

Next to her stood Isabelle.

And that—that was the part Alexandra didn’t quite expect.

Because Isabelle Leclerc, as Alexandra knew her, was quiet. Sweet, yes. Polite, yes. But always a little faded at the edges. Always deferring. Always on the outside, even when she was technically inside the room. Always smiling without saying much.

But here—standing next to Emilie, twirling a delicate silver ring between her fingers, visibly debating whether to buy it—Isabelle looked alive.

Her cheeks were pink. She was smiling, not the polite, folded sort of smile Alexandra knew, but something real. Something that reached her eyes. Her body language was open. Confident.

And Emilie was watching her like she’d personally fight anyone who dimmed that light again.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

“Hey, Alex. How are you?” Her voice was as warm as ever. Kind, even. That was the thing about Isabelle—she was never unkind. Always soft-spoken, always thoughtful. Alex couldn’t remember her ever being cold or rude.

And yet… she realized with a flicker of guilt, she didn’t know a single personal thing about her. Not really.

“I’m good,” Alexandra said, hesitating. She wasn’t sure how long to linger. But Emilie stepped aside slightly, making room, and something about the way she did it—reluctantly welcoming—made Alexandra stay.

“You two shopping for anything in particular?” she asked.

Isabelle tilted her head. “A birthday gift. Possibly. Unless I end up keeping it for myself.”

“She’s been buying presents for everyone but herself,” Emilie said dryly. “As per usual.”

“I’m selective,” Isabelle said mildly.

“No, you’re selfless,” Emilie corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Alexandra watched the exchange, slightly stunned. There was an ease between them, a quiet rhythm. They spoke in a way that implied history. Real closeness. It made Isabelle seem... whole, somehow. Grounded.

Alexandra suddenly felt like she’d only ever seen the outline of a person.

“You’re really good at presents,” she said after a pause. “Honestly, I was just thinking about what to get Charles, and I have no idea. You always find the perfect thing.”

Isabelle blinked in surprise. “Oh—thank you. I just try to think about what makes people feel like they’ve been seen.”

“She’s too good,” Emilie said. “It’s genuinely annoying. I once said I liked the color of a book cover and two months later it showed up wrapped in silk ribbon with a handwritten note and a matching bookmark.”

Isabelle flushed slightly. “You needed cheering up.”

“She’s the personal shopper of the entire Leclerc family,” Emilie said flatly, reaching for a small candle. “Has been since she was old enough to know how to wrap a box. Half the birthday gifts your boyfriend has ever given were probably vetted or bought by her.”

Alexandra blinked. “Really?”

Isabelle looked embarrassed. “Sometimes they ask for help.”

Emilie raised an eyebrow. “Isabelle picked out Arthur’s last three girlfriend gifts and Pascale’s Christmas gift for the last 10 years.”

Alexandra laughed, but something about Emilie’s tone lingered.

Not unkind. Just sharp enough to say: Yes, Isabelle is good. And yes, they take her for granted.

It was the sort of thing Alexandra might have thought herself—but would never have said out loud.

“I’m very good at keeping secrets,” Isabelle said lightly.

Alexandra felt something twist in her chest.

She hadn’t known that. She’d never thought to ask.

She’d always liked Isabelle. Truly. Isabelle was kind, warm, undemanding. But also... elusive. Hard to reach. Like there was a door half-closed between them, and Alexandra had never known how to knock.

The three of them wandered through the boutique a little longer. Isabelle offered two suggestions for Charles—one sleek, one sentimental—and Alexandra made a note of both.

And then, as they paused by a shelf of men’s shirts in soft cotton and subtle patterns, Isabelle’s hand brushed one.

Alexandra watched her hesitate over it—thoughtful, considering—before she gently placed it back.

“For Charles?” Alex asked, puzzled.

Isabelle looked over, surprised. “What? Oh—no. Just a nice cut. The collar’s clean.”

And for a flicker of a second, something tugged at Alexandra—some thread she couldn’t quite pull free.

There was something else here. Something under the surface. And now that she’d seen it—how Isabelle lit up beside Emilie, how open she seemed in the right company—Alex couldn’t unsee it.

She’d always thought Isabelle was just shy. Or private. Or soft in that way people could overlook.

Now she wondered if Isabelle was simply guarded.

And Alex, for the first time, found herself wondering what it would take to really know Isabelle Leclerc.

Because she was starting to think—quietly, uneasily—that her boyfriend’s sister was not at all the girl they all assumed she was.

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charles Leclerc

Alexandra: Just ran into your sister. In a boutique in the 6th.

Charles: Oh yeah? What was she doing?

Alexandra: Shopping.  Birthday presents, apparently. But Isabelle looked… different.

Charles: Different how?

Alexandra: Happy. Confident. Like… I don’t know. Not the version of her I usually see at family stuff. She was laughing. Really laughing.

Charles: She’s always laughing.  

Alexandra: Not like this, Mon amour.

Alexandra:  Do you think she’s seeing someone?

Charles:  What?

Alexandra:  I’m serious.

Charles: Yeah, no way.

Alexandra: Are you sure?

Charles: She would have mentioned it. 

Charles: Trust me, it’s not happening.

Alexandra: So confident about that, huh?

Charles: I’d know if she had a boyfriend. And she doesn’t.

***

Instagram Stories -@/isabelleleclerc

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1chaosupdates GUYS WHY DID ISABELLE LECLERC POST A CAT SINCE WHEN DOES SHE HAVE A CAT???

[Attached: Isabelle's story — a photo of a cat’s paw]

@/paddocktheories:  okay but like this cat looks suspiciously like it could be max verstappen’s cats sassy or jimmy reincarnated

@/wheresmygrid:  STOP I THOUGHT THE SAME THING

@/gridgoblins:  Wait wait wait what if it IS Sassy or Jimmy and she’s just at Max’s place 👀👀👀

@/redbullstan4life: This is literally a picture of a cat’s paw. It could belong to a thousand other cats. It doesn’t even need to be a Bengal!

@/charlesdefensesquad:  isabelle posting a cat and everyone immediately connecting it to max’s cats is so funny.  the girl can’t even post her own furniture without y’all screaming “VERSTAPPEN???”

@/gossipgridf1:  i will be NORMAL about this… except no because that cat 100% looks like Jimmy or Sassy

@/monaco_mess:  to be fair if i was secretly dating max verstappen i too would post soft pictures of his cats like a declaration of love

@/oscarstan22:  everyone in the comments like 🕵️‍♀️ enhance 🕵️‍♀️ zoom 🕵️‍♀️ cross-reference sassy and jimmy’s stripe patterns

@/gofasterbaby:  if it IS sassy or jimmy and isabelle is just chilling with them…. that’s basically a marriage announcement in Verstappen family terms

***

Oscar Piastri didn’t think grocery shopping could be stressful.

Until Monaco.

Until Monegasque grocery stores, specifically, which didn’t believe in helpful signage, organization, or—apparently—labels with pictures.

Oscar just wanted cheese.

That was it. Cheese. Maybe some pasta. Possibly bread if he was feeling adventurous.

But standing in the middle of a charmingly cramped French grocery store, blinking at six nearly identical wedges of something called tomme de brebis and a handwritten sign that might have been a threat—or a discount—he was beginning to spiral.

He’d committed to doing this errand without help. Without Google Translate. Without texting his girlfriend.

He was trying to be independent.

But now the shop owner was hovering, and Oscar had been standing in the cheese aisle for nine minutes, and he was starting to feel judged by a 72-year-old woman with a very intense stare.

And then—

“Do you need help?” a soft voice asked beside him.

Oscar blinked, turning to find a woman about his age, brown hair twisted back, a linen tote on one shoulder, expression kind.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled, switching to English immediately. “You’ve been staring at the cheese like it owes you money. I figured you might be lost.”

Oscar exhaled in relief. “I am, actually. I don’t know what any of this is.”

She stepped forward and scanned the shelf. “That one’s sheep’s milk—really good, a bit nutty. That one’s stronger, aged, smells like feet but tastes amazing if you like that sort of thing.”

Oscar stared at her, impressed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

“I live around the corner,” she said. “And I’ve made every grocery mistake there is.”

He laughed, properly now. “Thanks. That helps a lot.”

She smiled again—polite, gentle, unassuming.

There was something… familiar about her. 

Not in a hey-we’ve-met way. But in the I-know-that-face-from-somewhere way.

Soft brown hair, loosely braided. Pretty green eyes. Very Monaco. Very… vaguely connected to something in his brain.

Oscar hesitated. “Do I… know you?”

A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “Probably not. I mean—we’ve technically met. But you probably wouldn’t remember.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. And then—lightbulb.

“You look like—” He blinked. “Oh. Wait. You’re Charles’ sister.”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “Yes. Among other things.”

“Right,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward. “I didn’t recognize you outside the paddock.”

“It’s okay,” she said, grabbing a carton of eggs with practiced precision. “I usually disappear into the background there.”

“They didn’t have the peach one. So I got apricot instead,” Came a voice behind Isabelle. 

Oscar looked up to see none other but Max Verstappen. 

“Perfect,” Isabelle said brightly. 

Oscar could just stare. 

“Oscar,” Max greeted him like it was a normal day. Like he wasn’t currently grocery shopping with Charles Leclerc’s sister. 

“…Hi,” Oscar managed, eyes pinging between them. “I—uh. Hey.”

Max moved to toss something else into Isabelle’s cart—like this was normal. Like they hadn’t just revealed themselves as Monaco’s most covert domestic power couple in front of the yogurt aisle.

“Groceries?” Max asked, like that was the confusing part of this moment.

“I—yeah,” Oscar said, holding up his sheep cheese wedge like it was a peace offering. “You guys are… together?”

Max looked over his shoulder. “Shopping?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean… like. Together.”

Isabelle flushed slightly but didn’t deny it. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “For a while now.”

Oscar stared. “Like. Secretly?”

Max shrugged. “Privately.”

“That’s the same thing,” Oscar said.

Max looked unbothered. “Is it?”

“I thought you two barely talked,” he said, still trying to catch up.

“We don’t. Publicly,” Max said.

Oscar opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Does Charles know?”

Max shot him a look that said absolutely not.

Isabelle just gave a small smile and added, “Please don’t tell him.”

Oscar held up both hands. “I’ve never kept a secret faster in my life.”

Max nodded approvingly. “Good.” Then, off handedly. “Lando knows. Danny does too.”

“Cool,” Oscar said. Then: “I’m gonna go… buy cheese and rethink everything I know.”

Max gave him a thumbs-up. “See you at the track.”

Oscar wandered away in stunned silence, still clutching his cheese like a lifeline, already trying to figure out how he of all people became the latest keeper of Verstappen-Leclerc classified information.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Oscar: I just ran into Max Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc in a grocery store.

Oscar: Help me. 

Lando: oh yeah? how was monaco’s finest domestic couple?

Oscar: I thought I hallucinated it at first

Oscar:  I looked up and Max was holding her jam

Oscar:  and then he put it in her cart

Lando: 🥹 precious

Oscar: HE KNEW WHAT KIND OF JAM SHE LIKED LANDO—HE SAID “THEY DIDN’T HAVE THE PEACH, SO I GOT APRICOT” WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Daniel: It means they’re in love and hiding it from Charles. 

Lando:  welcome to hell.

Oscar: How can Charles not know.

Lando: he’s oblivious. like truly, impressively blind

Oscar: When Charles finds out we are going to die.  I’m not built for this.  I was buying cheese. Cheese.

Oscar: Is it serious??

Lando: max let her redecorate his penthouse

Oscar: I hate it here.  I just wanted cheese.

Daniel: And instead you got a lifetime of emotional responsibility.  Congrats.

Oscar: How did you find out?

Lando: you remember when i broke max’s trophy? he let me bring home the replacement to help my guilty conscience, and guess who is living with him

Daniel: The hotel disaster.  That was when I figured it out

Lando: ???????? Lando:  What hotel disaster

Oscar: What happened??

Daniel: Zandvoort. Her brothers forgot to book her a hotel room.

Daniel:  Straight up just didn’t even think about it.

Daniel:  She landed. No room. No backup plan.

Daniel:  Was about to sleep in the damn lobby before Max found out.

Lando: YOU’RE JOKING.

Oscar: THEY WHAT. Oscar:  WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Daniel: Not done

Daniel:  Next morning?

Daniel:  They LEFT HER at the hotel.

Daniel:  Like… packed up, went to the track, forgot she existed. 

Lando: I’m gonna throw something 

Lando: THEY JUST FORGOT HER????

Oscar: SHE IS THEIR SISTER Oscar:  NOT A MISPLACED WALLET

Lando: i have two sisters if i did that my mum would reassemble me from scratch just to kill me again

Oscar: If I did that my mother would drag me by my ear to the cameras of Sky Sports and berate me live on air.

Oscar:  What is WRONG with them

Daniel: Max was FUMING. So he asked me to pick her up. 

Oscar: GOOD.

Oscar: No wonder they kept it secret

Oscar:  If my girlfriend was treated by her family like that I’d go full vigilante too.

Daniel: 😂 welcome to the secret society of "We Would Kill For Isabelle Leclerc"

Oscar: Sign me up

Lando: same.

Lando:  also Charles is dead to me now until further notice

Daniel: don’t worry

Daniel: karma’s real

Daniel: and Max is scarier than any big brother

***

Lando Norris was pretty sure Oscar Piastri was about to crack.

He could see it happening in real time—the hairline fracture of panic starting just behind Oscar’s eyes. One more question. One wrong look. And Oscar was going to blurt out everything.

Max. Isabelle. The groceries.

And the worst part? Charles was right there—calm as ever, sipping an espresso in the hotel lobby like he wasn’t a ticking time bomb of impending betrayal. Like he wasn’t five seconds away from having his entire reality rearranged.

Lando shifted in his seat, chewing on a straw wrapper so aggressively he was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated yet. His knee bounced up and down, a desperate outlet for the nerves clawing at his insides.

They hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

It was too quiet. Too weird. Too dangerous.

Which, obviously, was when Carlos strolled into the lobby, clocked the tension immediately, and frowned.

“What’s going on here?” Carlos asked, grabbing a protein bar from the snack stand like he had all the time in the world. “Why do you two look like you’ve committed war crimes?”

Oscar opened his mouth—probably to lie terribly and make it worse.

Lando, being the (barely) more functional one, jumped in first.

“It’s just—Charles,” Lando blurted.

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “What about him?”

Lando leaned forward, instantly deadly serious. “Have you ever noticed how he treats Isabelle?”

Carlos blinked. “His sister?”

“Exactly,” Lando said, nodding like he was revealing a state secret.

Oscar made a faint strangled noise next to him, probably reconsidering his life choices.

Carlos unwrapped his protein bar slowly, suspicious. “I mean… he loves her?”

“Sure,” Lando said, wide-eyed. “But does he see her? Or does he just… expect her to float quietly in the background of his life like a nice decorative houseplant?”

Oscar buried his face in his hands. Good. He deserved that.

Carlos stared at them like they were the ones malfunctioning.

“Where is this coming from?” Carlos asked, suspicious.

“Just answer the question,” Lando said, channeling his inner investigative journalist. “Do you think he actually appreciates her?”

Carlos hesitated, tilting his head like he was actually giving it thought. “I think… he assumes she’s fine because she doesn’t complain much?”

“EXACTLY,” Lando said, throwing his hands in the air. “She doesn’t complain. That doesn’t mean she’s fine!”

Oscar groaned again, muttering into his hands.

Carlos took a slow bite of protein bar. “Is this about the hotel thing?”

Oscar’s head snapped up. “You know about the hotel thing?”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, I heard she didn’t have a room. I figured it was a mix-up.”

Lando let out a high-pitched laugh. “They also left her at the hotel the next morning. Like a pair of emotionally unavailable golden retrievers.”

Carlos shrugged. “They didn’t mean to.”

“THAT’S WORSE,” Lando exploded. “You don’t just ‘accidentally’ forget your SISTER.”

Oscar nodded vigorously. “That’s literally child abandonment but for grown-ups.”

Carlos stared at them, bemused. “You two are acting very emotionally involved.”

“NOPE,” Lando said immediately, standing up so fast his chair skidded backward.

Oscar scrambled after him. “Not emotionally involved. Just very passionate about…sibling rights. And human decency.”

“And basic hospitality standards!” Lando added, pointing accusingly at the air.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You’re both incredibly weird today.”

Lando clapped him hard on the shoulder. “We’re always weird, mate. But seriously. Watch how Charles talks to her next time. It’ll ruin your day.”

Carlos just blinked, chewing thoughtfully.

Oscar grabbed Lando’s arm before he could say anything else truly unhinged. “Come on. We have… tires. Very important tires to look at.”

“Yeah. Tire research. Super urgent,” Lando agreed.

They power-walked out of the lobby, leaving Carlos watching them, baffled.

Carlos shook his head slowly, muttering to himself, “Okay, but seriously… why are they so weird about Isabelle?”

***

Max trudged through the front door, dropping his bag with a dull thud. Isabelle had been waiting for him, curled up on the couch with a book, but the moment she saw him, she sat up straight.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question.

Max huffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

Isabelle was already on her feet, walking toward him. “You’re pale.” She placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. “And warm.”

“I was just on a plane.”

“You also sound stuffy.” She folded her arms. “Go to bed.”

“I just got home.”

“And I’d like to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it. Bed, Max.”

Max sighed but didn’t argue. He was too tired for that. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead before mumbling, “You’re bossy.”

“I’m effective.”

She watched as he trudged toward the bedroom, shaking her head. A moment later, she followed, scooping up Jimmy from his spot on the armchair. When she walked into the room, Max was already under the blankets, eyes half-lidded.

“Here,” she murmured, placing Jimmy beside him. The cat instantly curled up against his chest, purring loudly.

Max cracked a small smile, rubbing behind Jimmy’s ears. “You’re trying to bribe me with my own cat.”

“Whatever works.” She kissed his temple. “Sleep.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Sophie Kumpen

Isabelle: Hi Sophie! I hope you’re doing well! I need your help with something.

Sophie: Hello, dear! Of course, what do you need?

Isabelle: Max came home from the race and he’s definitely getting sick. He’s trying to act normal, but he looks exhausted and keeps sniffling.

Isabelle: I sent him straight to bed with a cat for company, but I wanted to make him something comforting. He once told me you used to make tomato soup for him when he was sick—would you mind sharing the recipe?

Sophie: Oh, poor thing. He never knows when to slow down.

Sophie: And of course! Here’s how I always made it:

Sauté onions and garlic in olive oil until soft.

Add chopped tomatoes (fresh is best, but canned works too!)

Pour in vegetable broth and a pinch of sugar—Max never noticed, but it makes all the difference!

Lots of basil, always extra for Max.

Simmer, blend, then stir in a little cream to make it smooth.

Serve with bread—he used to insist on dipping half a baguette in it!

Isabelle: This is perfect! Thank you so much.

Sophie: You’re very welcome, sweetheart. He’s going to love it.

Sophie: And if he’s still feeling bad tomorrow, make him tea with honey. That’s what I always did.

Isabelle: Noted! I’ll make sure he drinks it.

Sophie: You’re taking such good care of him. He’s lucky to have you.

Isabelle: I’m lucky to have him too. ❤️

***

By the time he woke up, the apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic. Max blinked, slowly sitting up. Jimmy was still pressed against him, and Sassy had taken up residence at his feet. He groggily reached for his phone and saw a notification from Isabelle.

Isabelle: Texted your mom for her tomato soup recipe. You’re getting the Verstappen childhood classic.

Max stared at the message for a second before a slow, warm feeling spread through his chest. He pulled himself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen. Isabelle was stirring a pot on the stove, hair tied up, her phone sitting next to her with messages from his mom open on the screen.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Max leaned against the counter, taking in the sight of her making his childhood comfort food, and felt something deep and certain settle in his bones.

“I feel like I should marry you.”

Isabelle blinked, then huffed a laugh. “You have a fever.”

“I’m serious.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were pink. “Eat your soup, Verstappen.”

Max watched as Isabelle turned back to the stove, stirring the soup with careful, practiced movements. He could see the little notes his mother had sent still open on her phone—things like "Don't forget a little sugar to balance the acidity" and "Max always liked it with extra basil".

Something about it made his chest ache, but in a good way.

“Sit down,” Isabelle said without looking at him. “I’ll bring it over.”

Max didn’t argue. He knew better. Instead, he shuffled over to the dining table, rubbing a hand over his face. He still felt like hell, but the warm smell of tomato soup and the sight of Isabelle in their kitchen softened the edges of it.

A few minutes later, Isabelle placed a bowl in front of him, along with a plate of bread. She even cut the slices into smaller pieces, making it easier for him to eat.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Are you about to start feeding me, too?”

“If I have to.” She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hand. “Go on. Try it.”

He took a spoonful, letting the warmth spread through him. It tasted exactly like how he remembered—rich, slightly sweet, the basil bringing a fresh note to it.

“Good?” Isabelle asked.

Max swallowed, nodding. “Perfect.”

She looked pleased with herself, tucking one knee up against her chest. “Your mom was really sweet about sending me the recipe. She told me to tell you that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow, I should make you tea with honey.”

Max smirked. “You and my mom are conspiring now?”

“Obviously.” She smiled. “Someone has to keep you in check.”

He took another sip, watching her from across the table. “Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

Isabelle just shrugged, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You take care of me all the time,” she said simply. “Why wouldn’t I do the same?”

Max didn’t have a good answer for that.

Instead, he reached across the table, curling his fingers around hers. Isabelle let him, her thumb brushing absently over his knuckles.

“If I ever win another world championship,” he said, voice a little rough, “just know it’ll be because of you and your soup.”

She laughed, squeezing his hand. “Good to know my cooking has that much power.”

Max just smiled, his fever making him feel a little loopy, a little sentimental.

He didn’t mind.

***

Max was a terrible patient.

Not in the dramatic, clingy, "I think I’m dying" kind of way. No—he was quiet, still, and deeply put out by the fact that his body dared to betray him for more than five seconds.

Which meant he was now cocooned in the middle of their bed, surrounded by three pillows, and the comforter pulled halfway up to his chin like a grumpy Victorian child home with the flu.

His nose was pink. His curls were a mess. And he was definitely running a fever.

Isabelle pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and shook her head fondly. “Still warm.”

Max blinked up at her, expression solemn and glassy-eyed. “I feel like someone hit me with a tyre gun.”

“Very specific,” she said, setting the thermometer aside and handing him another cup of ginger tea.

He took a slow sip. Then sighed. Then blinked at her again like something important had just occurred to him.

“We should get another cat,” he said hoarsely.

Isabelle paused. “Sorry?”

“A kitten,” he clarified, like it was obvious. “Small. Would follow me around.”

She tried—really tried—not to laugh.

Max Verstappen, three-time World Champion, currently wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and nursing a cold, was looking at her like he’d just solved a national crisis.

“You want a kitten,” Isabelle repeated.

He nodded solemnly, already settling back against the pillows. “It’d be good practice.”

“For what?” she asked, amused.

Max blinked at her again, slow and drowsy. “You know.”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”

He looked at her, expression perfectly serious despite the fever. “A baby.”

Isabelle choked on her tea.

Max didn't flinch.

She stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You think adopting a kitten would be… baby practice?”

He nodded again, very sure of himself. “Feeding. Naps. Picking the name.”

“And the kitten would be our test run for parenthood?”

“Exactly.”

Isabelle smiled—gently, deeply—and brushed a hand over his curls, pushing the hair back from his forehead.

“You’re feverish,” she said softly.

He nodded. “But I’m also right.”

She leaned down, kissed his too-warm cheek. “We’ll talk about the kitten when your temperature is below thirty-nine.”

Max hummed. “Good. I think you'd be a good cat mom. And baby mom.”

Then he promptly fell asleep with one hand still loosely curled around hers.

And Isabelle—heart full, smile helpless—sat beside him and thought, yeah, maybe I would.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey—how’s Max doing? Still being dramatic or has he entered the sleepy kitten phase of being sick?

Isabelle: Definitely the kitten phase.

Isabelle: Currently wrapped in a blanket burrito with Jimmy on his chest.

Isabelle: Looks like he’s been defeated by soup and his own body heat.

Victoria: Incredible.

Victoria: Has he started saying weird fever things yet?

Isabelle: …Depends what you consider “weird.”

Victoria: Uh-oh.

Victoria: Hit me.

Isabelle: He told me we should get another cat.

Isabelle: Which sounded normal-ish. Until he said it would be “good practice.”

Victoria: Practice for what?

Isabelle: A baby.

Victoria: A baby?

Isabelle: Yep. I laughed at first. But he was serious. Or fever-serious.

Isabelle: He looked at me like it wasn’t even a joke.

Victoria: …Do I get to be an aunt?

Victoria: Because I will cry.

Isabelle: He was feverish. It could have been the paracetamol talking.

Victoria: But you didn’t panic.

Isabelle: I melted. And then I panicked about melting.

Victoria: You want it.

Isabelle: I always have. I just never let myself imagine it.

Isabelle: And now suddenly he’s sick and talking about babies and I’m feeling things.

Victoria: Okay, well… since we’re being honest about baby feelings… You’ll get to practice sooner than you think.

Isabelle: What?

Victoria: I’m due in June.

Isabelle: WHAT.

Victoria: Surprise?

Isabelle: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

Victoria: Nope. Tiny Verstappen-Bluth incoming.

Isabelle: VIC.

Isabelle: You cannot just drop that in the middle of a conversation about your brother wanting a baby.

Victoria: I thought it was great timing!

Victoria: What’s better than your fever-delirious boyfriend mentioning fatherhood right before I tell you you’re about to be an aunt?

Isabelle: I’m crying.

Victoria: You’re going to be so good with them.

Victoria: And if you and Max do decide to start practicing sometime soon… well.

Victoria: Built-in cousin. You’re welcome.

Victoria: Get ready, Tante Belle.

Victoria: Big Verstappen family era incoming.

Isabelle: You’re all insane.

Isabelle: And I love you.

Victoria: Love you too.

***

Max heard the door slam—really slam—before he even saw her.

Not the usual soft click of someone slipping home after a long day. Not the tired shuffle of keys or the muted rustle of her bag hitting the floor. No, this was different. Sharp. Final. Frustrated.

He looked up from where he was half-dozing on the couch, immediately alert.

Isabelle stood by the door, hands clenched into fists, her chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. Her tote bag—usually treated carefully—was now abandoned at her feet, one strap twisted. She shoved her hands through her hair roughly, tugging it out of its neat twist, and paced a tight, angry line across the room.

Max stood without thinking.

"Bad day?" he asked quietly.

Isabelle laughed—a short, humorless sound—and shook her head, still pacing like she couldn't physically stay still.

"Bad?" she repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. "No, Max. It was a disaster."

He stayed silent, waiting, giving her the space she clearly needed to let it spill out.

"My boss dumped an entire project on me today. A major one. Because the senior architect left, and apparently—" she threw her hands up, exasperated, "—obviously it's my problem now. No heads-up. No discussion. Just, 'Congratulations, Isabelle, here's an entire portfolio of someone else's half-finished work. Good luck.'"

Max's jaw tightened. His hands itched to do something—fix it, protect her, something. But he stayed where he was, steady.

"And it gets better," Isabelle said, turning to face him, her green eyes sparking with a tired, furious fire he didn’t see often. "When I tried—politely, professionally—to point out that my current workload is already full, he told me to 'prioritize better.' And walked away. Just—walked. Like it wasn’t his problem."

She laughed again, but it cracked midway through. Her hands dropped to her sides helplessly.

Max exhaled slowly, moving toward her. "You know what I’m going to say."

She groaned, already knowing, already bracing. "Max—"

"You don't need this," he said firmly. "You're running yourself into the ground for people who don't even see you."

She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her palms against them like she could block out the whole world.

"I like my job," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Max stopped right in front of her, close enough that he could reach out—but he didn’t, not yet. He knew better. She wasn’t looking for comfort yet. She was still in the fight.

"Do you?" he asked, softer now. Not accusing. Just... careful. Gentle.

Isabelle’s shoulders slumped a little.

"You sure don’t look like someone who likes what they’re doing," Max added, his voice rougher, threading frustration and concern together. "You look like someone who’s trying to survive it."

The room was quiet for a beat, just the low hum of the evening city outside the windows.

Finally, she sagged forward, her forehead pressing into his chest like she physically couldn't hold herself upright anymore.

Max didn’t hesitate then. He wrapped his arms around her, firm and grounding, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension bleeding out of her in slow, heavy drips.

"I just..." she started, her voice muffled against him. "I don’t know what to do."

Max closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

"You don’t have to have all the answers right now," he said quietly. "But you have options, Belle. You always do. You don’t have to stay somewhere that treats you like you’re disposable."

She let out a quiet, broken sound that made his chest ache.

He kissed her hair, slow and steady.

"You are not a stopgap. You're not a backup plan. You're not someone they can just lean on when it's convenient and forget about the rest of the time," he murmured against her. "You are brilliant. And you deserve people—and a job—that sees that."

She was silent for a long time, just breathing against him.

"I don't want to quit," she whispered eventually. "I don't want it to feel like they chased me out."

Max rubbed small circles over her back, patient. "Then don't. Fight them, if that's what you want. Prove them wrong. You’re strong enough."

He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her messy hair away from her cheeks.  "But don’t stay just to prove a point if it’s breaking you in the process."

Her eyes were glassy but clear, staring up at him like she was trying to pull strength out of the way he looked at her.

"You’re not alone," he said simply. "You have me. Always."

For a moment, she just stood there, letting that settle between them.

Then she nodded—tiny, but certain—and leaned back into his chest.

Max smiled into her hair.

They stood like that for a long time, the city lights flickering quietly outside, the cats curling around their feet like they, too, understood that the whole world narrowed down to this.

Max holding her. Her letting herself be held.

And for now, that was enough. ****

The envelope looked expensive.

That was the first red flag.

Matte paper, gold foil edges, no return address on the front—just her full name printed in elegant, serif font.

Her full, full name. Because apparently her parents hadn’t been done after Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc, and so she and Arthur had ended up with similarly ridiculous, vaguely royal-sounding names.

Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc. 

There it was. 

On the kind of envelope that looked like it came with obligations.

She hadn’t ordered anything. She hadn’t opened a new account.

She frowned as she sliced it open. She wasn’t expecting anything. Max paid the bills on the penthouse. Her own account was small, manageable, predictable. Her work was steady. 

The card slipped out first. Heavy. Polished. Black.

Hitting the kitchen island. 

Her name, again, embossed in silver.

But it wasn’t her account.

It was his.

Linked cardholder – Max Emilian Verstappen

She stared at it for a full minute. Long enough for the air to change. Long enough for every messy, unspoken thing she’d been trying not to feel to crawl back up her throat.

She swallowed. 

They had had that conversation. 

You quit your job. Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.

She had said no. Because she was ambitious. Talented. Smart.

But the truth?

The truth was that she’d wondered.

What if she could be that person?

What if she’d be fine being that person?

His person.

 The woman who did yoga at ten, had coffee by eleven, picked up their kids from school in designer flats and knew the best lunch spots in three countries. 

The one who didn’t constantly doubt her place, didn’t flinch every time someone whispered "nepo baby" under their breath, didn’t fight to be taken seriously in rooms that were already decided before she entered them.

There was a part of her—a very small, very quiet part—that wondered what it would be like.

To let go.

 To stop clawing for approval from people who didn’t care if she drowned.

 To let herself be loved, wholly and visibly.

 To marry Max.

 To have his name. His children. His cats. 

 To be someone soft and kept and adored.

What if she didn’t want to fight so hard all the time?

What if a part of her—small, shameful, stubborn—wanted to be kept?

And now… this.

Not a proposal. Not a ring.

But a card.

With her name.

 On his account.

A card that wives got. 

That long-term partners with shared mortgages and Sunday routines and matching key fobs got. 

A gesture that said: this life is yours too. You’re allowed to be at ease.

And it terrified her.

Because Max didn’t do anything halfway. He wasn’t careless with people. He didn’t toss around trust like confetti. He was sharp, observant, and maddeningly meticulous.

He was deliberate.

This wasn’t about convenience.

 This was a line drawn. A stake in the ground.

A declaration.

And Isabelle?

She wasn’t sure she trusted herself not to disappear into it.

Not because Max would ask her to—but because it felt so good to be seen by someone who didn’t require her to earn it. To prove it. To perform. 

Max knew her fears. Her fault lines. Her quiet cravings.

And instead of mocking them, he made room for them.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

She’d spent so long trying to prove she was more than someone’s sister. More than a background fixture. 

But here she was.

Here she was feeling safer just being Max’s than she ever had trying to be anyone else’s.

Here she was, considering if being Belle Verstappen might actually make her happier than being Isabelle Leclerc ever had.

And wasn’t that the most terrifying thought of all?

***

“Hey,” Max called as he stepped inside, the door shutting with a familiar click behind him. “I grabbed those oat crackers you like—the ones with the seeds that taste like cardboard.”

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, his tone light, teasing.

No answer.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and—

Stopped.

Isabelle was standing still. Very still. Right beside the counter, her body folded in on itself like she was trying to take up less space.

The envelope was open. The card—that card—lay face-up on the marble. Black. Sleek. Heavy. Her arms were crossed tightly across her chest, like she needed the pressure to keep herself grounded.

Max’s eyes flicked from the card to her face and back again.

And then he felt it—the shift.

The air in the room had changed. Gone quiet. Weighted.

He knew that look on her face.

He’d seen it before—on days when she came home from work braced for someone to doubt her, challenge her, chip away at her. It was the expression she wore when she felt like she was too much and not enough in the same breath.

“Oh,” Max said softly, carefully. “You got it.”

He didn’t say I meant to tell you in person. He didn’t say I’ve been watching you stretch yourself thin, giving more than anyone asks, and never— never— expecting to receive anything back.

She didn’t smile.

“Max,” she said, her voice low and unfamiliar, “what is this?”

She wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. Anger was clean.

No—this was something else.

Fragile. Quiet. Like she'd been cracked open without warning.

He stepped toward her slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“It’s just…” he tried, “a card. For you. In case you ever need it.”

Her eyes—green, glossy, wide—didn’t leave his.

“You just handed me access to everything.”

He could’ve argued that. Could’ve said it’s not everything. But he didn’t lie to her, and this wasn’t about technicalities.

So instead, he said the truth.

“I handed you ease,” he said gently. “Because you never ask for it. Even when you need it most.”

He’d thought about that a lot.

That was why he’d had the card made.

Not because she needed it—not practically, not financially. Isabelle was capable in ways that astonished him daily. She ran her life on spreadsheets and discipline, all soft voice and steel spine.

But she’d been conditioned—by her family, by the world—to believe she had to earn everything. Love. Rest. Comfort. Even kindness.

So he’d done what he did best.

Planned ahead.

He’d spoken to his advisor. Had the account adjusted. Added her name. Put in the request quietly. Privately. No fanfare.

Not to control her.

But so that, if ever the moment came—

If she was tired, overwhelmed, caught without breath—

 She’d have something already waiting.

No questions. No performance. Just trust.

But now, watching the way her fingers dug into her elbows, Max understood how even trust could feel like a trap when you’d never been given it freely.

“We just had a conversation about trophy wives,” she said suddenly. Her voice shook like she hated herself for even bringing it up.

He blinked. “Yes. And you said you didn’t want to be one.”

“What if I’d be fine with that life?” she said. “What if part of me wants it?”

His heart clenched. Not because she said it—but because he knew exactly what she meant.

“Then I’d tell you,” he said calmly, “if you ever want to be my trophy wife, just let me know. I’ll buy you a designer handbag and get very into being your arm candy.”

That earned him a look. A slight wobble in her mouth like she was trying not to smile, even while her throat worked against tears.

She let out an unsteady laugh that turned halfway into a sigh. “Max.”

“No pressure,” he said quickly, his voice low and warm now. “But if you ever wake up and decide you want that kind of life—that kind of ease—I’ll give it to you. Without question.”

“I don’t want to lose myself,” she whispered. “I don’t want to stop being… me.”

“You won’t,” Max said, voice steady. “I know who you are. And I’d never let you forget.”

Because she was the strongest person he’d ever known. She had survived a thousand quiet dismissals and overlooked brilliance. She’d clawed her way into a space she was never given, and never once asked for credit.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her that he’d never met anyone who held herself so tightly together with so little help. That watching her try to hold back softness like it was weakness made his chest ache. That the thing she feared—disappearing—was impossible, because the moment she walked into a room, his world shifted.

She deserved to feel safe. And not just safe—but held.

But he didn’t say all that.

He just said what she needed.

“I didn’t give you this card to change you,” Max said. “I gave it to you so you’d never feel like you had to earn the right to feel safe.”

That word hung there between them. Heavy. Final. The real gift.

Not the money. Not the access.

Safety.

After a long, breathless silence, Isabelle reached out. Slowly. Carefully. She picked up the card with both hands like it might still burn her.

Held it in her palm. Looked at her name. His name. Their names. Together.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice soft, breaking open. “But you’re not allowed to joke when I buy toothpaste with it.”

He smiled—one of those rare, slow smiles he reserved just for her.

He stepped in and kissed her temple gently, grounding them both.

“Toothpaste, muffins, a yacht,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”

She let out a wet laugh. “A yacht?”

“I’m just saying,” he said lightly, brushing his knuckles along her arm, “it’s good to have options.”

“I’m not buying a yacht, Max.”

“I know.” He paused. “But I wanted you to know you could.”

[noirscript]

the good wife

Pairing: Yandere!Husband x Reader Description: You don’t remember marrying Malcolm, but he remembers every version of you—and each time you try to leave, he brings you back. To be a good wife, he says, all you need to do is stay. Warning/s: Yandere | Gaslighting | Memory Manipulation | Captivity | Non-consensual Surveillance | Emotional Abuse | Obsessive Behavior | Psychological Horror Note/s: Heya! For those who have purchased Dark Roast so far, I'll be sending a better version once it's available. I can't provide the exact time, but in the future. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar | Taglist

The morning felt like any other—ordinary and mundane. You had kissed him goodbye like you always did, the scent of his cologne lingering long after the door clicked shut. His touch stayed too, warm and possessive as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye, pausing there just a moment too long.

“Be good, love,” Malcolm murmured, voice low and smooth, velvet laced with iron. There was a sweetness in it. But also, a quiet command, like the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“I will. I always am, darling,” you replied, automatic and soft. The words tasted familiar, worn from use, yet strange on your tongue. You loved him. At least… you believed you did. You had to. There was no reason not to. Not really.

He chuckled—a quiet, amused sound that always pulled a smile from you. You were trained to respond to it, like muscle memory. “I know. But still. Behave, alright?”

You nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone. The silence that followed felt deeper than usual. The house swallowed him whole, leaving only you behind.

You wandered through the quiet halls, trying to shake the feeling that had started to gnaw at the back of your mind. You were often like this lately—adrift, grasping at something you couldn’t quite name. He told you it was nothing. That it was normal, considering the accident. That your memory would return in time.

Except… it hadn’t.

You couldn’t remember the day you married him. Or the way you’d met. Or why you sometimes woke up gasping in the dark, drenched in sweat, your throat raw like you’d screamed your voice away. You’d asked him once. He had smiled and kissed your forehead, whispering, “Some memories are best left buried.”

That day, the weight in your chest didn’t go away.

It was there again now, heavy and suffocating, like invisible fingers tightening around your lungs.

You wandered to the bedroom—your bedroom. Or so he said. You barely remembered how to navigate the house without thinking. But your body moved on its own. Habit. Routine. Familiarity programmed into your bones, even when your mind resisted.

The drawer in the corner of the room called to you. You didn’t mean to open it. Not at first. But your hands were already reaching for it before your thoughts caught up. The compulsion was too strong. Something inside you needed to know.

And when the drawer opened, you froze.

Photographs. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All carefully arranged. All tucked neatly between delicate tissue paper, as if they were precious artifacts. At first, the faces didn’t register. Different hairstyles. Different expressions. Different clothes.

But the same eyes.

Your eyes.

They were all you.

Laughter frozen mid-breath. Smiles that never reached your eyes. Dresses you didn’t remember owning. Bruises you couldn’t place.

Some photos were newer. Others older. You recognized none of them, and yet they were undeniably you. A collage of versions—happy, scared, serene, desperate. But all of them shared one common trait: they were being watched. In each frame, subtly blurred in the background, a shadow lingered.

Him.

Sometimes only his hands were visible, placed possessively around your waist or brushing your hair. Other times, he was fully in frame—close, always too close—smiling with a calm, calculated gaze. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl now that you saw it from the outside.

A ribbon. A perfume bottle. A dried rose, still tied with a bow. A necklace—broken at the clasp. A fingernail. You didn’t know whether it was yours, and that uncertainty was the worst part.

And then, the flash drive. Sleek. Unmarked. Black as night.

Your hands moved like they weren’t your own. You crossed the room, plugged it in, and opened the file. A single video.

The screen flickered. Static.

And when it played, you saw a familiar face.

You.

You were strapped to a chair. No… a bed. Bare shoulders trembling, your mouth gagged, eyes wild with terror. You writhed against the restraints, muffled cries choking in your throat. You didn’t remember this. You didn’t remember this. But it was you.

Then came the voice. Soft. Steady.

His.

“You always try to leave, my love. But you never make it far.”

The camera panned slowly, almost lovingly, to reveal him sitting beside the frame. Calm. Smiling. Watching you.

“I’m not angry,” he continued. “You don’t need to remember. You don’t need to understand. You just need to stay.”

He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes dark and glinting with something sharp beneath the surface.

“I’ve loved every version of you. Every time you run, I find you. And I bring you home.”

Your blood ran cold.

“I know you don’t remember. That’s alright. I’ll remind you. Over and over, if I have to.”

The screen flickered again. Another scene. Another you. This time crying. Another version screaming. Another begging. Another… smiling.

Each version more twisted than the last. You watched as he carefully recreated scenarios—like a director obsessed with a single actress. A thousand variations of the same obsession. A thousand attempts to preserve the perfect you.

You yanked the flash drive from the port, heart hammering. Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. You stumbled backward—

Knock knock.

A soft, deliberate sound.

You froze.

Another knock. Louder. Measured.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned to close the laptop, to hide everything—but you were too slow. The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Framed in the hallway light, still in his work clothes, tie loosened, his smile too pleasant to be real.

“Love?” he called gently. “What are you doing?”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “I-I was just… cleaning.”

He took a step in. Then another. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

“You never clean in here.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He stopped behind you, his presence a wall of heat and silence. You felt his breath on your neck. Then his hand on your shoulder, light as a feather.

“You opened the drawer, didn’t you?”

You said nothing. But the tremble in your body gave you away.

He leaned in, lips grazing your ear.

“You always open the drawer eventually.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“How many times has it been, hmm?” he whispered. “Seven? Eight? I lose count. Each time you forget, and each time you find your way back. And I… I get to fall in love with you all over again.”

You whimpered, the sound dying in your throat. His hand stroked your hair with practiced gentleness.

“It’s okay,” he said sweetly. “We’ll start over. Again. Just like before. I’ll fix everything.”

You tried to move, but he tightened his grip. That same voice, that same gentle cadence, coiled around you like barbed wire.

“You’re mine, love. You’ve always been mine.”

And this time, you weren’t sure you’d ever escape.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl

[foxtrology]

don't worry baby (8)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 18.k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, angst, emotional trauma, past interfamilial abuse and neglect, references to disordered eating, verbal harassment. not beta read, all mistakes are mine. didn’t reread, just needed to get it out.

It had been almost three months since Florence. Since the yacht. Since the article. Since Livia’s venom and the silent splash of a phone being tossed into dark water like penance.

It's the end of May now, almost June.

Sticky New York heat pressing against windows that refused to close all the way. Frances McDormand, the dark cat sprawled in front of a rotating fan like she paid rent. And Harry—Harry Castillo, once a name associated with corporate blood sport and too many $10,000 suits—now woke up in soft cotton shirts and made her coffee before speaking a word.

They lived in a loft now.

His penthouse had become unusable—paparazzi parked like permanent fixtures out front, cameras hidden in planters, strangers calling her name like it belonged to them. The final straw had come after a man—angry, middle-aged, face red with thirty years of grievance—broke into her and Maya’s apartment two days after they returned from Italy. He'd shouted about restitution, called her father a thief, and said she should pay the price.

He didn’t make it past the hallway. Danny handled the fallout. But that was it. She packed up everything that night. Maya too. The two of them sitting on the floor with takeout containers and three half-full boxes, looking at each other like the girls they’d been in that apartment didn’t exist anymore.

Now, Maya lived in a sunlit walkup with a balcony that faced a mural of Aretha Franklin and a bodega that sold homemade plantain chips in brown bags. Danny had found it. Helped her sign the lease. Pretended he didn’t care when she called him sweetheart and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

And her? She moved in with Harry. Into the loft. His loft. Exposed brick. Massive windows. Low leather furniture. A kitchen that smelled like citrus and wood and had knives sharper than her oldest fears. It was peaceful. In a way that felt rebellious. And more than that—more than safe, more than new—it felt private. There were no paparazzi. No late-night interviews. No articles. Just the creak of hardwood beneath bare feet and the click of Frances jumping onto the couch like she owned it.

The first morning, she woke up to the sound of birds outside the window and Harry brushing his teeth beside her. They shared the mirror now. She used the left side. He used the right.

She stood on her tiptoes to spit. He always offered her the water glass first. Sometimes they bumped elbows. Sometimes he kissed her cheek, mint on his breath, hand resting on the curve of her hip like it had always belonged there.

She wore his shirts to bed now. The soft ones. The ones with faint holes near the collar or sleeves stretched out from years of being rolled up. She didn’t wear shorts unless she had to. Just the shirts and her underwear and the faint scent of cedar that lingered in his drawer.

Harry Castillo, in his fifties, spent most mornings with one sock on, his glasses sliding down his nose, and a soft frown as he tried to navigate a French press while she sat on the kitchen counter eating a peach. Not just any peach. A perfect one. Heavy with juice. Skinned slightly from the pressure of her thumb.

“Don’t drip on the floor,” he’d mutter without looking.

She’d smirk. And let it run down her wrist.

“You’re a menace,” he said one morning.

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You worship it.”

That got him to glance up. His salt-and-pepper hair was messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression one of a man who had fought empires and now couldn’t stop watching juice trail down the soft inside of her wrist.

He walked over. Took the peach from her. Bit it. Then kissed her sticky mouth. Frances meowed like an old woman disgusted by affection. They both ignored her.

Some days were slow. Painfully, beautifully slow. They’d read on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled, her feet resting on his thigh while he absentmindedly ran a hand over her ankle. Frances slept on the back cushion behind their heads, occasionally shifting just to prove she still hated sharing attention.

She burned toast almost every morning. And he let her. She insisted on folding laundry while watching old ‘70s thrillers with subtitles she didn't speak the language of. And he let her.

They bickered about dishes but never raised their voices. Harry always said she stacked the cups wrong. She told him he was old and picky. He kissed her anyway. On the temple. On the shoulder. On the mouth if she let him catch her.

He still got up before her most mornings. Still made coffee before she asked. Still whispered baby when he thought she was still asleep. Sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she just wanted to hear it.

One night in late May, they hosted Maya and Danny for dinner. Well—hosted was a generous term. Harry grilled on their rooftop garden that hadn't had any safety measures since the 70s. She made a salad that was mostly just leaves with balsamic and too much cheese. Maya brought wine. Danny brought flowers and pretended they weren’t for Maya until she rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek.

It was hot that night. The windows were open. Harry had sweat at his temple and she wore a sundress with tiny buttons that kept slipping open near the chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Do what?”

“Wear that thing and pretend it’s an accident when the buttons pop.”

She turned. Leaned against the counter. “You’re the one who keeps buying me these.”

He stepped closer. Slid a finger beneath the strap. “You wear them too well.”

She didn’t respond. Just tipped her chin up and let him kiss her again. Soft. Slow. Like there was nowhere else in the world to be. Frances stared from the counter like she was about to report them to the building manager.

At night, they lay tangled. Fan humming. Sheets kicked halfway down the bed. She slept in his arms most of the time. Leg over his hip. Fingers tracing the line of hair at the center of his chest like it meant something. It did. He never said it, but it did.

Sometimes she read in bed while he answered emails. Sometimes he fell asleep before her and she just stared at him. At the lines in his face. At the way his hair curled behind his ear. At the scar on his nose he never explained.

He’d said “I love you” a dozen times since Florence.

Once during breakfast when she spilled coffee on his lap and apologized like it mattered. Once after a fight that wasn’t really a fight—just silence that lasted too long and ended with him saying, “I’m not mad. I just don’t know how to be soft sometimes. But I’m trying. Because I love you.” And once at 2AM, in the dark, after a nightmare left her shaking so hard she cracked a glass trying to get water. He’d pulled her to his chest and whispered it again and again until she stopped flinching.

She said it back every time. But it didn’t have to be said. Not really. Not when he rubbed her back absentmindedly while she watched a documentary about octopuses. Not when he kept a bottle of her shampoo next to his own even though he used bar soap. Not when he cleaned Frances’s litter box without being asked. Not when he looked at her like she was sunrise and sanctuary and the first thing in decades he hadn’t already planned for.

She woke up one morning to the sound of Harry swearing under his breath.

“Shit.”

She blinked awake, groggy. “What?”

He was at the bathroom sink, glasses askew, toothbrush in hand.

“Cut myself shaving,” he muttered.

She padded over barefoot, hair messy, shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Let me see.”

He turned, jaw tilted slightly. There was a nick under his chin. She dabbed it gently with a tissue. Then kissed it. Then stepped back and said, “You look like an expensive history professor who flirts with married women.”

He squinted at her. “You’re unwell.”

“You’re hot.”

He rolled his eyes. But he smiled. And when she leaned up on her toes to brush beside him, shoulder to shoulder, foam in her mouth and their arms bumping, Harry Castillo—king of quiet rage, legend of business and ruin—looked down at the girl beside him and thought, This. This is the whole damn point. Harry didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to.

Just watched her as she brushed beside him, their reflections overlapping in the fogging mirror, toothpaste smudged at the corner of her mouth like war paint. She was humming something—off-key, tuneless, maybe not even a song. Just sound. A sound that only existed here, in this room, in the morning, with his old toothbrush vibrating quietly between his molars and her pink one clutched like a dagger.

She spit. So did he. She rinsed, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and kissed his shoulder before walking barefoot back into the bedroom. Her shirt was slipping again. He let it.

He rinsed last. Adjusted his glasses. Then reached for the tiny towel she always insisted on hanging on the hook he never used before she moved in. He wiped down the sink. It was a recent development. A routine, of sorts.

He didn’t used to wipe the sink. Now he did. Because she noticed when he didn’t. Because she kissed him on the cheek when he did. Because somehow, the wipe of a towel and the scent of her mint toothpaste and the sound of her humming nothing in particular had become the holiest part of his day.

The morning rolled on. There was no work meeting. No call. No reason to check his email but he did anyway—just out of muscle memory. He grunted at something on the screen. Said Jesus Christ at another. Then closed the laptop and tossed it onto the couch like it had personally offended him.

She was curled up in the armchair across the room with a bowl of cereal and a spoon too large for the bowl, watching a rerun of a British cooking show where every contestant cried when their meringue collapsed.

Harry walked over, grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the chair, and tucked it around her legs without asking. She didn’t say anything. Just looked up and smiled. Then fed him a bite of her cereal.

He made a face. “Is that...almond milk?”

She nodded. “We ran out of your kind.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned. “You’ll live.”

At noon, she left to pick up flowers. It wasn’t for anything in particular. Just because she’d seen some wild peonies at the corner bodega and thought they’d look good next to the coffee machine. She came home with two bundles—pink and blood orange—and a package of sticky notes she didn’t need.

Harry was sitting on the floor when she got back, rearranging the books on the bottom shelf of the built-in like it was a life-or-death situation. He had his glasses on and a pen tucked behind his ear, even though he wasn’t writing anything.

“What are you doing?” she asked, amused.

“Someone moved Letters from a Stoic next to Norwegian Wood.”

“So?”

“It’s thematically violent.”

She snorted.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Those flowers for me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Partial truth.”

She set them in water while he made another espresso he didn’t need, and they stood in the kitchen for a while—not talking, just drinking, just existing. She looked over at him—socks, shirt half-tucked, a faint smear of pen on his hand from writing something earlier in his notebook—and thought, You’re so much softer than you know.

It was later—way later, when he was in the shower and Frances was curled up on his pillow like she’d claimed it—that she saw it. She was scrolling. Aimlessly. One of those early evening doomscrolls where the light was changing and the room smelled like lavender and Harry had just shouted something about how the shampoo was empty even though it was not. And there it was.

“Castillo Turns 55: A Look Back at the Billionaire’s Rise, Fall, and Silence.” —The New Yorker.

She blinked. Paused. Scrolled back up to the article. She didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The photo was recent. Harry in a dark coat. Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets like always.

Her stomach fluttered. Fifty-five. He hadn’t said anything. Not once. And it was this week.

She glanced toward the bathroom. Steam fogged the crack beneath the door. His voice—low, raspy—was humming something old and terrible. Probably Elvis.

He hadn’t said a damn thing. Of course he hadn’t. Because Harry didn’t like attention. Didn’t like celebrations or singing or surprise parties or anything that made people look at him longer than they had to.

Which meant…she was absolutely planning something. The next morning, she started a list. She didn’t tell him.

Just opened a fresh page in her notes app and titled it: Operation: Old Man’s Birthday (Do Not Let Him See This)

Under it, she typed

Invite: Francesca, Luca (maybe), Maya, Danny

Location: Home (safe, intimate)

Cake? (He says he hates sweets but eats mine)

Gift?

Music?

Do I invite his sister?

She stared at that last line for a long time. Then added a space beneath it.

Pros:

She might be the only blood family he has

He’s mentioned her exactly three times, which is more than Lucy

Maybe he’d want her there, even if he doesn’t know it

Cons:

He hasn’t spoken to her in years

He might actually kill me

Might ruin the mood

Might make him shut down

Might make him remember something he doesn’t want to

She sighed. Backspaced the whole thing. Then re-typed it again.mShe didn’t delete the list. She didn’t move it. She just left it open in the background like a quiet question.

Over the next few days, she got sneaky. Not lying—not really. Just careful. She asked him things like “what kind of cake do you hate the least” while pretending to talk about a TV show. She bought candles but hid them in a drawer under her spare socks. She asked Maya to help distract him on the day-of, to make sure he didn’t randomly decide to cancel and go for a six-hour walk in Central Park like he did on bad press days.

Maya agreed with exactly three smiley faces and one grandpa emoji. Danny offered to buy a dozen chairs. She told him there would be six people total. He replied, Fine. I’ll still wear a suit.

That Thursday, Harry asked her why she kept rearranging the fridge magnets.

She blinked. “Just bored.”

“You spelled spleen.”

“I like the word.”

“You spelled it twice.”

She shrugged. “One for each of yours.”

He squinted. “Are you okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Then leaned in, kissed her forehead, and mumbled, “You’re a weirdo.”

She googled his sister that night. Didn’t tell anyone. Just lay in bed beside Harry—his arm around her waist, his breathing deep and even—and searched her name in the dark.

Isidora Castillo. Married. Two kids. Lived upstate. Social media set to private. One blurry photo from a fundraiser five years ago. Nothing else.

She stared at the screen for a long time. Harry had only mentioned a few times. He hadn’t spoken her name. But he had smiled. And then stopped. And then changed the subject. She closed the screen. Stared at the ceiling. Didn’t sleep much that night.

The next day, he brought her coffee in bed. She was already half-awake, cheek pressed to his pillow, dreaming of something too warm to remember. He set the mug on the nightstand. Sat down beside her. Ran a hand down her back in slow, sleepy strokes.

“Baby,” he whispered.

She cracked one eye open. He was shirtless. Hair wild. A smear of toothpaste near his temple like battle paint. She laughed. He leaned down. Kissed her shoulder.

“You were twitching,” he murmured. “Thought you were dying.”

She groaned. “Just fighting my enemies in REM.”

He smiled. Then pulled her closer. And just like that—everything settled again.

She still hadn’t decided about Isidora. The party was only a few days away. The cake was ordered. The drinks planned. The music soft and curated and free of anything too happy. Francesca had offered to make a toast. Luca swore he wouldn’t. Maya said she’d bring flowers, and Danny promised to behave. But still—his sister. A name that lived in silence. A woman he hadn’t seen in over a decade.

That night, as they sat on the couch—her feet in his lap, Frances purring like judgment behind them—she asked quietly, “Do you think people can change without reaching out to the ones they hurt?”

Harry looked up from his book. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then said, softly, “Sometimes reaching out feels like opening a wound you spent years trying to stitch shut.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes the people you hurt…don’t want to hear from you.”

She swallowed. He set the book down. Touched her ankle.

“I haven’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “She just...didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to explain.”

She reached for his hand. Held it. Harry leaned in. Kissed her wrist. And whispered, “I should’ve told her I missed her.”

Her heart cracked. Not loudly. But deep. That night, she typed one final addition to the list: Invite Isidora? She didn’t decide. Not yet. But the fact that she was even asking? That was a beginning. And Harry—who held her closer that night, who whispered you twitch in your sleep like you’re fighting for us—

Well. He didn’t know it yet. But he was about to have a birthday. And for once in his life—

He wouldn’t have to fake the smile. Not this year. Not with her. Not with the days falling into each other like warm laundry, one after the next, quiet and domestic and full of small, glittering moments that didn’t make headlines but meant everything.

It was two days before his birthday. He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t. He knew the date, technically. Knew it in the way Harry knew all things—gruffly, quietly, with a sigh. He didn’t care for birthdays. Didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want fuss. He said he’d already had too many. Said he’d rather ignore the number and drink his coffee in peace.

So she let him. Pretended right along with him. And secretly, she planned the whole thing anyway. The morning started the same as most. Frances yowled like a Victorian ghost outside the bedroom door because Harry forgot to feed her on time.

“I have to breathe before I serve you,” he muttered, half-asleep, dragging himself out of bed in boxer briefs and one sock.

She stayed curled beneath the covers, watching him shuffle down the hallway like a man twice his age and three times as dramatic. She heard the rustle of the treat drawer. The clang of her metal bowl. Harry’s voice, exasperated, already talking to the cat like she paid rent.

“You eat better than I do. You live better than I do. You’re not even grateful.”

Frances meowed in agreement.

He shuffled back five minutes later, hair sticking up, glasses crooked, coffee already in hand. She sat up, smiling.

“Your fanbase grows stronger every day.”

“I’m held hostage in my own home.”

“By a ten-pound feline.”

“She's fifteen pounds and fully demonic.”

She leaned over and kissed his temple.

“You like her.”

He didn’t respond. But he scratched behind Frances’s ear later when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Later that afternoon, she did it. Sent the email. An email she stole from Harry's list of contacts. Just a few short lines. Nothing fancy. No emojis. Just enough to say I'm planning something for Harry. I think he'd want you there, even if he doesn't know it yet.

To: isidora.castillo@email.com

Subject: Harry

Hi. I know this might be unexpected. I’m planning something for Harry's birthday. He doesn’t know. I thought maybe...if you were able to come. Quietly. No pressure. Just thought you should know.

She sat with it for a moment. Hovered. Then hit send. Then closed the laptop before she could regret it.

She didn’t tell Harry. Instead, she made pasta. The simple kind. Garlic. Olive oil. Too much chili flake. Harry walked in from the laundry room, where he was grumbling about mismatched socks like it was a moral failing, and stopped short at the smell.

“Are you seducing me with carbs?”

“Would it work?”

He paused. Then walked over. Looped his arms around her waist from behind. “I’d sell state secrets for a good penne.”

She smiled. He kissed her shoulder. And that was that.

The day after, she bought string lights. Also a lemon tree in a pot too big to carry by herself. She had to bribe the delivery guy with a twenty to lug it up to the rooftop. She texted Maya a photo of it from the stairs,

You: This might kill me but it’s cute

Maya: If you die under a lemon tree for this man I’m telling everyone it was on purpose

That afternoon, Harry spent three hours reorganizing his bookshelf because he was tired of seeing all the spines like a lineup of failures. She watched from the couch, flipping through a magazine, as he sat cross-legged on the rug muttering things like, “This belongs in this section,” and “Why do we have three copies of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?”

“You bought them.”

“Then I clearly have problems.”

She slid off the couch and crawled across the floor to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “You’re turning into a weird old man.”

He leaned back into her.

“I’m already there.”

That night, she got an email back. From Isidora. It was short. Tentative. But warm.

I’d like to come. If you’re sure he’d want that. I can be in the city Saturday afternoon. I’ll stay nearby. I don’t want to intrude.

She stared at it for a long time. Then whispered with a smile, “Fuck.”

Harry looked up from the couch, where he was frowning at a puzzle she didn’t know he’d started.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

“Talking to Frances.”

Frances, on the windowsill, flicked her tail in betrayal. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re scheming.”

She crawled over, kissed him once, and said, “I’m always scheming.”

He grunted. But let it go.

Saturday morning came with soft rain. It drizzled over the windows in thin, quiet streaks. Harry was still in bed, shirtless, arm flung across her waist, one leg tangled between hers like gravity had a personal stake in her staying put. She checked the time. 7:48. Checked her phone.

Maya: I’m on snack duty right? I’m bringing the lemon chips.

Danny: Frances is banned from the cheese board. I will not be taking notes.

Francesca: Do we dress up or pretend it’s casual? Because you know me.

She smiled, tucked the phone away, and went back to pretending to be asleep. Harry shifted behind her. Grumbled, “Stop moving.”

She stayed still. By noon, the rain had passed. Harry was in his office, door open, on the phone with someone he referred to only as a vampire in Zurich. His voice was low, tight, full of clipped sarcasm and verbal knives.

She watched him from the hallway for a moment—glasses perched low, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that don’t test me way that made most men wilt. He noticed her. Mouthed, Come here. She walked over. He pulled her down onto his lap, still on the call, and let his hand rest on her thigh while he said something about international compliance laws. She leaned her head against his.

And whispered, “You’re very sexy when you’re threatening people legally.”

He squeezed her knee. Didn’t miss a beat on the call. That evening, Harry went to the corner store for wine and oranges because he ate the fruit like it was going out of style.She used the time to sneak up to the rooftop.

The lemon tree was already there, still in its comically large pot, looking smug. She brought the string lights up next, one long loop at a time. Hung them from the rusted metal trellis with zip ties and silent prayers. The breeze smelled like fresh concrete and whatever plant was blooming down on the sidewalk.

She stood in the middle of the rooftop for a moment. Hands on hips. The sky was a soft purple now. The city buzzing beneath. She thought of Harry. Of the way he rubbed his eyes when he read for too long. The way he touched the small of her back when they crossed streets. The way he leaned into her hand when she brushed his hair back. Like a cat. Like a man who hadn’t let himself be held in years.

She thought of the cake downstairs in the fridge. Of the candles hidden in the sock drawer. Of Isidora, arriving tonight. Of how much Harry had changed—and hadn’t. Of how he loved her. Quietly. Deeply. In every wordless way.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. And whispered, “Happy almost birthday, old man.”

Then got to work. She finished stringing the last loop of lights just as the sky dipped fully into that soft, summery dusk—blue bleeding into lavender, the kind of light that forgave everything. Their rooftop garden had never looked better. The lemon tree sat proudly in the corner like it had always belonged, the string lights casting a honey glow over the mismatched chairs and the long wooden table she and Maya had thrifted last month.

There were little details everywhere. A bowl of clementines. Tiny gold place cards she wrote out in her best almost-cursive. Cloth napkins folded like someone who’d once watched a YouTube tutorial and mostly remembered it. The cake was downstairs in the fridge. Lemon again.

Because Harry had once said, in passing, “I'm a citrus man.”

It was almost seven when she heard Danny’s feet on the stairs.

Maya trailed behind him, both of them slightly breathless, carrying a case of wine, two bouquets, and a tiny tin of anchovies because Harry’s a freak and likes them on crackers. There's things that remind her that the man she's with is really decades older than her. 

“Go!” she hissed from the rooftop entrance, waving them up. “He’s in his office. He doesn’t suspect anything.”

Danny grinned. “I’m honestly shocked. He usually suspects everything.”

“Because usually you act suspicious.”

“Rude.”

Maya stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You look like a someone about to propose.”

She laughed. “I feel like one.”

“Where is he?”

“In his office. Still thinks it’s just dinner for the two of us.”

Danny was already uncorking a bottle. “You are not emotionally prepared for how smug he’ll be when he finds out you pulled this off.”

“Shut up and light the candles.”

About an hour later downstairs, Harry was finishing up an email with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his mouth doing that thing it did when he was technically not grumpy, but close.

She leaned against the doorway. “Come upstairs. Five minutes.”

“Can't.”

“I'm finishing up an ema—”

“It’s warm out. The sky’s nice. Come on.”

He grunted. But got up anyway. Muttered something about “damn good weather and you not taking no for an answer” while following her up the stairs in socked feet and a soft navy button-down she’d ironed that morning.

“You look nice,” she said, glancing back.

He adjusted his glasses. “You ironed my shirt. I feel like I’m going to prom.”

“You kind of are.”

“Prom didn’t have wine.”

“Depends where you went.”

He stepped onto the roof. And stopped.

Danny was lighting the last of the tealights, Maya holding the lighter steady while balancing a glass of wine in her other hand. The table was glowing, the light pooling in soft circles, and the people waiting all looked up at once. Francesca, barefoot in a white linen dress, raised her glass. Luca smiled, already slightly flushed from wine. James—Harry’s driver—stood near the lemon tree, arm slung around his wife’s waist.

And at the far end of the table stood Isidora. She looked older than the last time he’d seen her. But only a little. Still the same eyes. Still the same posture. Still his sister.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Silent. The kind of silence that sat heavy in the chest.

Then she stepped forward. Just two paces. Enough.

“Happy birthday, big brother.”

His jaw moved like he was going to say something sharp. But it never came. He walked over in three strides. And hugged her. One arm. Then both. Tight. The kind of hug you don’t realize you’ve been needing until your knees feel soft. He buried his face in her shoulder for a second.

She whispered something only he could hear. He nodded. Whispered something back. And the world, for a moment, shrank to just that.

Dinner was slow. Perfectly slow. Warm plates passed hand to hand. Cheese and anchovies and roasted vegetables. Pasta with lemon zest and basil. Slices of bread too crunchy and a little burnt because she got distracted talking to James’s wife about hummingbirds.

Luca told a story about someone falling off a boat in California. Francesca corrected every detail and still managed to make it funnier. Danny made a toast about Harry being “halfway to death and somehow still only at the start of being tolerable.” Harry flipped him off without looking. Everyone laughed.

Isidora slid her card across the table near the end of the meal. Didn’t make a big deal of it. Just a plain envelope. Harry opened it lazily. Then paused. Read it again. It just said,

YOU ARE STILL THE BEST THING I EVER SHARED A ROOF WITH. He folded it back up carefully. Slipped it into his breast pocket. Didn’t say anything. But she saw his eyes. Saw the way they shone.

Later, after dessert but before people started drifting to the edge of goodbye, Harry stood behind her while she refilled a pitcher of water. His hand slipped to the back of her waist.

He said it softly. “You did this?”

She smiled without turning. “I had help.”

“I don’t mean the candles and the food.”

She looked back at him. He was watching her the way he did sometimes—quietly, like it hurt.

“I mean the part where I forgot to hate my birthday.”

She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned down. Kissed her hair. And stood there with her a while longer.

Isidora found her a little later, down by the lemon tree, folding napkins that didn’t need folding.

“She really would’ve liked you,” Isidora said, unprompted.

“Who?”

“Our mom.”

She blinked. “You think?”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Isidora handed her a piece of folded napkin that she’d somehow made worse. “I’ve missed him,” she said. “For years.”

She didn’t reply. Just set the napkin down and looked up at the sky. The stars were out. A few. Not enough. But more than none.

By the end of the night, Harry was barefoot from slipping off his socks and giving it to the girl beside him.  Glass of something golden in hand. Frances asleep in a patch of moonlight. Maya and Danny curled on one of the couches in an argument about tax loopholes and types of toast. Luca singing something under his breath. Francesca singing with him, laughing.

Harry leaned against the railing, one hand braced, watching his people. Watching her. She walked over. Tucked her arm under his. He didn’t look at her. Just murmured, “Fifty-five isn’t so bad.”

She smiled. “Not when you look like this.”

He grunted. Then looked at her.

“You’re the best part.”

“What?”

“Of all of it.”

She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“Say it again in the morning.”

“I will.”

And he did.

The morning after his birthday began the same way most mornings did now—soft light spilling through the loft’s massive windows, the ceiling fan creaking faintly overhead, and the weight of Harry’s arm draped over her waist like it had been there forever.

He smelled like linen and something faintly sweet—probably wine and citrus from the cake, or maybe just him. She stirred first. Only barely. Shifted enough to nudge her nose against his shoulder, already half-tangled in the sheets. One of his feet had kicked out during the night and was now hanging halfway off the bed like gravity didn’t apply to men over fifty.

She smiled. Didn’t open her eyes yet. Harry grumbled something unintelligible against her temple. Then, “M’not fifty-five.”

She laughed softly, eyes still closed. “Yes, you are.”

“Not until the cake’s gone.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.”

“Legal loophole.”

“You made that up.”

Harry groaned dramatically, then pulled her closer. His mouth found her shoulder. Kissed it once. “So when does the government come for me?”

“Probably today.”

“Bastards.”

She rolled over slowly. Faced him. He looked wrecked in the best way—hair flattened on one side, pillow creases on his cheek, stubble more salt than pepper this morning. His glasses were on the nightstand, next to the folded note from Isidora he hadn’t stopped rereading.

She brushed her thumb across his jaw. “How do you feel?”

Harry blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Full.”

“Of wine or emotion?”

“Both. But mostly you.”

She smiled. Leaned in. Kissed the corner of his mouth. They didn’t get out of bed until almost ten. Mostly because he refused to move. And partly because she let him bury his face between her shoulder blades and mumble things like you’re the reason I believe in retirement and if I die here it’ll be your fault and I’m okay with that.

When they did get up, she wore his boxers and the tee she’d slept in—black, worn thin, with the collar stretched just enough to show her collarbone. Harry padded into the kitchen shirtless, glasses on now, hair wild. He made coffee the way he always did, slow, methodical, complaining the whole time.

“You should throw out the beans when they’re this old,” he muttered.

“You bought them.”

“Didn't bring my glasses when I went to the store so got the wrong beans.”

He scooped two spoons of sugar into her mug without asking. Added cream. Stirred it with the butter knife because the spoons were in the dishwasher and he wasn’t unloading that damn thing today.

She perched on the counter. Watched him move around like the kitchen owed him money. He poured her coffee. Passed it over without a word. She smiled at him. He scowled at the butter knife. There was still lemon cake in the fridge. She took it out wordlessly. Set it on the table in its original cardboard box. Harry looked at it like it held secrets.

“We didn’t even do candles.”

“Didn't feel like doing candles.”

“I would’ve for you.”

She blinked. Heart stuttering a little.

“You kissed me instead,” she said.

He nodded. “Better wish.”

She cut two slices. Big ones. Put one in front of him. One for herself. Harry took a bite and let out the biggest sigh ever.

“You really did all that.”

She glanced up. “What?”

“The dinner. The lights. The lemon tree.”

She shrugged.

“Isidora,” he said quietly.

She looked at him now. Harry was staring at his plate. Then, slowly, he set his fork down. Sat back. “I hadn’t seen her in over a decade.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

She didn’t speak. Harry leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug. He looked older today. Not in a bad way. Just in that very real, very human way that came after seeing someone who knew you when you were still becoming.

He looked at her. Really looked. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded once. And because it was him—and because she knew—she didn’t say you’re welcome.Just reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Harry caught her hand. Kissed her knuckles. Held them there for a second too long. They finished the cake in silence.

Listened to Frances thump her way down the hallway and leap onto the windowsill like she’d done it ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. The loft felt full. Not loud. Just full. Like home. She was halfway through her second cup of coffee when she remembered.

Paused. Set the mug down slowly. Harry noticed immediately “What?”

She blinked.

“Lucy’s wedding.”

Harry’s face didn’t change. But something behind his eyes shifted. She saw it. She always saw it.

“It's very soon,” she added. “We forgot.”

He took a breath. Leaned back. Ran a hand over his mouth. Then said, flatly, “I didn’t.”

She tilted her head.

“I ignored it,” he clarified. “That’s different.”

She nodded. Neither of them spoke for a beat. She stared down at the cake box. He looked out the window. She was the first to break.

“I only found out because Lorenzo mentioned it in Florence.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

“Wasn’t even subtle. Said he assumed we were going. That our names were on the list.”

Harry snorted. “We never RSVP’d.”

“Still invited us though.”

His eyes cut to hers. Sharp. Protective. “Of course she did.”

“She probably didn’t think we'd come.”

“She probably hoped you would.”

She paused. Sipped her coffee. Let the taste ground her. Harry was still staring at her. Still unreadable. Still too still. She said it quietly.

“I think we should go.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, “Why?”

She looked up. Met his eyes. And said, simply, “Because I want her to see I’m real. Not just a quote she gave.”

His expression didn’t change. But something broke open anyway, “You don’t owe her anything.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t deserve to know you.”

“I know.”

Harry set his fork down. Hard. “She’s not kind,” he said. “She’s not even curious. She just wants to catalog you. Reduce you. Turn you into a moment she can outgrow.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t interrupt.

“And I can’t—” he shook his head once, jaw tight, “—I can’t stomach the idea of you in a room full of people who look at you and only see me.”

His voice cracked a little. Just at the edges. “She doesn’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

She reached for him. Slow. Took his hand. He let her. She squeezed once.

“I just want to go,” she said, “because what we have won’t be erased.”

He looked at her. Breathed through his nose.And said, low and tired and still full of love, “You are the only real thing I’ve got.”

She leaned forward. Kissed his hand. Then his cheek. Then sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there like that for a long time. Letting the morning settle. Letting the idea of it take root. Letting the tension dissolve into the quiet.

Later, he folded laundry while she organized the kitchen drawer he kept calling “the Bermuda Triangle of expired coupons and batteries that don’t work.”

She found a receipt from 2020. They argued over whether or not to keep a set of napkin rings shaped like tiny gold monkeys. He made her tea without asking. She massaged his shoulder when it started to cramp.

He laid down for a ten-minute nap that turned into forty-five. She tucked a pillow under his head. Frances laid on his chest like a judgmental paperweight. When he woke up, she was watching a documentary about a tree that had survived four natural disasters.

He sat beside her. Didn’t say anything. Just took her hand. Held it. Pressed a kiss to her wrist. They didn’t talk about the wedding again that day. But it lived in the background—like a suitcase by the door. Not packed yet. Not opened. Just there. Waiting.

Harry kissed her twice before bed. Once on the mouth, like always. And once, more softly, on the scar behind her ear. She didn’t ask how he knew it was there. He didn’t offer. But he pulled her into his chest that night tighter than usual. Held her longer. Breathed slower.

And when she murmured, “We don’t have to go,” he just said, quietly,

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

And he meant it. Which is why, two mornings later, Harry stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, holding up a pair of his own socks like they had personally betrayed him.

“Tell me again why we’re flying commercial.”

She was cross-legged on the bed, hair still damp from the shower, folding her underwear with a kind of chaotic focus that could only come from mild packing stress. Frances sat beside her, very much in the way, laying directly on top of one of Harry’s folded sweaters like she paid taxes.

“Because,” she said, without looking up, “it’s an adventure.”

“I have a jet.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an ego thing.”

She looked up. “I didn’t say it was.”

“It’s for convenience. Comfort. Logistics.”

“You mean silent boarding, your own espresso machine, and no middle seat panic attacks?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, then tossed the socks dramatically into the suitcase, not answering. She grinned. He scowled. Frances yawned and stretched across his dress shirt like she, too, was choosing chaos.

Danny found out two hours later. Harry had him on speakerphone in the office, the call mostly about a trade negotiation that had gone south until Harry muttered something like “we’ll circle back after I’m back from the Cape.”

The pause was long enough to echo. Danny’s voice cracked through the speaker like it was personally offended.

“Back from where?”

Harry sighed. “Cape Cod.”

Danny’s voice shot up an octave. “You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“To Lucy's wedding?”

“Apparently.”

“You told me you were ignoring it.”

“She changed my mind.”

“Who?”

Harry tilted his head toward the bedroom where she was currently trying to Tetris three kinds of travel sized serums and a jade roller into a toiletry bag like it was a survival kit.

“My girlfriend,” he said dryly.

Danny groaned. “Oh my God, Harry. You’re going to be on the cover of People magazine before the weekend ends. They’ll call it ‘Revenge Romance’ or something equally disgusting.”

Harry didn’t flinch. She, however, popped her head into the office, holding up two dresses. “Which one?”

Harry pointed at the darker one without hesitation.

Danny kept talking. “Lucy's going to lose her mind when she sees you two together.”

“She’ll survive.”

“You’re underestimating her.”

Harry turned the speaker off with one tap. Not out of rudeness. Just out of peace. Then looked up at her. “I like the neckline on that one.”

She smiled. “Then it’s going in.”

Packing took longer than expected. Mostly because she kept second-guessing everything she pulled from her closet.

“This looks too…serious.”

“That’s a black turtleneck.”

“Exactly. I look like I’m coming to audit the vows.”

Harry was stretched out on the bed by this point, one arm behind his head, watching her in the same quiet way he read long articles about economic policy—with slow, deliberate attention and the occasional smirk.

“Just wear something you feel good in.”

She pulled another hanger out. “I don’t feel good in anything. Or look good in anything.”

“That’s not true.”

She paused. Looked at him. He was staring at her in that way he always did when she wasn’t looking.

“You always look good in my shirts,” he said.

She smiled. “Not wearing your shirt to the wedding.”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You’d look better than every bride in history.”

She scoffed. “Okay, now you’re just lying.”

Harry kissed the back of her neck. “You’re the only truth I’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes. But the blush gave her away. He took her shopping the next afternoon.

She hadn’t planned on it—had told him not to worry, that she’d figure something out—but Harry, in his infinite stubbornness, had watched her spiral for two straight nights and finally said, “Get dressed. You need air and options.”

So they went. Not to anywhere flashy. Just a boutique a few blocks away, one she’d only ever walked past, the kind of place that didn’t have mannequins, just racks of linen and silk and things that looked better in candlelight.

Harry held the door for her. Didn’t hover. Just sat in the corner with his reading glasses on, answering emails with a phone in one hand and holding her tea in the other, occasionally looking up just to see how she moved in something.

“Too tight?” he asked once.

She twisted in the mirror. “Too Catholic school.”

“Too short?”

“Too prom.”

He looked up from his phone, slid the glasses off, and said, “Show me.”

She stepped out from behind the curtain in a dark green slip dress, simple and soft with a low back and thin straps. Harry blinked. Slowly set his phone down. Didn’t speak.

“Too much?” she asked, fingers brushing the fabric.

He stood. Walked over. Circled her once. Ran a hand lightly over her waist.

Then whispered, “Too perfect.”

She blushed so hard the dressing room mirror fogged.

Harry chose an old suit. He told her this over toast.

“I’m not buying anything new.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not giving that woman another dollar’s worth of silk.”

She laughed. Harry didn’t.

“I wore this suit when I negotiated my first billion-dollar deal,” he said.

She raised a brow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“It was.”

She shook her head, smiling into her coffee. The night before the flight, Harry did a full “old man prep sweep” of the apartment. Locked every window. Checked the oven three times. Told Frances he loved her like she was about to join the Marines. Then folded their passports and tucked them in a leather envelope she didn’t even know he owned.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, watching him zip her suitcase with more care than he gave quarterly earnings.

Harry looked up. “Many times.”

She blinked.

“Which means I do it right.”

“You think I’m going to forget my ID or something?”

“I think if someone tries to mess with you at security, I’m going to flip a table.”

She laughed. “Harry—”

“I’m serious. I know you said it’s supposed to be an adventure, but if some twelve-year-old TSA agent pulls you aside for a random check, I will make headlines.”

She crossed the room. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Looked up. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

“I know.”

She kissed him. Slow. Soft. He kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d packed. Their flight left the next morning.

Frances was left in the care of Maya, who came by at 6am with two bags full of bagels and two books Harry had recommended a month ago.

“Take care of her,” Harry said, petting the cat like he was going off to war.

Maya rolled her eyes. “She’s not dying.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“I'll take good care of her.”

“Good luck.”

Then he hugged Maya—quickly, like he still wasn’t quite sure how to handle being fond of people under thirty. They took a car to the airport. It was quiet.

Harry kept one hand on her thigh the entire time. Not possessive. Just present. At the gate, he watched people board like they were enemies. Thank god this flight was less than two hours.

She nudged him gently. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The people-hating thing.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re scowling.”

He didn’t deny it. She slipped her hand into his.

“Just think,” she said. “In two hours, we’ll be in Cape Cod, probably eating something we can’t pronounce.”

Harry smiled. Then kissed her temple.

“God, I love you.”

She smiled too. “Good.”

They boarded together. Found their first-class seats. Harry adjusted her blanket before his own. She fell asleep on his shoulder before the plane even left the runway. Stating she needs to rest her eyes.

He stayed awake. Not because he was nervous anymore. But because he wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up. And when she did—about twenty minutes into the flight, eyes bleary, smile soft—he handed her a warm towel from the tray and said,

“Adventure’s going well so far.”

She laughed. Pressed a kiss to his jaw. And settled in again. Still flying. Still with him. Still in love. Frances would’ve been horrified. But they didn’t care. The plane landed just after noon. A short flight. Barely long enough for a second nap. Still, Harry stood first, shielding her with one arm and retrieving her bag with the other like turbulence had personally offended him.

“You didn’t even sleep,” she said, watching him shove his own carry-on down from the overhead bin.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

“You just stared at me the whole flight?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

“You’re such a creep.”

He handed her the bag with one hand and kissed the side of her head with the other. “You like it.”

She did. Of course she did. He grabbed everything. Obviously. Her tote, his own bag, the two rolling suitcases. The air outside the plane was crisp. Clean. Different from Manhattan’s density. Cape Cod smelled like salt, pine, and money that had been washed a few times to look like old summer charm.

The airport was small—tiny, really. More like a lobby with a landing strip. No crowd, no paparazzi, just a few other travelers and one girl standing near the restroom sign, jaw halfway to the floor.

She didn’t notice the girl staring right away. Too distracted by the way Harry adjusted her tote on his shoulder, muttering something about the straps being cheap as hell and you need a new one, I’ll get it. But when she did glance up—only for a second—she clocked the girl staring. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

And for a brief moment, she wondered if it was a Harry Castillo thing. It happened sometimes. Especially in Manhattan. Especially when he wore those jeans that sat a little too well on his hips. Once, a woman in Whole Foods dropped an entire rotisserie chicken when Harry bent over to grab organic lentils. So she just smiled politely. Turned away. Let it go.

She didn’t know that the girl was one of Lucy’s bridesmaids. Didn’t know that she’d just recognized him—the man Lucy used to cry about after wine, the one she said ruined her for love, the one they never thought would actually show. And she definitely didn’t know that as they walked toward the exit, Harry’s suit bag trailing behind him and her hand casually resting at the base of his back, the girl raised her phone.

Snapped a photo. And sent it. To Lucy.

Lucy was in a robe. Feet in warm water.

One hand holding a mimosa. The other extended for a manicure. Her bridesmaids were buzzing around the spa suite—some taking selfies, others coordinating the evening's rehearsal schedule.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in twenty minutes. Then it buzzed. One photo. One message.

He’s here. With her.

Lucy stared at the screen. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Her nail tech paused, mid-polish. “Everything okay?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Yeah. Just…a surprise.”

Back at the airport, her and Harry were standing on the curb, waiting for the car James had sent.

Harry had his sunglasses on. The soft, rounded pair he only wore on vacations. She had tucked herself into his side like a vine curling around a stone column.

She reached into her bag. “I have gum.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think I want gum?”

“You keep grinding your teeth.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “So do most billionaires.”

“Not like you.”

He plucked the gum from her hand. “Still taking it.”

“Uh huh.”

The breeze picked up. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Harry did the other side for her, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“You cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You will be.”

“I’m not—”

He slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders anyway. It was soft. Black. Worn to hell. It smelled like him. She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Harry leaned close. “Always cold when you travel.”

“Not true.”

“Your hands were freezing on the plane.”

“Oh were they?”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. Then leaned in. Kissed her temple once. Soft. Solid. Like he wasn’t thinking about anyone else. And he wasn’t. The car arrived ten minutes later. It wasn’t James—just a driver he’d trained, sent out from New York two days earlier. The man greeted them with a nervous smile, took Harry’s bag with shaking hands, and said, “It’s an honor, sir. Big fan of your—um—your…”

“Don’t,” Harry said, sliding into the backseat with her already curled beside him.

“Right,” the driver nodded, closing the door carefully. “Just driving. Got it.”

Harry didn’t talk on the ride. Didn’t look at his phone. Just stared out the window, one hand resting on her thigh, thumb brushing absent-minded circles. She watched the coastline pass. Noticed the clapboard houses. The white fences. The kids on bikes. It was all too calm. Too perfect. Harry noticed it too.

“This place is fake,” he muttered.

She laughed. “It’s summer money, Harry. It’s supposed to look like a magazine ad.”

He scoffed. “I see a single distressed wooden sign that says ‘live laugh love’ and I’m burning it down.”

Their rental was a cottage on a quiet street, chosen by her and Harry. They found it scrolling late one night. 

“You have taste,” Harry admitted as he walked through the door, setting the bags down and immediately checking the locks.

“I know.”

“Where do you think the wine is?”

“Fridge. Hopefully .”

“Your taste just improved.”

She wandered toward the kitchen while Harry made a full perimeter sweep, checking windows and blinds and muttering under his breath about open-concept homes being unsafe.

She poured him a glass. He accepted it with a kiss to her temple. They didn’t unpack. Just left everything where it was, kicked off their shoes, and collapsed onto the too-soft couch in the living room with her legs thrown over his lap and Frances’s absence suddenly very noticeable.

“I miss her,” she said, scrolling through the photo Maya had sent earlier of the cat watching Jeopardy like she understood it.

“She doesn’t miss us.”

“She misses me.”

“She’s probably napping on my shirts.”

“You left one out for her on purpose.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just sipped his wine. Pulled her closer. They didn’t mention Lucy. Not yet. Not on the first night. Not when the air smelled like sea salt and the windows were open and Harry’s hand stayed on her hip like a reassurance.

He kissed her shoulder when she brushed her teeth. Folded her pajamas before she wore them. Let her fall asleep first. Then laid there for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking. But not about Lucy. About her. And how much he hated the thought of anyone like Lucy looking at someone like her with even a fraction of judgment.

The wedding was tomorrow. But for now—

She was in his arms. The air was clean. And he was still hers. Disgustingly, completely, hers. Even in Cape Cod. Even in enemy territory. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They woke slowly the next day. The kind of morning where time didn’t press. Where the sunlight came in gentle and golden through gauzy curtains, brushing across the hardwood like a whisper. The breeze smelled like sea salt. Somewhere outside, a bird was having a very loud opinion. Harry’s arm was draped across her waist, his face still tucked into the curve of her neck, breath warm and steady. She shifted slightly.

And without opening his eyes, he said, “Stay.”

She smiled. “I have to pee.”

“Pee fast. Come back.”

She slid out from beneath the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. When she returned, Harry was lying on his back now, eyes open, hair a complete mess. One arm behind his head. The other reaching for her without looking.

She climbed back in, curled beside him. They laid there like that for a while. Neither of them speaking.

Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice still low and raspy with sleep.

“That’s always dangerous.”

He ignored her. His thumb was tracing a slow, idle line along the inside of her forearm.

“If I asked you to marry me,” he murmured, “would you say yes?”

She turned her head. Blinking. Heart doing a small, ridiculous stutter. He wasn’t even looking at her. Just watching the ceiling like it might hold the answer for him.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re asking me that on the morning we’re going to your ex’s wedding?”

“Timing’s terrible, yeah.”

“But?”

“But I need to know.”

She stared at him. Tried to read whatever storm was happening behind his eyes. He was always like this—softest when he was trying not to be. Asking the hardest questions like they were offhand comments. She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. Squeezed once.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d say yes.”

Harry turned his head. Looked at her. Not surprised. Just…relieved. And stupidly, disgustingly in love. He leaned in. Kissed her once, just barely.

“I wouldn’t make you wear white,” he murmured. “Unless you wanted to.”

She laughed. “You think I’d let you have a say in what I wear?”

He grunted. “True.”

She laid her head on his chest. “Maybe I’ll wear red,” she said.

“Whatever you wear, I’ll fucking pass out.”

“Oh you're into it.”

“I’m into you.” That earned a grin. And then—

The shower. Which, to be clear, had not been intended to be that kind of shower. But Harry was a menace. He turned on the water first. Made sure it wasn’t scalding. Set her towel on the warmer like a man who had been raised to expect nothing and now gave everything. When she stepped in—already flushed from the warmth and still a little dazed from what he’d asked in bed—he pulled her close under the spray, arms sliding around her waist.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered.

Harry kissed her temple. “I know.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just reached for the shampoo and started massaging it into her hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. She relaxed under his touch.

“You’ll stay with me the whole time?”

His fingers moved down the back of her neck. “I’ll be glued to your hip.”

“I mean it, Harry.”

“So do I.”

They washed slowly. Towels traded. Water beading down his back. Her fingers brushing the scar on his nose, the one he still refused to explain. She sat on the bathroom counter in a robe while he shaved.

He grumbled when he nicked himself. Again. She offered a Hello Kitty bandaid from her travel pouch. He said no. She stuck it on him anyway.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s dignity loss.”

Harry glared. But he didn’t take it off.

She got dressed first. Dark green silk. Simple. Clean. Slit at the side that hit just high enough to feel daring, low enough to stay elegant. Thin straps. Slightly open back. Harry just stared when she stepped out of the bedroom. Didn’t say anything at first. Just let his eyes move over her like prayer. Then—

“You’re not real.”

She adjusted one of the straps. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a crime.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“Not like this.”

She turned.

“Zipper?”

He stepped forward. Pulled it up slowly. Then leaned down. Kissed the back of her neck.

“You sure about this?” he murmured.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

“As long as you’re next to me.”

Harry changed next. Black suit. Old. Worn in the elbows. A little snug across the shoulders now. He buttoned it slowly. Pulled on the white silk tie she’d picked out. She watched from the armchair, chin on her hand.

“You look handsome.”

“I look like a man going to an ex’s wedding.”

“You look like a man with the best girl in the room.”

That got a twitch at his mouth. He checked his watch. “Car should be here soon.”

She stood. Smoothed the front of his jacket. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“You’re enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being sappy.”

“I’m allowed to be.”

“Since when?”

“Since you said yes.”

She didn’t reply. Just pressed her forehead to his chest. And for a minute, they stayed like that. No wedding. No Lucy. No noise. Just them. And the quiet. At exactly 3:55, the car pulled up. Harry held the door open for her. She slipped in. Then he followed. Settled beside her. Took her hand. Laced their fingers. Neither of them spoke.

But in that silence— In that breathless, careful quiet— There was everything. Even the parts they hadn’t said yet. Even the storm that might wait ahead. Because it didn’t matter. They were already here. Together. And nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to take that away. Not even today.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of a manicured gravel drive. It was a backyard venue—tasteful, coastal, charming in that I have generational wealth kind of way. Harry stepped out first. Buttoned his old dark coat. Reached back in for her hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But let’s go.”

He held her hand tightly. And together, they stepped into enemy territory. The first thing she noticed was the breeze. Soft. Warm. Salt-laced. It danced along the hem of her dark green dress and tugged at the edges of Harry’s collar.

The second thing she noticed was how quiet it got the second they walked in. Conversation dulled. Laughter paused. Like someone had pressed mute.Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at the people who were suddenly pretending not to stare. He simply tucked her hand tighter into the crook of his arm and walked like he owned the place. She matched his stride. Head high. Shoulders back. Even if her stomach was buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

The rows of white folding chairs were slowly filling. There was an open bar tucked under a pergola and floral arrangements shaped like they cost someone’s salary. A small quartet played something indistinct and romantic in the distance.

Her heels sank slightly into the grass as they crossed toward the seating area, passing a man who looked like he recognized Harry but wasn’t sure whether to say it out loud.

Then—

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

She didn’t look. Harry did. Just once. Just enough for whoever said it to shrink back into their seat. They settled into the third row. Close enough to make a point. Far enough to keep some distance. Harry sat beside her like a bodyguard in a suit that didn’t quite fit anymore, jaw tight, sunglasses still on.

“Do I need to start punching groomsmen?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Then leaned in and whispered, “This might’ve been a mistake.”

Harry turned. Brushed a thumb against her wrist. “It wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d rather be here—with you—than wondering what would’ve happened if we’d stayed home.”

She stared at him. Let the words settle. Then nodded once. Still unsure. But less alone.

Then— She saw her. Livia. Hair too shiny. Dress too pink. Expression flickering from smug to what the actual fuck the second her eyes landed on them. She nudged Paolo. Paolo blinked like he’d seen a ghost.

Harry’s hand slid across her lap. Rested firmly on her thigh.

“Ignore them,” he said.

“They’re annoying.”

“They’re pathetic.”

She smiled faintly. Noticed Livia turning sharply away when Harry finally glanced in her direction like a man debating whether to call in an airstrike. They looked absurd. The kind of rich people who got caught cheating and just threw more parties to distract from it. Paolo looked like he’d aged five years. Livia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Good.

“Harry?”

A familiar voice. She turned. Francesca. In a light blue dress, hair piled up messily, holding a program and blinking like she couldn’t believe it. Beside her, Luca looked equally stunned.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Francesca whispered.

Harry stood. Kissed her cheek. “Changed my mind.”

Francesca glanced at her. Then at Harry. Then back again. Her face softened.

“You both look incredible,” Francesca said.

She smiled. “We’re trying to survive.”

Luca snorted. “Welcome to the party.”

They all took their seats together. Four in a row.

Harry kept his hand on her leg the entire time. Not possessively. Just…there. Like a grounding wire. Then—

Lucy’s father walked past. Tall. Lean. Hair slicked back. He gave Harry a long, pointed glare. She caught it. So did Harry. But he didn’t blink. Didn’t rise. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just stared back until the man looked away. Lucy’s mother followed seconds later. And—surprisingly—smiled.

“Harry,” she said softly, stopping beside their row. “I didn’t think we’d see you.”

“You have,” Harry said flatly.

She waited. Braced. But Lucy’s mother turned to her. Offered a hand.

“You must be her.”

She blinked.

“Welcome.”

Then she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “You’ve given him softness. I can see it from here.”

Then she walked away. Harry blinked once.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

The ceremony was starting. People quieted. The quartet shifted to something sweet and slow. A woman stepped up to the front with a microphone.

“Please rise.”

Everyone stood. She adjusted her dress. Held her breath. The groomsmen started to file out. One by one. She watched with vague interest until—

Her heart stopped. The groom. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A jaw she hadn’t seen in almost ten years. And she knew him. Every part. It was John. Her John. Not hers, obviously. Not now. Not ever.

But—

The same John who used to carry trays at her father's charity events. The same John who slipped cupcakes into her room after dinner when her mother said she was “getting pudgy.” The same John who once found her crying in the garden after a party and told her that “some people survive by being cruel—and some survive by hiding.”

The same John who had looked at her like she was breakable. Now— He was walking down the aisle. Looking confident. Looking happy. Looking like he’d been reborn. She didn’t breathe. Harry leaned down.

“You okay?”

She nodded too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t say I know the groom. Didn’t say he used to know every version of me I’ve tried to forget. Because she didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know what it changed. But her hands were shaking.

And Harry noticed. Of course he did. He reached for them. Covered hers with both of his. Held them. Didn’t ask again. Then came the bridesmaids. Tall. Polished. Looking like Instagram filters. She recognized one. Maybe from the airport. Didn’t matter.

Then— Lucy. On her father’s arm. In a dress that looked like it had a publicist. Chin high. Smile soft. Confident. Like she knew what she was walking toward. Like this was the ending she’d always wanted.

The guests all turned. Photos snapped. The moment paused. Lucy’s eyes swept the rows. And landed on Harry. And her.

Lucy faltered. Just slightly. One step. But it was enough. She caught it. So did Harry next to her. His grip on her hand tightened. She squeezed back.

Lucy recovered. Kept walking. They all sat. The officiant cleared their throat. And the ceremony began.

But she— She couldn’t stop staring at John. Couldn’t stop remembering. Couldn’t stop thinking—

This is the man who saw me before I had to become someone else. And he’s marrying Lucy. And I am sitting here beside Harry fucking Castillo. And none of this feels real.

She didn’t say anything during the ceremony. Didn’t speak. Didn’t whisper. Just sat still. Silent. Thinking. And Harry didn’t press. He just kept holding her hand. Steady. Warm. Like a vow.

And when she leaned into him slightly— When she let her head rest on his shoulder for just a moment— He pressed a kiss to her temple. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. But he could feel it. Something had shifted.

And whatever it was— He would protect her from it. Even if he had to do it without knowing the name. Because she was his. And that was the only thing that mattered. Even here. Even now. Even at his ex’s wedding. With the past walking down the aisle. And still— He wouldn’t have traded it. Not for anything.

The officiant cleared his throat with the kind of authority that suggested he’d been officiating weddings for thirty years and had a story about every one of them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, the sun catching on his glasses as the wind shifted just slightly, rustling the linen of Lucy’s dress and the program in everyone's laps. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Harry still had one hand over both of hers. Thumb brushing the side of her palm absentmindedly, like he wasn’t really thinking about it. Like it was just… instinct now. Natural.

She didn’t dare look at Lucy yet. She was still reeling from John. From the wave of old memory that had crashed like a slap across the front of her brain.

John. The man who used to pass her cookies wrapped in napkins when she wasn’t allowed dessert. The man who once lent her a sweater when her mother made her wear a dress two sizes too small. The man who had seen her at her loneliest, at her skinniest, at her most afraid—and never once judged her for it.

And now— He was holding Lucy’s hands. She tried to focus on the priest.

“In love, we find not perfection,” the man was saying, “but acceptance. Grace. Patience. A partner not to complete us—but to recognize what is already complete.”

Harry shifted beside her. Not uncomfortably. Not restlessly. Just enough to slide his arm across the back of her chair. His thumb brushed the bare skin of her shoulder. He didn’t look at Lucy. Not once.

But Lucy…

Lucy kept looking at him. It wasn’t obvious. Not overt. But she saw it.

The way Lucy's eyes flicked past the guests while the priest talked. The way her fingers tightened around John’s just slightly, like she’d remembered something. Like Lucy remembered him.

It made her stomach coil. Not with jealousy. Not even with anger. Just that old, sinking ache of being seen—but not seen back. Like Lucy still didn’t quite register that Harry wasn’t hers anymore. That he hadn’t been for a long time. That even when he had been, he’d never been hers like this.

Because now—he was sitting beside someone who knew what kind of coffee he liked when he was stressed. Who knew he rubbed his temples when he was thinking about old memories. Who knew he talked in his sleep when he was dreaming about his mother.

Lucy had known a version of Harry. The polished one. The corporate myth. The one with cufflinks and PR statements and a tongue sharp enough to bankrupt cities.

But her? The woman sitting next to him knew the one who forgot his towel after a shower. The one who sang along to Sinatra when he thought no one was listening. The one who made her lemon toast at midnight and read novels over her shoulder just to be close.

The priest continued. “Now, Lucy and John have chosen to write their own vows,” he said. “Lucy?”

Lucy smiled. A soft, composed smile. Took the mic from him with a little thank you and turned to face John. She braced. Lucy began.

“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” she said, voice clear, echoing faintly beneath the pergola strung with white roses. “I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I do believe in timing. In second chances. In the way people can walk into your life twice—and the second time, you’re ready.”

Lucy paused. Smiled again. She felt Harry’s hand twitch slightly. Not much. Just… enough.

“I’ve known a lot of versions of myself,” Lucy continued. “Some I loved. Some I didn’t. But you, John… you saw all of them. And you didn’t flinch. You waited for me. You held space. You didn’t rush me toward who you wanted me to be. You just let me arrive.”

She blinked slowly. She felt it before she saw it. That glance. Quick. Surgical. Right in their direction. Lucy didn’t say Harry’s name. Of course not. But her eyes found him. Mid-sentence. And stayed there for a second too long.

“I used to think love was a game of leverage,” Lucy said, still looking straight through the crowd. “Power. Strategy. But it’s not. It’s knowing that even when someone sees your ugliest, they’ll stay.”

John squeezed her hand. Lucy looked back at him. And she didn’t miss the way John followed Lucy's gaze. How his brow furrowed. Just barely. How his eyes flicked—quick, sharp—to the third row. Where Harry sat like a statue, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a single line.

Harry hadn’t looked at Lucy once. John noticed. She could see him noticing.

Lucy finished her vows with a smile, her voice gentler now. “You make me feel like I don’t have to perform anymore. And that’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

Polite applause followed. A few sniffles. The priest smiled.

Then—“John?”

He took the mic with a nod. Looked at Lucy. And for a second—Just a second—She saw it. The calculation. The question.

Like John was still replaying that glance she’d made. Like he was realizing that maybe—just maybe—his bride was still haunted and not his. He recovered quickly.

“Lucy,” he said. “You are—chaos.”

The crowd laughed. Lucy rolled her eyes. But John smiled warmly.

“You are also order. You are too many thoughts at once. You are late-night texts about documentaries. You are Sunday walks that last six hours. You are questions no one else asks, and the woman who taught me that love isn’t about feeling safe—it’s about choosing to stay.”

She exhaled. Because this was real. John loved her. You could tell. Even if Lucy hadn’t looked at him the whole time. Even if Lucy still hadn’t quite let go.

The girl next to Harry turned slightly. Looked at him. And there he was. Watching her. Not the vows. Not the bride. Just—her. His eyes met hers. And she smiled. Tired. Amused. Something darker beneath it.

Harry leaned down. Brushed his lips over her ear.

“She could be marrying God,” he whispered, “and I’d still want you.”

Her chest stuttered. She turned to him.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. There’s no version of this where I look back.”

She swallowed. Then nodded. And faced forward again.

Just in time for the rings. The rest of the ceremony passed in soft waves. The officiant blessed the union. The wind picked up. A bridesmaid’s dress blew sideways and someone’s baby started crying. But the couple didn’t notice.

They kissed. Everyone clapped. And the music started. But she—she didn’t feel relieved. She felt like a door had just opened somewhere behind her.  And whatever was waiting on the other side? Was walking toward her now. Quiet. Patient. Familiar. And wearing a tux. The moment the music began, the spell broke.

Chairs scraped against the deck. Shoes shifted. People stood, stretched, whispered. The sky overhead was soft and gold, the kind of sunset only coastal towns could pull off, and yet no one seemed to notice it.

They were too busy watching them. Too busy pretending not to watch them. Harry and the girl he came with. The woman who wasn’t Lucy.

Francesca leaned over as she rose, adjusting the straps of her pale green dress and whispering, “Well, that was subtle.”

She blinked. “What?”

Francesca nodded in Lucy’s direction. “The longing gazes. The not-so-covert micromanaging of your proximity to her ex. Classic wedding pettiness.”

She sighed softly.

Luca, straightening his suit jacket on Francesca's other side, added, “At least you got a front-row seat to the performance of the year. She almost had me with the ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ bit.”

Harry didn’t comment. He stood up slowly, buttoned his suit jacket, and then—without looking at Lucy—offered his hand to his girl. She took it without hesitation.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, low and quiet, for her ears only.

She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Francesca and Luca exchanged glances, already reading the room, “We’ll see you at the reception?” Francesca asked, her tone laced with something knowing, something gentle.

Harry gave a single, quiet nod. “Of course.”

They parted ways at the edge of the deck, Harry guiding her toward the small gravel lot where their sleek black car waited—a rental, but decent. The driver, ever thoughtful, had made sure the air conditioning was already on.

Harry opened the door for her first. As always. She slid in quietly. Waited until he joined her and closed the door before letting herself breathe. The car pulled away slowly. Soft jazz played through the speakers.

She stared at her lap. Harry watched her for a second. Then said, “You were quiet back there.”

She nodded once. Still didn’t look at him. His hand found hers. Thumb brushing the top of it. Steady. Warm. Present.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice quiet. Patient.

She nodded again. Then—finally—turned to him.

“I know John.”

Harry didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her hand.

“I mean—” she continued, voice soft, a little hoarse, “I knew him. When I was a kid. He used to work the events at our house. Before everything... before my dad got caught. Before the headlines. The bankruptcy. Teddy—”

She stopped. Swallowed. Harry shifted toward her slightly, his body angled, eyes locked on hers. She exhaled, steadying herself.

“I was, like, fifteen? Sixteen? My mom… she didn’t let me eat. Not really. Not carbs. Not sugar. Not anything that would make me ‘pudgy.’ She was obsessed with how I looked, how we looked as a family. And John—he worked the kitchen during these fundraisers. He’d sneak me food. Muffins. Sandwiches. Once, a piece of birthday cake.

Harry said nothing. But his hand tightened around hers. She didn’t cry. She didn’t need to. She’d done all her crying years ago.

“He was kind,” she whispered. “I didn’t think about him for years. Not until I saw him. In that tux. Walking down the aisle. Holding Lucy’s hand like he’d never done anything else.”

Harry was still watching her. Unmoving. So she continued.

“I didn’t want to tell you before,” she said, “because it didn’t feel important. But now... I don’t know. I think maybe it is. Not because I feel anything for him. I don’t. But because it felt... full circle, in a way. Like I’d walked into someone else’s story by accident.”

Harry reached for her other hand. Held both now. His gaze was steady.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, his voice low and slow in the dim car light.

She nodded. Harry took a breath. “I love you.”

She blinked.

“I know that’s not an answer,” he said. “But it’s the root of every one I could give you. I love you. Not in the convenient way. Not in the performative way. I love you in the you-could-set-this-car-on-fire-and-I’d-still-crawl-through-glass-to-get-to-you way.”

Her chest stuttered.

“I don’t care who he is,” Harry said. “I don’t care what he did for you back then. I’m grateful someone was kind to you when you needed it. But that’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. A footnote.”

She swallowed. “You’re not mad?”

His brows lifted. “Why the fuck would I be mad? Because the man marrying my ex was decent to the woman I love when she was a child?”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “I don’t know. You get a little murdery sometimes.”

Harry smirked.

“That’s true.”

He leaned forward. Kissed the top of her hand.

Then added, “But not this time.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

He was in an old suit. The one he wore when they first met, she realized. The one with the faint thread pulled near the seam and the button that was slightly chipped. He hadn’t bought anything new. He wouldn’t have—not for this. Not for Lucy. But somehow, the suit looked better now. Softer. Lived-in. He looked better now. Because he was hers.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

Harry brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “For always.”

They drove in silence after that. Not heavy silence. Just the kind that lingered gently between people who understood each other without needing to fill the air with more than presence.

When they reached the venue—an ocean-side estate with gauze-draped tents and a horizon that looked painted—they sat in the car for another moment before getting out.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Then opened the door. And stepped out into the kind of dusk that felt biblical. Harry followed. Buttoned his jacket. Then looked at her.

“You’re the only good thing in my life” he said softly.

She smiled. Took his hand. And together, they walked up the steps toward the reception. Ready. Unshaken. Untouchable. Even here. Especially here.

The reception was tucked behind the main house—string lights draped between trees, linen-covered tables arranged in soft curves around a makeshift dance floor that had clearly been installed just for the event. The ocean was just visible over the ridge, the breeze warm and salt-sweet, the kind of night someone might dream up just to pretend their life had always been beautiful.

Francesca and Luca were already there, Francesca barefoot with her heels hanging from two fingers, her curls pinned back but barely, sipping something white and cold. Luca stood beside her in a linen suit that looked like it had been stolen off the set of The Talented Mr. Ripley, sunglasses still tucked into the neck of his shirt like it was midday.

When they spotted her and Harry, Francesca lit up and waved them over like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“There you are,” she said, looping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You survived. You both survived. I’m honestly impressed.”

Harry offered Luca a nod and the two did the customary handshake-hug combo, the kind men used when they liked each other more than they admitted.

“Drinks?” Luca asked.

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He touched her hip briefly, murmured, “Be right back,” before following Luca toward the bar. He didn’t look back, but his hand lingered on her waist just a second longer than necessary before he let go. He didn't want to let go.

Francesca sighed, looping her arm through her's as they made their way to their assigned table near the center, not too far from the dance floor but tucked enough to keep a little distance.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Francesca said breezily, not cruelly, just as fact. “But only because you look better than anyone else here.”

She snorted softly. “They’re talking because I’m here with him.”

“Well,” Francesca said, settling into her chair and crossing her legs with a dramatic flourish, “that too. But honestly? They should be so lucky.”

She looked around subtly. And sure enough—eyes. Not a lot. Not direct. But there. Women in pastel. Men with thinning hair and sharp shoes. Bridesmaids whispering like they hadn’t been caught red-handed giving side-eyes during the ceremony.

Francesca sipped her drink. “You’re making them all spiral. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to make anyone spiral.”

“Of course you don’t. But that’s why it’s working.”

Before she could respond, Luca and Harry returned, each with two glasses balanced between their fingers like it was a routine. Harry handed her one without a word. Cold. Pale. Sparkling. Probably something expensive he already clocked on the menu.

He sat beside her, suit jacket already open, tie a little looser than earlier. “Sauvignon Blanc. You’ll like it.”

She took a sip. He was right. Francesca and Luca fell into a quiet conversation on the other side of the table, their chairs angled toward each other in that familiar, unhurried way of people who’ve known each other through too many different lives.

Harry leaned close. “You good?”

She nodded. “You?”

His eyes flicked over her face, cataloging.

“I will be,” he said, then added softly, “as long as you’re here.”

It didn’t matter that people were watching. It didn’t matter that they were at the wedding of his ex. He only looked at her.

The party truly began when Lucy and John made their official entrance. The music shifted. The lights dimmed just slightly. People stood. Glasses raised. And through the wide garden doors, Lucy appeared again—no longer in her formal wedding gown, but now in a slinkier, champagne-colored dress that shimmered as she walked. Her hair had been let down. Her shoes were different too—lower, simpler, probably because her feet were blistered. John followed behind her, suit jacket off, shirt open at the collar, hand casually resting on her lower back.

She felt Harry’s body go subtly still beside her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tense. But he watched her. Only her. Barley glanced at Lucy. And Lucy? Well, Lucy had clearly been waiting for the moment to see who was watching her walk in as someone’s wife. Her gaze swept the room. Too casually. And then it landed on Harry. And it stuck.

Long enough that Francesca muttered under her breath, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be messy.”

But her? She didn’t flinch. Because Harry—her Harry, only hers—wasn’t looking back. Not the way Lucy wanted. He saw her. Of course he did. But his hand stayed on her thigh, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles through the silk of her dress. And when Lucy’s stare lingered too long, he turned slightly—to her, only to her—and asked, low and dry,

“You want the steak or the sea bass?”

She smiled. “Bass.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m not letting you eat beef at a wedding where she’s in charge of the menu.”

Lucy and John made their rounds. Toasts were offered. Champagne was refilled. The DJ—clearly someone’s cousin—announced the first dance and couples began to drift toward the open floor.

She stayed in her seat, eyes following the soft blur of movement and fabric. Harry didn’t press her to dance. He never would unless she asked. He just sat close, hand on her leg, his other curled around his glass, leaning slightly so no one else could see him looking at her.

“You know,” he murmured, lips barely brushing the edge of her ear, “if I didn’t love you already, I’d fall in love with you just for surviving this.”

She laughed softly. “And if I wasn’t already obsessed with you, I’d be falling in love with you for bringing me to your ex’s wedding and still managing to make me feel like I’m the only one here.”

“You are the only one here.”

“You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

He tilted her chin gently, just enough so she had to look him in the eye.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I mean it.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the ocean breeze. Or the way his voice dropped an octave when he got sincere. But something in her heart did a little flutter. A quiet, private flutter no one else could see. Because even now—even here—he made her feel untouched. Untouchable.

Luca nudged them a few minutes later, grinning. “Dance with us. Come on. Francesca says she refuses to be the only woman out there with a man who steps on her feet.” Francesca shot him a glare but offered her hand anyway.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want to?”

She looked at him. Then nodded. “Only if you don’t step on mine.”

“I’m old, not uncoordinated.”

He stood and helped her up, hand firm in hers, his other settling instinctively at the small of her back like it always did. They moved together easily. Naturally. Even without music, she’d follow him anywhere. Especially here. And Harry? Harry held her close on that dance floor, surrounded by whispers and stares and the ghosts of relationships that never made it. Because in the end, none of it mattered. She was in his arms. And the rest of the world could burn.

The reception had bled into its second hour like it had somewhere better to be. The string lights overhead twinkled in warm gold as dusk finally gave up and slipped into night. The air was thick with salt and champagne, every table crowded with plates half-finished and stories half-true. Someone's cousin had already kicked off her heels and was dancing barefoot near the bar, and the playlist had shifted from jazz to something that sounded suspiciously like early-2000s pop.

She was seated again with Harry at the far end of the garden reception, their table nestled into a curve of candles and wildflowers. Francesca and Luca were next to them, Luca now with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, talking animatedly with Harry about the logistics of moving a vineyard from Italy to upstate New York.

Francesca was on her second glass of white and already giving her looks that said “are you good?” every time someone at another table shot them a glance too long.

Because they were being watched. Of course they were. Soft, covert glances. Half-turns. Murmured questions behind manicured hands. Not loud enough to call attention, but clear enough to send a chill up her spine. Harry noticed too. He always did.

So he shifted slightly in his seat, his arm sliding along the back of her chair until his fingers hooked over her shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles at the edge of her collarbone. A quiet kind of claim.

“You good, baby?” he murmured, head angled just enough so only she could hear it.

She nodded once, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking I should've worn something more intimidating.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips to the side of her head. “You’re terrifying as is.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got billionaires afraid of me, but you—” He smirked faintly. “You’re what keeps me up at night.”

Francesca, pretending not to eavesdrop, muttered, “Jesus, you two need a chaperone.”

“Then don’t sit next to us,” Harry said dryly, sipping his scotch.

Luca snorted into his drink. “He’s a romantic, but he hides it behind insults.”

“I don’t hide shit,” Harry said, glancing at her. “She knows.”

And she did. Because even when he was sitting at his ex’s wedding reception surrounded by people who’d once tried to bury him in PR hell, Harry only looked at her. Only leaned in when she whispered. Only refilled her wine glass before she noticed it was empty.

He didn’t smile at anyone else. Didn’t even pretend. Which made the next moment all the more unfortunate. Because she had to pee.

“Be right back,” she whispered, touching his knee beneath the table.

Harry looked up immediately. “Want me to come with you?”

“To the bathroom?” She arched a brow. “You trying to babysit me or make a scene?”

He smirked, leaned over, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Call if you need me.”

“I’m not gonna get jumped between here and the Porta Potties, Castillo.”

But he didn’t laugh. He just watched her walk away like he always did. Like she was gravity and orbit and every soft thing he thought he’d lost.

The bathroom was set up along the edge of the venue, tucked behind hedges and a string of fairy lights, near the catering trucks and a makeshift hand-washing station someone had tried to dress up with eucalyptus.

She moved quick. In and out. Washed her hands. Smoothed her dress. And when she stepped back out, she nearly ran straight into him. John. Standing just outside. Waiting. In his suit. His tie loosened. A look on his face she recognized immediately. Contrition.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She froze. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Hi.”

John exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me say anything.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again at all.”

He looked down. “Yeah.” A beat. “I didn’t know—when I saw you were here, I didn’t believe it.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And now?”

John met her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

She crossed her arms. The silk of her dress whispered with the movement. “You waited outside the bathroom to talk to me?”

“You were gonna disappear again.”

“I didn’t disappear, John. I left.”

He swallowed. “I remember.”

Of course he did. He was there. He saw it.

The chaos. The headlines. The funeral. The trial. The nights she sat curled on the kitchen floor of that too-big house with nothing but canned peaches and a grief she didn’t know how to name.

“You were a kid,” he said quietly. “And they put the world on your shoulders.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

John took a step closer. “I never forgot what your dad did. What he let happen. I thought about reaching out when I saw your name again, but…”

“But you didn’t.”

He nodded. “Didn’t know if you’d want to hear from anyone who knew the before.”

She breathed in through her nose. Held it. Then let it go. “I didn’t need rescuing. I needed people to believe me when I said I wasn’t my father.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re not him.”

The words landed. Quiet.

She nodded once. “You’re married now.”

“Yeah.” He glanced back toward the venue. “She’s a good person.”

“Oh I’m sure.”

Another beat.

Then, “You look happy.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Because just then—

A figure appeared near the hedges. Black suit. Rolled sleeves. Silver at the temples.

Harry. Eyes locked on her like a sniper.

Her breath caught. John noticed.

“Is that—”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

John blinked. “Holy shit.”

Harry didn’t say anything when he reached them. Just stepped between them slightly, hand finding the small of her back, anchoring her.

John cleared his throat. “You’re—Harry Castillo.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve followed your career for years—”

Harry cut him off with a slow blink. “And now you marry women you used to serve shrimp to.”

John’s face paled.

She touched Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

He tilted his head. “Just saying.”

John took a step back. “Right. I should—yeah.”

He turned. Walked off. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just firm.

She looked up at Harry. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was waiting outside like a husband.”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Yet.”

She snorted.

Harry’s thumb brushed the bare skin of her back, right at the base of her spine. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. Studied her. “Want me to get you out of here?”

She smiled faintly. “Not yet. Francesca still needs to send me a link to a lingerie set.”

Harry’s eyes darkened slightly.

“Oh. Okay.”

She leaned in. Kissed the underside of his jaw. “For you. Of course..”

“You're a menace,” he murmured. 

She laughed.

He kissed her temple. “Come on. Let’s go finish this. Then I’m taking you home. Or the goddamn moon. Anywhere you want.”

“Your bed in New York has better pillows.”

“Then we’re going home.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the party. Not looking back. Not needing to. Because some ghosts didn’t need confrontation. They just needed to see you thriving. And Harry Castillo made damn sure she would. The grass was damp beneath her heels when they stepped back into the light. The reception had shifted again—music pulsing a little louder now, bodies dancing with the looser grace of people full of wine and relieved of ceremony. Tables sparkled under strings of warm light, their surfaces littered with plates scraped clean and wineglasses clinked a little too often. Francesca caught her eye from across the garden, waving a hand with the flourish of someone halfway through her third drink.

“There she is,” Francesca said as she approached. “The woman of the fucking hour.”

She smirked, tucking herself into the chair beside her again, Harry’s coat still resting lightly across her shoulders. “Don’t think I’m that important.”

“You walked into this party like it owed you an apology. You’re a legend.”

Harry sat down beside her again, brushing the edge of her shoulder with his hand before settling. Luca rejoined them moments later with a small plate of olives and cheese.

Francesca didn’t even wait. She leaned close, voice low. “So. You going to tell me what happened?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Saw the groom follow you.”

She paused. Then sighed. “I used to know him. When I was a teenager. He worked for my family. He was... kind. At a time when I didn’t really know what that meant.”

Francesca’s gaze softened. “And now he’s married to Lucy.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Full circle. Or something.”

Francesca touched her hand. “You doing okay?”

She smiled faintly. “Now I am.”

Harry was watching them. Eyes soft. Hands steady. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just existed in a bubble of silent attention around her, like if he looked away for even a moment, the world might try to take her.

Francesca clocked it too. Leaning in closer, she smirked. “God, he’s disgusting when he looks at you.”

She turned slightly. “Who?”

“That man. Your man. The one who’s staring like you’re his religion.”

Harry, without missing a beat, said, “I’m right here.”

Francesca sipped her wine. “We know. You’re always right there.”

The two women shared a look. Something old and female and funny.

“I’m gonna need another,” Francesca said, lifting her empty glass. “You?”

She raised hers. Empty. Francesca grinned and then pointed at their respective men. “Alright, gentlemen. Fetch and return.”

Harry arched a brow. “Are we dogs now?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, already rising. “But expensive ones. Go.”

Harry stood, eyes flicking over to her with a smirk. “You good?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Go.”

He leaned down. Kissed the top of her head. “Stay in the light.”

She laughed. “What am I, Frodo?”

But he lingered. Brushed her cheek once with the back of his hand before turning. She watched them go—Harry and Luca disappearing toward the bar—and then turned back to Francesca, who had sat back down and was now untying her shoes.

“So,” Francesca said. “Having a good time?”

She hesitated. Then said softly, “I think this is what having a good time looks like.”

Francesca looked over. “You in love?”

Her smile curled slowly. “Worse.”

Francesca raised her brow. “How worse?”

“He’s in love with me. And it’s... it’s not performative. Or casual. It’s like he loves me with his whole life. Like I’m the first quiet he’s ever known.”

Francesca stared at her. “That’s not worse. Thats luck.”

They laughed. The soft, shared laugh of women who knew too much and still leaned into it anyway.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she said, voice lower now. “Not with someone who listens. Not with someone who doesn’t want to own me.”

Francesca tapped her glass gently. “Then keep it. At all costs.”

She nodded. “I plan to.”

But the cost, it turned out, was about to show up. Because just then—

A voice cut through the music. Sharp. Feminine. Familiar in the way rot is familiar once you’ve known it long enough.

“Well,” the woman said. “I guess if you stick around long enough, the trash takes itself out of hiding.”

She turned. Standing just behind her, drink sloshing, dress too tight around the arms, was one of Lucy’s cousins. Tall. Blonde. The kind of cruel that came with too much money and too little self-awareness.

She straightened. “Excuse me?”

The woman took a slow sip. “You heard me.”

Francesca turned too, already rising slightly in her seat. But the woman wasn’t looking at Francesca. Just at her.

“Everyone here is pretending like this is normal,” the cousin sneered. “Like it makes sense that you’d show up here, parade around in that fucking dress, and pretend you belong. But you don’t. You never did.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.” The woman stepped closer, voice low and hot with something old. “You’re not sorry for seducing someone old enough to be your father. You’re not sorry for ruining a perfectly good man. You’re not sorry for making Lucy cry for months.”

Francesca stood. “Alright. That’s enough.”

But she didn’t stop.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Being the woman who dragged Harry Castillo out of hiding? You’re a phase. A fucking consolation prize for a man who got burned by a real woman.”

Her throat closed.

“I’ve seen girls like you,” the cousin spat. “Choke on your own ambition. Hide behind soft eyes and soft hands and then cry when someone calls you what you really are. You’re not real. You’re not permanent. You’re a fucking intermission.”

Francesca was already stepping between them. “Say one more word—”

But it was too late. Harry was back. And he had heard everything. He stepped forward. No hesitation. Voice like thunder on glass.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

The cousin blinked. Turned. And froze. Harry Castillo, furious in a black suit and tie loose around his collar, stood like a man who had made his fortune destroying people who spoke out of turn. And now he was looking at her like she wasn’t even worth the breath it would take to really dismantle her.

“You don’t speak to her,” Harry said, voice low. Lethal. “You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. She’s worth more than everything on this property combined.”

The cousin flushed red. “You think just because you’re—”

“Back off,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Now.”

But then—

Another man stepped in. Older. Broader. Her husband, probably.

“Hey,” he said, stepping between them. “Back off. You don’t talk to my wife like that.”

Harry turned his gaze slowly. And smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile he used to wear in boardrooms before ruin.

“I just did,” Harry said. “Want to make it a conversation?”

“Harry—” she said softly, touching his arm.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet.

The cousin’s husband stepped closer. “You think you’re untouchable?”

Harry stepped right into his space.

“I know I am.”

“Harry,” she said again, firmer.

This time, he looked at her. And just as quickly—softened. Because she looked shaken. Small. And he hated that.

He touched her cheek. “Did she hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did she hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just words.”

Harry looked back at the woman. “Then be grateful they were only words. Because if she’d touched you—”

But he didn’t finish it. Because Lucy had arrived. And John, trailing behind her, wide-eyed and unsure. Lucy’s heels clicked against the stone. Her dress shimmered. Her expression already lined with practiced grace.

“Harry,” she said, exasperated. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t move. Just kept one hand on her waist. The other clenched at his side.

“This woman insulted her.”

Lucy glanced at her cousin. Then at Harry. Then at her. And instead of apology—

She snapped.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her breath caught.

Lucy stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. You knew it would cause a scene.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t cause anything.”

“You brought a child to my wedding.”

She froze. The words were sharp. And Harry? Harry looked like he could kill.

“She’s not a child,” he said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Lucy scoffed. “Oh please. Don’t turn this into some noble love story.”

Harry straightened. “She is my girlfriend.”

Even though it hurt Lucy to hear that, it was true. Lucy’s lips curled. “She’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, without missing a beat. “Which means she knows how to grow. Something you’ve never learned.”

Lucy flinched. The air went cold.

John stepped up, hand on Lucy’s arm. “Let’s calm down—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t try to smooth this over. She started it.”

“She didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what she meant,” Harry snapped. “She insulted her. And I don’t care if it’s your fucking wedding, you let anyone talk to her like that again and I’ll make sure they never get invited anywhere again.”

Silence. Thick. Sharp. Awful. And then—

The cousin muttered something. But Harry didn’t react. Because she touched his hand. And that—that was what grounded him. He looked at her. Really looked. Eyes soft. Wrath dissolving. She was pale. Shaken. But still standing.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Francesca was already packing up her purse. Luca was watching everything like a man taking notes on who to blacklist next. Harry didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped his coat around her shoulders, held her close, and walked away.

The cousin said something again. Harry didn’t hear it. Didn’t need to. Because she had his hand. And Harry Castillo would rather burn the world down than let her think for one more second that she was anything less than holy.

And as their driver drove away—his hand in hers, his jaw tight, her head resting against the seat—he finally spoke. Voice low. Rough.

“I'm so sorry.”

She looked up. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I let them hurt you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were right there.”

He looked at her. Eyes burning. “I love you,” he said. “So much it makes me ugly.”

She leaned over. Kissed his knuckles.

“You’re not ugly.”

He pulled her close. Held her to his chest. Whispered into her hair “You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

And outside the car window, Cape Cod disappeared. But inside—

Inside there was only the sound of her breathing. And the feeling of being held. And the sharp, tender truth that no matter how cruel the world got—

Harry Castillo would always stand in front of it. If it meant protecting her.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

"FOR HER" — Sakusa Kiyoomi

a/n : its official i am entering my baby fever era :) content : GIRL DAD SAKUSA. fluff. post timeskip. headcanon.

Girl dad! Sakusa who doesn’t cry in the delivery room, but when the nurse places her in your arms, you see the change happen in his expression before he even speaks. He stands beside you with one hand resting on the bedrail, still in his zip-up, curls flattened from the long hours, eyes fixed so intently on her tiny face that he barely breathes. You offer her to him, gently, and although he nods and reaches out, it’s with a kind of quiet reverence, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might shatter something fragile. When she’s finally in his arms, wrapped in that standard-issue hospital blanket, he doesn’t look away once. “She’s really ours,” he says after a long silence, voice soft and level like he’s stating a fact that still hasn’t settled in. You’re tired and aching and overwhelmed, but in that moment — watching him fall in love so quietly — you feel steadier than you’ve felt all day.

Girl dad! Sakusa who approaches parenting the way he’s approached everything else that’s ever mattered to him — with focus, with discipline, and with the same determination that made him the top ace in the country. He just does it. He reads every product label, tracks feeding times in his phone, and practices swaddling until the corners lie flat like muscle memory. You find him at night adjusting the baby carrier straps with one of her stuffed animals, narrowing his eyes like it’s something to be mastered. In the nursery, everything has its place: pacifiers in labeled containers, diapers stacked perfectly, bottles washed and sterilized on a rotating schedule that no one asked him to create. He’s not afraid of mess — he’s an athlete, after all — but this kind of order calms him. It’s the only way he knows to make sense of something this overwhelming. When you catch him in the early mornings rearranging the drawer of onesies so the softest fabrics are on top, you don’t interrupt. You just watch because you know that this is how he’s learning to love her.

Girl dad! Sakusa who is the first to notice that post-partum hit you. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach, the way your hands linger over chores but don’t quite start them, the way you keep saying you’re fine even when your voice betrays how deeply tired you are. He doesn’t corner you about it — he just starts making it easier to breathe. He finishes bottles without being asked. He folds laundry without announcing it. He draws a bath and offers you the quiet without implying you owe him anything in return. And when you finally sit down beside him on the bed and admit, barely above a whisper, “I think something’s wrong,” he takes your hand and says, without even flinching. “We’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do it alone.” That night, when the house is quiet, he tucks her in and then tucks you in too, placing your tea on the nightstand and brushing your hair back from your forehead before placing a kiss on your forehead like he’s reminding you that you’re still being held.

Girl dad! Sakusa who keeps her world structured, calm, and clean — not out of fear, but out of habit, and a deep belief that consistency makes kids feel safe. He doesn’t scold when she forgets to wash her hands before dinner. He just walks her to the sink, adjusts the faucet for her, and says, “Let’s try again,” with the same steady tone he uses when coaching a teammate through a play. You can already see how much of him lives in her — not just in her temperament, but in her tiny routines. The way she lines up her shoes by the door. The way she wipes the table with a napkin after dinner. He never told her to do any of that — she just watched him and followed his steps.

Girl dad! Sakusa who always stops what he’s doing when she calls for him. He never rolls his eyes or tells her to wait. Whether she’s holding a drawing she drew or asking him to see the rain outside on the balcony, he gives her his full attention. She brings him stories, toys, questions he doesn’t have answers to yet, and he listens to every single one. Sometimes, she climbs into his lap mid-stretch, legs crossed beneath her, curls sticking to her forehead, and just rests there like she knows there’s nowhere safer. You glance over from the kitchen and watch as he adjusts his posture just slightly to keep her steady, continuing his cooldown stretches like her presence is just part of the routine now.

Girl dad! Sakusa who teaches himself to braid because one morning she tugs at his sleeve and says, "Papa me want hair like Mama” and he doesn’t want to be the kind of father who says i don't know how to something like that. That night, while the house is quiet, you find him on the couch with one of her dolls in his lap, video tutorial paused on his phone, fingers fumbling but determined. He practices until the parts are clean, until the elastics hold. The first few mornings, the braid sits crooked on her head — slipping by lunchtime — but she runs to you saying, “Papa did it !” every single time. When he finally gets it right, she wraps her arms around him like he just won a trophy. And later, when you're brushing your own hair before bed, he watches you for a moment from the doorway, then comes up behind you, fingers gently sweeping your strands aside. “I didn’t realize how much of you she carries,” he says, quiet and sincere. “It makes me want to do everything right.”

Girl dad! Sakusa who brushes through her damp curls with more care than you thought possible. The spirals are his — the same exact texture that still coils around his forehead after a shower — but the color is yours, unmistakable in the morning light. When she’s sitting between his legs and he’s sectioning off her hair into neat parts, you sometimes find him pausing just to look. Not because he’s unsure of the process — he’s got the rhythm down by now — but because every time he sees her, it’s a new reminder that she’s equal parts both of you.

Girl dad! Sakusa who brings her to matches and never says a word about it being a distraction, though you know how seriously he takes preparation. She always sits with you, gripping a wrinkled “Go Papa !” sign in her fists, her legs swinging off the bleachers while she yells his name through a mouthful of fruit snacks. He rarely looks into the crowd — he’s too focused for that — but today, when she screams his name mid-serve, you swear you see the smallest flicker of a smile on his face. After the game, he comes straight to you both, drops to one knee, and listens to her long-winded play-by-play with a patience that makes even the camera crew step back. You take her hand as he packs up his bag, and she says, “Papa did good today !” He doesn’t say anything, but you notice how he walks just a little taller after that.

Girl dad! Sakusa who changes his phone ringtone to a voice memo of her calling for him because he says it’s easier to hear. It plays once during a team meeting and Atsumu nearly falls out of his chair laughing, but Sakusa doesn’t even flinch. “She’s loud,” he says calmly, setting his phone face down on the table, “but she gets my attention.” When you hear it go off at home, it always makes you smile.

Girl dad! Sakusa who never talks about how much he loves being a father — not in words, at least. But you see it in how he shows up. In the way he learns her favorite breakfast, remembers the exact way she likes her blanket tucked in, memorizes the lyrics to a show he pretends to hate. You see it in how he looks at her when she doesn’t notice — like she’s the most surprising, most important thing that’s ever happened to him.

Girl dad! Sakusa who holds her hand tightly on her first day of school, walking her up to the gate with slow, even steps. She’s excited and confident. She lets go of his hand the second she sees her teacher and runs inside without looking back. You expect him to say something — maybe a joke, maybe a quiet sigh — but instead, he just stands there for a long moment. When you brush your fingers against his, he finally speaks. “She didn’t even turn around.” You lean your head on his shoulder and whisper, “She''s growing up.”

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @angelkiyo @itsmeaudrieee @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @dazaisfavgf @virgothesimp @kurooangel @evamame

[flutteragency]

Navigation in flutter – how to add stack, tab, and drawer navigators to your apps - Flutter Agency

If we design or develop apps, we have to focus on the type of navigation used. Of course, as a developer, it is a must to try Flutter as the best framework. Here, the flutter web app development takes full pledge guidance regarding adding stack, tab and drawer navigation to your apps professionally. 

There are 3 types of navigation used in the common for all apps. Flutter is supportive in focusing on these types which is similar to how to do in the other apps. They are rather focused on navigation into the Flutter app. When building a Flutter app, you have to learn about the types of navigation used in design and development.

Types of navigation you must know

When you develop apps, you must notice the basic three types of navigation in detail. However, developers are keen on guiding the use of the navigation types accordingly. 

Stack Navigation

Tab Navigation

Drawer Navigation

What is stack navigation?

Stack navigation in Flutter is nothing but adding or removing pages or screens by stacking new pages of existing ones. If the developer has to move to a new screen, the current screen might push into the navigation stack.

When you return to the top screen it pops off the stack immediately. So, this type of navigation is mainly useful for hierarchical and linear flows within app design and development.

What is tab navigation?

Of course, tabs are a staple in the design or development of mobile app navigation. Hence, it allows users to find out switches and enable them to focus on the current context. The flutter makes it easy to find tabbed navigation within built-in widgets such as TabBar, and TabBarView. 

They are integrating into the beautiful and functional tab navigation experience. It is mainly perfect for organizing content into logical sections. You have to create a unique look and design for your app. 

What is drawer navigation?

The drawer navigation is nothing but a pattern which includes a hamburger menu or side menu. It is a familiar navigation style which includes the design and development of mobile apps. 

It consists of hidden panels which slide out with the screen or reveal the menu with dynamic navigation options. Hence, it consists of a space-saving technique which is visible and provides easy access. 

How to build the tab navigation

Of course, flutter app design and development using drawer and tab navigations are found at the top. Developers have to press the button in the first tab and take them to the next page via the stack navigator. 

Tab navigation in flutter

Creating a class named HomePage has to be embedded in the build method and returned with the default tab controller widget. It has to take part in defining the 3 tabs in the lengthy property. In the bottom appBar property, users have to define icons for each tab with the body property rendering all the tabs inside it. 

Then, immediately paste the code and notice if some errors may be highlighted in the VS code editor.

Create a new folder named the tabs inside the lib/directory and create the files named tab1 to tab3 in the list

If you look at the code for three navigation types you will notice the same except for the first tab and the rest continue with an additional button to disclose secrets. Then, it has to press the navigation user with the secret route as well. It will work for any error and the route must be defined yet. 

The errors may be seen in the tab. dart file which sets out the resolved condition. The app must be noticed with changes in the execution time. It is because of creating a tab layout and mapping it with the main. dart file as well. 

Tab layout in flutter app

In the section, don’t need to press the disclose secret button. If you press it, it shows an error and makes changes before executing the output. The navigation route should be on the press property with a button and the route is yet to be maintained secretly. 

How to build the drawer navigation

The next target is to add the drawer navigation and create the files with navigation types. 

drawer. dart: to show the Navigation Drawer

. dart: an option will be provided on the Drawer Navigator to navigate here

On the other hand, creating a drawer.dart file inside the library and directory has to bring touch with further results and done with tabs. Then, you have to copy the code into the drawer. dart file. 

drawer. dart file

In this file, developers have to define the right class and name MyDrawer. It is helpful for them to build a method which renders the drawer widget with home and about options in the lists. Then, developers have to choose options which navigate with appropriate routes. 

about. dart file

In this file, the developer has to create a class named “About” and return the scaffold widget which contains a drawer. It will define the right code before this file usage. The appBar and the body will show in the text about code again to make changes in the app design. It is because we could retrieve or link into the main. dart file. 

secret. dart file

In this file, the developer has to create SecretPage and return with a text in the body. Of course, users have to identify the simple flutter widget and backlog in the above procedure. It is mainly set out defining routes now. Then, it makes sure to obtain the main. dart file and follow the importing method to the top of the file. 

Update in main.dart file

By following the code, you have to check to define the MaterialApp to contain routes. It will assign key-value pairs and be able to map routes with a widget. Coders have to navigate with three routes and find key-value pairs. 

/about – the route for the drawer navigator

/home – the route for the tab navigator

/secret – the route for the stack navigator

Merged tab and drawer view

By pressing the disclose secret button, you will be taken to the secret page which was created. The developer should be able to scroll with tabs smoothly and notice with an error-free execution. The back button is shown on the first screen and would help to assign navigation bars and styles of your app. 

Conclusion

Finally, you will learn about the navigation in Flutter and how to add them in Flutter app design and development. Of course, the flutter web app development brings you more guidance to check and create the navigation in Flutter as well. Most apps must be developed using two or more navigation types. 

[joeloverture]

a lesson in condom sense | dbf!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist pairing: dbf!joel miller x sex shop employee!reader summary: [no outbreak] the last customer you expect to be waltzing into your secret day job is your dad's best friend. you can only fight the tension between you two for so long before giving in. warnings: (18+ mdni) what it says on the can: reader works at an adult store, many sex toys referenced (& used!), age gap (mid 20s/early 50s) brief mention of sex work, don't follow reader's example, joel buys a fleshlight, joel fantasizes about you, brief mention of bondage, mostly pwp, reader humps a chair + gets caught doing it, mild exhibitionism, 'just the tip' that leads into unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), vaginal fingering, joel uses a vibrator on reader, degradation, praise, soft dom!joel, pet names, aftercare [no use of y/n] word count: 6.5k a/n: condom sense is, in fact, a real sex shop that exists and serves the DFW metro area, so not exactly austin, but the name was too perfect not to pretend. unlike these two, please favor condom sense and wrap it up. dbf sex shop joel won the poll for my next wip, but expect coach!joel pt. 2 to be right around the corner.

Admittedly, working at a sex shop isn’t the highest point in your life, but it certainly isn’t the lowest, either. The 40% off employee discount does soften the blow of lying through your teeth at cookouts. Saying you’re working at Walmart while trying to navigate a competitive job market goes over better than saying you work at Condom Sense.

All things considered, it’s not the worst place you’ve worked. Your manager, a 60-year-old stuck in the 70s named Sally, is much more lenient than your past bosses. You get to recommend toys to the girls that come through, and you also get the satisfaction of them coming back to sing your praises. Condom Sense never would’ve been your first choice of work right out of college, but now you almost mourn the day you’ll have to leave.

Thumbing through an old issue of Cosmopolitan, your bubblegum is beginning to lose its flavor. The tinny noise of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” purrs out of the ancient radio sitting alongside tentacle dildos. It’s still a little weird to have a constant audience of whips, handcuffs, vibrators, fleshlights, and everything in between, but since your bedside drawer has gotten fuller with every shift you take, you really can’t judge anything stocked here.

The later shifts are normally slower, especially this close to 11:00. Sometimes there’s a gaggle of sex workers outside of the door, dressed skimpily no matter how biting the rare Texas cold is, but that isn’t the case tonight – you’re the only one here, feet kicked up on a pink stool.

As if the world has it out for you, the rust-eaten bell lets out a metallic jingle, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at the thought of having to put your Cosmopolitan away. Who the hell comes into a sex shop twenty minutes before close? Someone whose vibrator gave out on them, someone who needs lube, or both.

“Welcome to Condom Sense,” you put on your customer service voice, reluctantly bouncing off of the stool. You flip your magazine shut and toss it onto the counter, breaking into a crouch to finally make yourself useful by restocking the condom display. “Let me know if you need anything.”

A small grunt comes in response, and then some heavy footsteps carry through the store. Great, even better, you think to yourself, it’s a man.

The crowd that’s attracted to Condom Sense is mostly college-aged or middle-aged women, not with too much wiggle room in between. It’s Texas, after all, where ownership of more than six dildos is “prohibited”. Sometimes there’s a stray overeager boyfriend or creep with a receding hairline, but normally Sally is right around the corner to tell anyone out of line to scram, waving around a broom as if trying to fend off a stray dog. That’s not the case tonight.

You hold your breath and keep putting boxes of Trojans into the glass display case. Whoever’s in here is quiet, at least, not the type to ask for help or make too much of a ruckus with knocking shelving units over. Hopefully you can get him checked out quickly so you can close up and head home.

You stay like that for five minutes, sorting through boxes and marking stock until a throat clears in front of the counter.

Jolting up, you smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes, fiddling with your nametag. “Hi, yes, you all seeeee-”

Who the hell comes into a sex shop twenty minutes before close? Apparently Joel Miller does. You know, your dad’s best friend.

Maybe it’s because you’re surrounded by phallic dildos, maybe it’s because you’re goddamn stupid, but Mr. Miller, who seems to be fresh off of a worksite, looks good. Even though there’s an unmistakable surprise stricken across his brown eyes and a splotch of dirt on the slice of neck above his flannel collar, his hair is mussed perfectly, his scruff tamed along his jawline. Your eyes flash down to what he’s holding: a fleshlight.

You hate how quickly your mouth goes dry at the thought of Joel himself thrusting desperately into the dumb toy, and worse is the thought of him using your cunt to get off instead. You’re quick to remind yourself. Off. Limits. First of all, you don’t fuck customers. And you definitely don’t fuck customers that are your dad’s best friend.

Joel’s fist tightens around the box as if trying to obscure what you already know. His face is redder than you’ve ever seen it, cheeks like apples. In the end, it’s him who speaks first. “This ain’t a Walmart, hun.”

Your face heats up, and you shrug. “Pays well.”

“Can’t blame ya there,” he nods along. “‘S been a while. You alright?”

“I mean, I work at a store called Condom Sense. What do you figure?”

“C’mon now, can’t be that bad,” Joel grins at you.

“It isn’t,” you concede. You look him up and down again, trying really hard not to spend too much time on the toy in his hand. “Long day… contracting?”

Joel lets out a long, winded sigh through his teeth. “Yeah… my guys fucked up our concrete job. Had us there two hours longer than we were s’posed to be. Probably gonna be another long one tomorrow.” He runs a hand back through his already disheveled hair, his nose flaring. “Not your problem though, sweetness.” His eyes flick over you, over the counter and the neon signs behind you. “Your daddy know you work here?”

You freeze, eyes widening. “He’d have a cow, Joel. And if you think you’re about to hold this over my head or somethin-”

“Woah, woah, now when did I ever say any ‘a that? That’s none of my business, hun. You’re an adult, as long as you're gettin’ paid and you’re comfortable? I don’t see the issue.”

You nod, heart slowing to a steadier pace, or at least as steady of a pace as it can manage with Joel standing on the other side of the counter holding a fleshlight. “So, uh, relaxing night in or…?” You swallow hard. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

Joel laughs, an almost nervous sound as he rubs the back of his neck. “Just… a bit dry lately, I guess.”

“First time buying?” you ask with a raised brow.

“That obvious?” He slowly slides the box across the counter to you, and you inspect it under the fluorescents.

You hum under your breath, tilting the box away from you to get a better look. “Not a bad first choice. I’ve heard good things. Since it’s your first time, are you more of a spit-in-your-hand kind of guy, or do you have some massage oil or lube?”

Joel stares at you, almost sputtering as his lips try to form words. “What?”

You shake your head, veins suddenly iced over. “Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t be asking-”

“No, no, not a problem, sweetheart. It’s your job. Just… don’t expect to be hearin’... that from you.” He chuckles, but it sounds strangled. “I… normally spit. ‘S faster.”

Joel, desperately shucking off his belt and pants, pulling his hardened cock out, spitting into his hand so he can wrap his fist around himself. That first groan of pleasure he lets out, hand moving up, down, up, down. He treasures his alone time so much that he has to be the type to savor it– but you can’t think that far. Your tongue darts out to swipe along your lower lip, and you swear Joel tracks the movement. Your chest is tied up in knots.

“Well, you’re gonna want a heating massage oil. Moves it along easier, feels realer, y’know?” You reach across the counter and pluck a blue bottle from the display. “This is our bestseller.” Mustering up the most casual smile you can give him without wincing, you tap your fingers along the countertop.

Joel looks between you and the bottle, gnawing nervously at the inside of his cheek. “Thanks, hun. That’ll be it, then.”

You ring him up, sinking the fleshlight, the oil, and a complimentary toy cleaner deep into a bag that says THANK YOU four times along the side. The printer buzzes as it spits out his receipt, and you hand it all to him. He gives you a nod, casual, simple. You could keep it that way, a tiny interaction isolated to the four walls of Condom Sense, but you feel the words knocking at the backs of your teeth.

You’re saying them before you can second guess them: “Enjoy yourself, Joel.”

He makes eye contact for what must be the first time that night, eyes murky with something that, if you were more gullible, could come across as want. “I will, sweetheart.” Joel nods, wrapping a large hand around the bag. You don’t watch him leave, but you do hear the ring of the doorbell as the door knocks shut. It’s not enough to distract yourself from thinking of what his moans sound like.

Joel sweats like a whore in church the next time your dad calls him. He practically is one when he thinks about what it’d be like to be inside of the divinity of your body, a rosary of sweat collecting on his neck. He’d say every prayer if it meant he got to keep thinking of you like that – feels realer, a spit-in-your-hand kind of guy, enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy yourself.

It’s shameful, the way he thinks of you, the daughter of the man he considers his best friend. But he can’t make himself stop. Every time he pulls the fleshlight out of his drawer, you appear in his head. Sometimes you’re bent over the counter, whining as he rolls his hips into yours. Sometimes he rucks up those fucking skirts you wear to shove his face between your thighs, lets you soak his face as you pull his hair. Sometimes you’re riding him, moving how he shifts the fleshlight over his leaking cock.

Every time, regardless of what he imagines, he shakes himself loose in post-orgasm bliss, guilt chewing at his stomach. Every time he passes Condom Sense on the way to a job, he wonders if you’re working. What’s a respectable amount of time to stop in for a second sex toy purchase? Joel wouldn't know, and he doesn’t want to be selfish. Money doesn’t grow on trees, unlike his arousal. The fleshlight is already miles better than his own hand, and he worries what he might say if he sees you bouncing around, say, restocking dildos.

He manages to keep his self control. He doesn’t get on his knees and confess his sins to your dad on the phone, or when they run into each other at home depot. By some miracle, he doesn’t get any further than flicking his turn signal before immediately turning it off when he passes Condom Sense.

And then he has the dream.

It’s his day off, a Sunday, and he wakes up to his dick softening and his cum drying on his abdomen and all of the hair spattered there. There’s traces of the dream in reach, tugging on the harness he’d tied around your body to pull you back on his cock.

This time, he can’t shake himself loose.

He’s standing in Condom Sense by ten in the morning, running his hands down his sides and feeling oddly exposed, as if every camera or wandering employee can see the shame painted on his skin much like his cum had been. He hopes you’re not here; he’s not sure he can handle it, but he is sure of the arousal that would brim in his lower belly at the mere sight of you. It’s bad news – everything about this is bad news.

You’re bad for Joel, and you have been ever since he saw you for the first time after your college graduation, partying in your old man’s living room. Four shots deep and a feather boa around your neck, wearing a low-cut top as you scream-sung Dolly Parton into the busted karaoke machine from your childhood. That was the first time he ever saw you as anything more than your dad’s little girl. It should’ve been the last, too.

Joel takes a relieved breath when there’s no immediate sign of you in the store, but you very well could be squatting behind the counter like last time. There's a woman in a pink polo shirt with bangle bracelets standing over by the wall of ropes, reorganizing and sucking on her teeth. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s here for – he’s chasing something he can’t have, or at least a semblance of it. The obvious choice is the restraints from his dream, but he has nobody to put them on, no skin to feather with kisses as he pulls them secure. Another fleshlight would be greedy.

And then he hears it. The unmistakable sound of your voice, a shockwave to his chest. He slips behind a display, almost ready to make a beeline for the door when you say, “We restocked the wands.” Joel glimpses you through the grid of butt plugs he’s hiding behind, where you’re waving around a rectangular white box. “You were asking for recommendations, right? Well, this one’s a trooper.”

“That so?” your co-worker clicks. “Might be too intense for me. You’re known to be an overachiever.”

“No shame in a little overstimulation,” you shrug.

Joel slams a fist on his chest to stop himself from hacking out a surprised cough. His thighs go hot, a warmth that spreads between them and tightens his pants as he thinks about you with a wand to your glossy clit, hips squirming for more and less all the same.

“Yeah, for you. I’d be bawlin’ into my pillow in two minutes.”

“It’s my favorite! Only just gave out on me yesterday… had her for years, though. My old faithful. Have to say, it’s a little rough waiting for my next paycheck. Nothing else does it for me. Feels fucking incredible.”

Joel walks out. Not because he wants to, but because if he doesn’t, he won’t be able to stop himself from spending almost a hundred dollars on that wand and handing it to you in broad daylight. It occurs to him on the uncomfortable drive home, hard and throbbing between his legs, that he wants to be the source of your pleasure, to make you feel good.

It’s a damning thought for a man like him, but not damning enough.

Pent up is one way to describe the way you’re feeling.

After the unfortunate passing of your trustworthy wand, your fingers nor the rest of your collection of comparably wimpy toys, have been able to do the trick for you. And the worst part of it all? Your paycheck is still three days away.

You’d like to say not getting off in four days is the source of all of your arousal, but you’re not a liar. At least, not to yourself, because you wouldn’t stand at the podium and confess your nastiest Joel-centered fantasies to his face. It’d been bearable when it was only him fucking the fleshlight taped to the backs of your eyelids. You blame it on the pervy part of yourself that’s always rubbed her thighs together from watching a man get himself off. It’s no longer bearable when you start envisioning him moaning your name while he rocks his hips into the toy, chasing his release.

No, it’s not bearable at all.

Sitting behind the same counter you’d checked him out at makes it worse, roughly the same hour of the night that he’d popped in the other day. You keep thinking of how he looked at you, first caught like a deer in headlights, then almost shy, a word you’d never once use to describe the man you’d come to know as your dad’s best friend.

An even more pervy part of yourself, the same one that hopes he thinks of fucking you when he fucks his recent purchase, slowly rolls her hips into the stool. It’s imperceptible, not something that has a chance of being picked up by the camera. You grind your clothed, needy pussy onto the pink vinyl cover, smothering a whimper into your fist. The seam of your shorts catches on your clit, snuggled between your folds. Your arousal clings to the gusset of your drenched panties. Pleasure spools in your stomach, winding around your cunt and spine. 

You curl in on yourself, burying your head into your folded arms and panting as you grind on the stool. You let yourself pretend it’s Joel’s lap; the mound-like shape of the foam beneath isn’t at all close to what Joel’s bulge must feel like, but with every press of your hips, it matters less and less.

The taboo of it all, knowing you’ll have to go into the security system and delete the footage once you’re done soaking the vinyl, being in view of the unlocked door, is doing just as much for you as your vibrator back home would. So much so that with your head tipped low, your eyes squeezed shut, and your hips canting back and forth, you don’t even notice the rusted rasp of the bell above the door.

You don’t notice a damn thing until a strangled sound comes from the front of the store.

Your head snaps up so fast that you go toppling off of the back of the chair, just barely able to catch and prop yourself up on a shelf behind the counter. An embarrassed cough knocks its way out of your gut. Too taboo. You’re still panting when you’re stricken by a passing thought: you’re definitely going to lose your job, the last one this part of Austin seemed to have to offer. Shit.

Your dignity on the other hand is long gone, somewhere in the smear of arousal you left on the stool. “Sorry – fuck! I’m sorry,” you blurt out in a last-ditch effort to keep your job, fingers crossed that it’s someone who understands or at least doesn’t care.

When you look up, you get none of that. For the second time this week, you get Joel Miller. Joel Miller with his messed up hair and work-worn hands, slack jaw and rapid blinking.

You must be matching his expression now, mouth opening and closing with your eyes widened in the ultimate form of disbelief. Your head bows and your chin meets your chest. Apparently it wasn’t enough for your dad’s best friend to buy a fleshlight from you. He also had to find you getting off in public. 

“Joel, shit, I’m so sorry,” you start, planting the heels of your palms on your temples. Your legs feel weak, a death sentence with your sluggish, blistering heartbeat. Joel’s silence bears down on you, an inescapable weight, and you’re talking before you can stop yourself. “I– I’ve just been so pent up…” Cheeks burning from the inside out, you scrub your hands from your forehead to your chin.

“Shut up,” Joel says stiffly. A wince cleaves its way out of your body.

Another apology sits on your tongue. “I’m s-”

He cuts in, “Knock it off,” and that’s when your eyes drift lower. Below his belt buckle, but not much further. How could you look any lower when his cock is rock fucking hard in his jeans, fighting against the denim? You whimper, unable to stop yourself from rubbing your thighs together. “Jesus, are you in fuckin’ heat?” Joel snaps.

It doesn’t achieve the desired effect – you just let out another whimper, your arousal still clinging to your thighs. “Joel, please.”

Joel pinches his nose bridge. He shakes his head, dissolving into a muttered swear under his breath. “No, hun. Not gonna end up balls deep in my buddy’s little girl, even if you beg real pretty for me.”

“Why not,” you practically whine, pushing off of the shelf and walking closer to him. He only folds his arms over his broad chest as if to keep you away.

His voice is strained. “Baby–” Your heart flutters. “Can’t do that to your dad. You’re just houndin’ after a poundin’, ain’t ya?”

“I am,” you huff, brain clouded by the arousal that’s currently casting a shadow through all of your being. “Please, I haven’t come in days.”

Joel hisses at that like he’s in pain. He shakes his head again, much faster. There’s a line of remorse pressed between his brows, but it’s far overpowered by the pressure of his cock pulling his jeans taut. “Your little ‘massager’ quit on you, sweetheart?”

You bite your lip. Right on the money. “How’d you know?”

“Came in for… somethin’... the other day. Heard you fussin’ about it to your co-worker.” He shrugs.

You’re burning up, a match struck against the gritty concrete of Joel’s voice. It doesn’t matter that he’s a customer, doesn’t even matter that he’s buddies with your dad. You just want him to replace your aimlessly working fingers at night. You want release, and you want it with him. Begging won’t get you there with Joel, you’re realizing, even if all you want is to get on your knees and cry for his cock. You need to rile him up until he breaks. “Needed another pocket pussy to put your dick in?” you tease.

“Watch yourself,” Joel says. “You really that cock starved, darlin’, that you’d beg your daddy’s friend to stick it to ya?”

“You’re one to talk,” you smirk. “What is it you said? A bit dry lately, right?”

“I clearly got more self control than you, hun.”

You say, “Nah.” Your smirk widens, and you take another dangerous step towards him. “You’re hard as a rock, Joel Miller. Bet you were thinking about sticking it to me all along. That’s why you came back, huh? Get another glimpse of me for your spank ban-”

Joel seals the distance between you two, fist going to curl up around your jaw and squeezing. Your mouth pops open, a choked whimper dislodging from your lips. “You got batteries behind that register?” He asks, voice stern. His eyes are all pupil, plunged into black. You struggle to nod in his grasp. “Grab ‘em.”

He leaves you standing in front of the door, buzzing with nervous energy as he walks towards the vibrator section. Your stomach does what feels like ten cartwheels in a row. You lean over to the door, flipping the sign to closed and drawing the curtain shut before practically jogging to the batteries.

You grab the type your beloved wand takes, not even concerned with cashing him out before he’s in front of you again, slicing into the box with his truck keys. You slide the batteries over, and he’s peeling apart the plastic to expose your favorite pink wand, armed with six different settings that never fail to make you come. You only notice you’re rubbing your thighs together again when he gives you a sharp look while he’s popping the batteries into the proper compartment.

He pats the counter. “Up.” You hop up, maybe too eager, your eyes big and needy. Joel grabs you by the shoulder and leans you back, starting to work on the button of your jeans. “This is how this is gonna go,” he says, voice hardened with an order. “You want me to stop, say so. I’m gonna put this wand on your achy little clit, gonna make you feel better, because you ain’t slutty enough to be humpin’ a chair.” You nod so fast that you’re surprised your head doesn’t fall off. “Not gonna give you my cock, got it?”

“G-got it,” you get out shakily. He taps your hip, and you arch off of the counter so that he can yank your jeans and panties down, leaving you spread out and exposed.

 Joel spreads you with his pointer and middle finger. “Shoot, baby, you poor thing.” He runs a thumb through your seam, thumb coming up sticky with your wetness. “Drippin’ like a faucet.” He brings his thumb up to the corner of your lips, and you greedily take it into your mouth, tasting your musk off of his callouses.

“That’s it, suck it like a good slut,” he coaxes as you run your tongue along his skin. He pulls away with a pop and weighs the wand in his hand. Flicking one of the buttons with his freshly-sucked thumb, the toy whirrs to life and thrums in his large hand.

You squirm below him and his intense gaze, gripping the edge of the counter for any semblance of purchase you can get. Without warning, he places the toy down onto your clit. Your vision crackles black at the edges as you cry out. You writhe underneath him, hips helplessly bucking. Joel laughs, the bastard that he is, and rolls it along your sensitive nub. It moves freely with the help of your wetness, and even on the lowest setting, it’s more than you thought it would be.

It helps that Joel’s the one using it on you, knowing just went to add extra pressure and lift up, and it also helps that you’ve been untouched by even yourself for the majority of the last week. You push your palms down on the counter and desperately grind your hips against the wand’s head. Your head lolls back, the neon signs on the wall behind you shining on your sweat-slick skin. 

Joel flicks between two of the settings, a constant push and pull between low and a little higher, the sort of sensation that has your stomach stirring. “That feel good, hun? Better than rubbin’ this needy pussy on that stool, I bet.” You let out a pitchy sound of half-disagreement, half-pleasure in response, managing to push yourself up on shaking elbows to get a good look at him. He’s still hard, if not more than he’d already been, rolling the wand in easy motions against you. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. Not a bad thing that you only think with your cunt. ‘S cute,” he coos at you. His words make you gush.

“M-more,” you rasp, hips stuttering. You crave more, more of him, even though he’s already denied you that much. There’s a supernova of need flaring inside of you, enough to crack your lips into a ragged moan. Your cunt tightens, squeezing out more of your arousal. You crave him inside of you, buried deep and rolling his hips into you. “Joel, I need – need your cock.”

He turns it up, notches it to a faster pace that engraves pleasure onto your swollen clit. “No you fuckin’ don’t. Quit your mealy mouthin’ and take what I give you. You were ‘bout to spray your whore cum all over that chair, this should be more than enough.” Joel punctuates his sentences with hard jabs of the wand against you, drawing pathetic moans from your chest.

“J-J-Joel! Fuck!”

“J-J-Joel,” he mocks above you, shaking his head. His dark hair flops around with the movements and his tongue sneaks out to lick his lips while he watches you quiver below. “Yeah, you’re in heat alright.” Joel’s hand goes to the hem of your shirt and yanks it up, and your trembling hands help him lower the cups of your bra so he can grab and knead your tits.

His thumb circles your nipple when he turns it up to the highest setting, the one that makes your clit go numb and your back arch. You hardly have time to choke out, “Cl-close!” before Joel rubs the wand just right.

As your orgasm soars through you, you can hear him saying Attagirl, give it to me, so pretty when you come through the veil of your hearing’s fuzziness. You whimper, still rolling your hips as your fingers clamp around his over your tit, and he rubs circles into your palm while you ride it out. “That’s it,” he says when you come down fully, starting to shiver away from the pressure of the vibrator. He lowers it until it stalls in his hand and sets it down on the packaging.

“Good?” he asks, reaching up to stroke your cheek.

“Good,” you nod with a tiny little sigh.

You manage to haul yourself up fully onto your elbows, thighs still trembling. When you look him up and down, you notice two things: there’s the tiny etching of guilt in his eyes, but his cock is definitely still hard. Joel breathes out your name when you reach for him, cupping his sizable bulge through his pants. He hisses. “Can’t be doin’ that, baby.”

“Why?” you ask, lips contorted into a pout. “Because you’re scared you’ll bend me over and fuck me?” You feel his cock twitch under your hand. His resolve is breaking, and you’re loving it. “Just the tip, Joel.”

He winces from your words, but he looks at you, right down to your still-dripping cunt where your release trickles down your inner thighs and your seam. When you spread yourself out for him like he had done and run your finger tip along your opening, that seems to be the last straw. Joel curses under his breath and g0es to make quick work of undoing his belt with one hand, his other still holding yours. “Ju– just the tip,” he reiterates, voice stony. 

Joel pulls himself free, groaning when his cock springs up. A noise of surprise catches in your throat when you see him in full. He’s even bigger than he looked in his jeans – which you had no idea was possible. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Just gonna give you the tip, remember?”

“Yeah,” you exhale on a shaky breath.

Despite his insistence, he still reaches out for the condom display next to you, already popping a box open. You grab his wrist urgently, shaking your head. “Don’t need one. Want – want you like this.”

“We shouldn’t,” he says, still holding the box. “I mean, hun, this joint is literally called Condom Sense. Oughta have some, shouldn’t we?”

“Don’t care.” You gather some of your cum on your fingertips, wrapping them around his head so you can brush over his slit. His hips jump, a dead giveaway to what his answer will be.

He grunts, tossing the box somewhere off to the side. “You protected? Clean?” You nod, victorious. “Alright,” Joel sighs. Apparently coming all over his fleshlight isn’t enough, because Joel bends over the counter and dips his head to press his lips against your clit, kissing before he sucks gently on it. You yelp, but quickly feel that heat returning and sparking in your core. He licks at your entrance, swirling his tongue around. “Taste fuckin’ delicious, baby.” You have a feeling he isn’t prepping you for the tip anymore, even more so when he pulls back to feed your cunt two of his fingers.

You whine, desperately rolling your hips down against his thick fingers, fucking yourself down on him as he opens you up properly. He curls his fingers, rubbing that spongy spot inside of you. Your stomach twitches. “That it?”

“Mhm,” you whine, and he starts thrusting his fingers in and out of you, always sure to brush your g-spot. The heel of his palm slaps against your clit and you whine, looking at where his fingers fuck into you. It’s an obscene view, his knuckles drenched in your juices while you clench down around him.

“Good girl,” he sighs when he finally pulls his fingers from you. He gets a good grip on his cock, rubbing the head through your slippery, sensitive folds. He coats it in your arousal before notching it at your opening. When he pushes in, he stays true to his word so far, but the tip is enough to make the room spin all over again. You squeeze down on him and he groans a rough, “Fuck. So goddamn tight.”

His words make you clench again, and his head tips to meet your shoulder blade, body poised at an awkward angle while he fights to stay at least partially outside of you. “Didn’t expect you to feel this fuckin’ good, sweetheart. So fuckin’... good.” He gives you shallow thrusts with the tip, just barely enough to slip in and out of you. His teeth sink into your shoulder as if trying to keep himself quiet, trying to steel himself into remembering who he’s on top of and who he just made come. 

“Joel,” you whine, carding a hand through his hair and tugging lightly until he brings his eyes on you. “Fuck me.”

For once that night, it’s enough. With his eyes on you, he eases into you, groaning with every inch he gives you until he’s bottomed out in your cunt. With all of Joel’s prepping, there’s no pain, only the fullness of what it’s like to throb around him, to leak down his cock. Your fist tightens in his hair when he pulls out of you only to slam back into you. You look down where his body almost covers yours, and through your silhouettes, you can see the stretch of your arousal sticking to his happy trail, stretching between your skin. The room does spin, now, a blur of pink and pleasure.

Joel says, nipping at your ear, “This what you wanted? Wanted me to stretch you out, make you take my cock like the whore you are?” He rolls his hips into yours and effortlessly finds your g-spot like before. Your legs scramble for purchase, wrapping around his waist and pulling him flush against you. His happy trail, spattered with your arousal, rubs against your clit. You grind your hips down, dig your nails into his biceps, desperate to meet his thrusts. When you don’t respond, he pinches your nipple, and your legs wind even tighter around him in surprise.

“Yes! Wanted it – wanted it when you first walked in, fuck,” you whine.

Joel smirks into the place between your shoulder and neck, kissing up the expanse of your skin. “Horny little girl. Bet you went home so excited to put that wand on your pretty clit, only to find out it quit on ya.” You can only moan, boneless and foggy underneath him as he rocks his hips into you. “Fucked my fleshlight thinkin’ of you, but I bet you already knew that, didn’t you? Wanted to bounce you on my cock so bad. Fuckin’ choking me like I knew you would.”

“Fuck me like you fucked it, then,” you say in a rush, your whimpers still poking through your sentences. “H-hard, Joel, want it rough.”

Joel grunts, twitching inside of you from your request. “Shit, can’t say no to ya. Gotta have… gotta have a goddamn death wish or somethin’, baby.” With that, he finds a punishing, ravenous pace, the filthy noises of his body slapping against yours filling the store from wall to wall. He grins. “But you like it, dirty girl. Can feel ya gettin’ close. C’mon, gimme another, baby.”

You come with a cry, soaking his cock, eyes watering from relief while you grip him. Warmth seeps into your bones and turns your brain to mush, electric from dopamine. You go limp on the ledge while he continues fucking into you, voice filling your ears, “That’s it, that’s my girl, fuuuuck, way better than that fleshlight. Shoulda bent you over the counter and fucked you that first night.” You moan at the thought, pussy still clenching his cock. 

You’re too busy coming to notice him reaching to the side, retrieving the long-forgotten wand. You could scream when he touches it to your clit again on the medium setting, and then your thighs are shaking around him even stronger and you’re coming for the third time that night, launched from one orgasm straight into another with Joel hovering over you, still fucking into you. “Fuck, again?” he asks, voice layered with disbelief. “Such a messy pussy, baby. Drippin’ down my thighs. Gonna make it even messier, pump you full ‘a my cum, sweet girl.”

Your vision whites, palms slapping on the counter before he wraps his hand back in yours like before to ground you. You squeeze his hand and moan in response. He turns the vibrator back to low and keeps rolling his hips into you. “Close, baby, gonna shoot this load up your pretty pussy.” Joel’s forehead drops to the counter, still mouthing at your neck when you feel him jerk inside of you. You feel the warmth of his cum spill into you while you still flutter around him, his debauched moans filling your ear as he empties himself into your cunt.

Both of you are breathing heavily by the time he pulls away from you, you laying down on the counter and staring at the ceiling tiles. They’re unfocused and blurry in your post-orgasmic bliss. You blink yourself back to reality, giving him a look with your hooded, tired eyes. His chest rises and falls, mouth and softening cock smeared with your cum. He’s looking at you with the same eyes you’re giving him, something crossed between incredulity and shamelessness.

Joel fishes around in his back pocket before finding a red flannel handkerchief, which he’s careful to dab at your inner legs. You’re both silent until he separates from you with a peck to your forehead. “Did good for me. You’re, uh… really somethin’, sweetheart.”

You grin at him. “That mean this is gonna happen again?” You ask as he tucks himself away and buckles his belt. You stuff your tits back in your bra, pulling down your shirt and securing your pants and shoes from where they’d long fallen into piles on the floor.

“Don’t jump the gun, baby.” He rubs the back of his neck and licks his lips. “But I ain’t rulin’ it out.”

A cocky smirk tugs at your lips, and you hop fully off of the counter, tugging your jeans up your waist. Joel taps the vibrator box when you’re all done. “Cash me out?” he asks, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket and grabbing his wallet instead.

You nod, scanning the damaged vibrator box and batteries and reading off his total. You bag up the soaked vibrator, the on-the-house toy cleaner, and the rest of the batteries he’d bought. “Here you go,” you say, holding it out for him.

“Nah, hun. That’s for you. What use am I gonna get out of a vibrator unless it’s makin’ you come?” He pats the back of your hand and slides the bag across to you again.

You stare at him, fighting not to let your jaw loosen. “Joel… that’s a lot of money.”

“And you deserve to come as much as you want, got it, pretty girl?” He smiles at you with a shrug as if he hadn’t just wrung three out of you within an hour. “Besides, you have my number. You know who to ask if you ever need someone to talk you through it.”

You choke, nodding dumbly at his proposition. So definitely not ruled out.

“Thank you,” you say, bringing yourself to match his smile.

He gives your hand a squeeze and says, “See you later, sweetheart,” before heading out.

And sure, this entire thing is a tornado that could toss up your life like a trailer park, but for Joel? You’d let it happen.

[bloodibambiidoll]

Nasty Girl ⟡˖ Older!Rafe Cameron x Perv!Reader ⟡˖

✰ Rafe is an arrogant dick, over a decade older than you and your dad’s boss, you shouldn’t want anything to do with him. So why can’t you stay away? ✰

۶♡ৎ This is a request from my angel @babygorewhore I love you sm, this one’s for you pookie ۶♡ৎ

✰ Age gap (Rafe is early 40s reader is mid 20s), Obsessive behaviors, perverted acts involving panties, gagging, choking, spit kink, daddy kink, unprotected sex, pussy slapping, pillow humping, pussy eating, cum eating, size kink 18+MNDI ✰

You can’t stand Rafe Cameron. And the fact that you’re so obsessed with him only makes you hate him more. No matter how much you hated the way he walked around like he owned the world, or the rotating door of women he brings around, you can’t shake this irresistible pull he has on you. You shouldn’t feel this way, not only is Rafe a huge dick he’s also over a decade older than you and your dad’s boss. It started off small, stealing glances at him every time you visited your dad at work, dressing in your most revealing dresses and skirts to his work events, making off handed comments and brushing past him when there was clearly room to go around. It wasn’t until you caught him in a bathroom with some lanky blonde bent over the counter while noises that resembled a crow left her body that you finally lost it.

You decided to leave the company charity event early, making sure to pass Rafe’s car and leave your tiny pink thong on his side-view mirror. He wouldn’t know they were yours, but he would know that they didn’t belong to the girl he was currently balls deep inside of because you saw her coral thong pushed to the side. After that it was like you couldn’t stop. You started leaving your panties anywhere you’d think Rafe would find them. In his office on his desk or the chair, his car became a favorite, you even managed to loop one around his drink while he wasn’t looking at the country club once. After the first few pairs you started leaving dirty photos of yourself along with them. Not showing your face, of course. Just shots of your ass and tits, always matching the underwear you planned to leave. You thought about maybe just texting or even emailing them to him but your dad gave him both of those things “in case of emergency”. So you decided to do it old school and take photos on your Polaroid. It was sexier that way, anyway.

But you haven’t done anything like what you’re about to do. You’re upstairs with the sound of loud voices all drowned together barely making it through the thick, high floors beneath you. It didn’t take you long to find Rafe’s room. A double door at the end of the long hall with gold ornate knobs was very clearly the master. You also weren’t surprised he had a keypad lock on his door, especially throwing a party like this. Your dad and his coworkers are everyday businessmen to the sivlian eye but behind closed doors they’re into some pretty deep criminal shit. Luckily you already managed to break into his laptop. It was almost too easy, he navigates technology like a grandpa even though he’s only forty. You had a passing thought about teaching him a more efficient way to organize his work laptop but you quickly shut it down. You’re supposed to hate him. Even if you him to fuck you until you can hardly breathe. He had a whole entire document of passwords and key combinations and you may have written all of them down. So you easily slipped inside after entering the numbers on the keypad.

You spent some time looking around and it was about what you expected. Sleek, expensive furniture, no decorations, the white walls bare aside from a random picture of a boat near the window. It's so clean it almost seems like no one lives here but you assume that’s probably due to the cleaners. You go through his drawers, nothing of interest really, unless you count all the clothes you could potentially steal. His bathroom is just as clean as his room and you can’t help but smirk when you notice a full skin care routine sitting on his counter. So vain. But, you can’t deny a man who is invested in his hygiene is extremely sexy. You smell his expensive colognes, his body wash, even his fucking shampoo. You inhale every single one like it’s your drug of choice. Though, you’re sure they smell a million times better on his skin, mixed with his musk.

After spending some time snooping, your focus turns back to the real reason you came in here. You walk into his large walk-in closet and flick on the light. There’s a glass jewelry case in the middle, filled with designer watches, rings, chains, and sunglasses. You approach it and try to pull open the top drawer when you’re met with resistance, you notice another combination lock. But a lightbulb goes off in your head, remembering the key code marked “jewelry case” before pulling out your phone, finding the numbers and unlocking the drawer with a click. The first drawer is, as expected, more jewelry that matches the items in the display case above. The second drawer though, that’s a different story. When you slide it open instead of expensive designer, it’s filled with lace and silk.

Every single pair of your panties you’ve left for him are in this drawer, along with the Polaroids stacked neatly. Upon closer inspection you notice that they’re covered not just in your cum, but his too. It has your pussy nearly dripping, you were already wet from the minute you saw him earlier tonight but now you can feel your slick dripping down your inner thighs, causing them to stick together under your micro dress. You have to practically drag yourself away from the sight of your underwear under lock and key, almost like they’re treasure, covered in a mixture of Rafe's cum and your own.

You look around the rest of the space and the entire span of the closet is lined with his clothes hanging on wracks. One side is clearly business attire and the other is more casual. Though there isn’t a huge difference, you’ve never seen Rafe in jeans and a t-shirt. You can’t decide if the thought is more sexy or comical. It’s hard to imagine him being well, relaxed. You grab a black button up before exiting the closet, undoing the buttons as you go. A thousand dirty fantasies run through your mind as your eyes roam over the king sized bed. But there’s one you can make a reality right now. The whole reason you came in here. You grab one of his silk pillows and wrap his shirt around it before placing it in the middle of the bed. You turn around to grab your Polaroid out of your bag and then crawl onto the mattress, mounting the pillow. You don’t bother taking your fuzzy platform heels off either, he can sleep on the grime from the bottom of your shoes along with the juices from your pussy for all you care.

You start off slow, running your hands along your body, groping your tits through the faux leather of your dress, imagining that they’re Rafe’s much larger hands. It doesn’t take you long to get worked up, your juices starting to make the cloth underneath you slick. You're so wet that when you start to jerk your hips back and forth on the pillow that you practically glide. The lace of your thong gets pulled tighter, adding extra pressure to your puffy clit. Your dress rides up your hips, revealing your ass and the plush of your thighs as your hips start to speed up. Once you start to really get into it you pull your panties to the side and yank the zipper that goes all the way down the front of your dress down your chest so your tits can spill out. You switch up the movement of your hips every few moments, rotating between using the pillow for leverage and running your hands down your body.

You start to get so lost in the throes of pleasure you almost forget where you are entirely until your white sock covered shin smacks against your pink polaroid camera. You smirk to yourself in remembrance as you pluck it from the bed and turn it on. You hold it above yourself while you press your tits together and spread your legs far enough to show your mound on top of his shirt and snap a photo. You take more than one this time, using almost the entire roll taking pictures of your body from various angles. You shove your fingers in your mouth. Take photos of your tiny thong string nestled between your ass. You even take one with his shirt held up between your teeth. That ends up being the last photo because the smell of his cologne hits your nostrils and it has you inhaling deeply while your hips start to subconsciously grind down again.

Rafe practically felt like a madman as he tried for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes to get out of this conversation with your father and their business partner. Every single time he tried to slip away he was pulled back in somehow. But that didn’t stop his eyes from traveling to the tantalizing view on his phone screen every ten seconds. He felt like a cat who caught a mouse it’s been chasing for months. All without even trying. You lead yourself into a trap he didn’t even set and it couldn’t be more fucking perfect. The fact that you had no idea that his entire house was bugged with cameras that he could see directly in the palm of his hand made his cock twitch. Rafe checked his phone the minute he got the notification that someone was unlocking his bedroom door, ready to send security up there to grab a thief. But he was oh so pleasantly surprised when he saw it was you. You weren’t like any of the other girls he’s ever seen in all his time living on this island. Your platform shoes and dark make-up were utterly enticing to him and your bratty attitude made him want to bend you over his knee until you cried. He also knew you were a naughty girl, with a dirty little secret only he knew. Rafe’s obsession for you only grew by the day and now it was at an all time high.

He decided to let it play out for a bit. He watched as you surveyed his blank walls and rummaged through his drawers. Then you made your way into the bathroom and he watched as you greedily inhaled his colognes and body washes. You went into his closet and somehow unlocked his jewelry case. He’d have to figure out how you managed to learn his key codes later. His heartbeat sped up when you reached for the second drawer but the way you looked down at the trophies you had ever so graciously gifted him with elation only made his appetite for you nearly unbearable. What really sent him over the edge though was how you were currently strandling his pillow as you bucked your hips with his shirt held to your nose.

The entire scene had him losing his mind with lust and you just kept taking it further. He watched you pull your tits out, the way you took all those slutty pictures for him and he wished more than anything in the world he could turn his phone up to full volume so he could hear the pretty little moans leaving your lips. He could tell from the avid speed of your hips and the way your eyes are rolled back that you’re close to your end and he’ll be damned if he isn’t there to see it. He finally excuses himself under the guise of having to go to the bathroom and slips up the large staircase with ease.

You're so close. The pace of your hips is so quick that the entire bed shakes underneath you as delicious euphoria is seconds away. You have the corner of Rafe’s shirt grasped tightly in your fist as you hold it up to your nose. The cloth is pulled taunt against your clit just right, drool drips down your chin onto the black material as you take in Rafe’s scent. Heat washes over you and you moan with reckless abandon, too lost in your tidal wave of an orgasm to care if anyone can hear you.

“I knew you were a dirty girl, but this is even better than anything my mind ever could’a dreamed up…” The sound of Rafe’s voice makes you practically scream and you clutch his shirt over your chest on instinct. Your entire body heats as you take in his large form leaning against the closed bedroom door. His arms are crossed and he has probably the most smug smirk you’ve ever seen in your life painted on his face as he looks over at you through hooded eyes.

“Rafe! I - aren’t you supposed to be hosting a party?” You scoff and roll your eyes, clearly trying to change the subject when you’re the one who broke into his room.

“Well… you see…” Rafe stalks over to you like a predator that caught his prey and stops at the end of the bed. He places his large hands on the mattress so he can lean down only inches from your face, his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes travel down your body before connecting with your own. “This little unassuming mouse wandered into my den without even considering that I have eyes on every inch of this house.”

“How - how long have you been watching?” You clutch onto the shirt tighter, hiding your boobs and bare pussy even though he’s already seen both on multiple occasions. Something about him knowing it was you was making you suddenly nervous.

“Oh, sweetheart, I get a notification when someone opens that door… I saw everything. What do we have here?” His eyes are blue fire as they land on the Polaroids and he picks one up with delight before picking up another and another until he’s seen every single one. He sets them aside in a neat stack before abruptly gripping onto the shirt covering you and ripping it down your body with a growl. You gasp in surprise and use your arms to cover your nipples while slamming your legs shut. “Oh, no, none of that. Don’t get all shy on me now, I’ve already seen it all.” Rafe grabs the pillow and pulls it from underneath you causing you to fall backwards on the bed onto your ass. “Would you look at that…” He looks down at the pillow with hungry fascination as a low groan rumbles through his chest. You watch as he runs the pad of his finger through the creamy wetness before bringing it to his mouth and holding eye contact with you as he sucks it between his lips. His eyes immediately roll back when your taste hits his tongue. “Fuckin’ delicious. But I’m always tastin’ you secondhand.. I can’t wait to taste that sweet pussy directly from the source.”

You’re utterly stunned for a moment. You look up at him with your jaw hanging open while you do your best to cover your most intimate parts when all you want to do is throw your legs open and fully submit to him. You always told yourself if he ever caught you that you would make him work for it. But with the way he’s looking at you now? You can already feel yourself slipping and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Who - who said I was going to let you taste me? And what do you mean secondhand?” You tried to say it in a biting tone but your voice squeaks and betrays your facade immediately.

“Oh, little mouse… this little back and forth we’ve been playing has been fun and all. But now you’ve wandered right into my bed and I’m done playing games.” Rafe abruptly grabs onto your ankles, pulling you down to the edge of the bed until your feet are dangling off and you try to pull your knees together again but he grips onto them and pulls them back open. “Quit hiding from me.”

His hands grip tightly onto the meat of your thighs, the gold rings on his fingers pinching your skin in a way that has you holding back a moan. The look in Rafe’s eyes is nearly animalistic as he stares down at your puffy, wet pussy. Your little black thong pushed to the side, covered in creamy, white juices. His fingertips travel down your legs gripping hard enough to bruise with every inch. He brings his thumbs to the crevices of your thighs and presses his fingers hard on either side of your folds, pushing your pussy lips together. You can’t hold in the tiny mewl that leaves the back of your throat. He punches your slick cunt together roughly a few times before pulling you apart. Your pussy clicks for him from your wetness as he pulls you open.

“Been waiting for this moment, ya know?” Rafe runs his thumb along your slit, gathering your wetness before bringing his thumbs to rub along the sides of your lips, teasing you. “I knew it was you. I had my suspicions from the beginning. Ever since you walked in on me in the bathroom…”

“How?” Your voice is a broken whisper, any thoughts of fighting back slipping further and further from your mind. Embarrassingly enough, you feel like you could come from just this.

“Well, I was almost positive after that cute little cherry thong…” Rafe grazes over your clit for just a moment before going back to teasing you. “Earlier that day you were wearing these sexy little jeans and when you bent over I got a view of that same thong. Then, to my surprise, the very same pair ended up in my office later that day.” He presses hard on your clit, giving it a few strokes and you think his teasing has finally come to an end but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. And he goes back to teasing your pussy tantalizingly. “But then, about a week later I saw you sneaking out of my office and I decided to let you get away with it.”

“You decided?” You push yourself up on your elbows and scoff with your eyebrow raised, your irritation with him returning. Rafe just smirks before shoving his thumb knuckle deep in your pussy and curving it against your walls. It makes your eyes roll back while you wriggle underneath him.

“Yes, princess, I decided.” His other thumb presses on your clit hard but doesn’t move. “Once I was positive it was you, I wasn’t ready for it to stop. Especially once you started leaving those little pictures for me. Who knew you were such a dirty slut.” He pulls his fingers from you before landing a harsh smack on your clit causing you to yelp.

“So you knew it was me and didn’t say anything? And then proceeded to keep them in a treasure box and jerk off all over them? Pervert.” Rafe slaps your pussy again, three times in succession.

“Stop being a fuckin’ brat. If I’m a pervert, what does that make you, huh?” He slaps your pussy even harder and then brings both of his hands down on your inner thighs with a loud smack. “Leaving me your panties, takin’ dirty photos for me, I saw you inhaling my cologne like it was a line of coke. And now I caught you in my bed, coming all over my pillow. You’re a nasty. Little. Girl.” He punctuates each word with a slap to your cunt and you can’t help but moan loudly for him.

“Yeah? Well you’re a nasty old man.” Your chest heaves but you still manage to paint a cheshire smirk on your face, your eyes twinkling with mischief as you use the last of your resolve against him.

“You know what? I’m sick of your bratty fuckin’ mouth.” Rafe grips onto the thin strings of your panties and pulls them down your legs before balling them up and shoving them in your mouth. The sudden intrusion makes you gag, but it’s not unwelcome. The act of dominance and the taste of yourself on your tongue has any and all attitude in you evaporating from your body. He grabs your chin and roughly shakes your head side to side. “That’s better. You gonna be a good girl and let me taste that perfect cunt now or do I need to beat the attitude out of you?”

You moan around the lace in your mouth and drop your knees to the sides, offering yourself to him. Rafe looks at you devilishly as he lays on his stomach on the mattress and throws your legs over his shoulders. He runs his nose along your inner thigh as he takes in your sweet scent before hovering over your pussy and inhaling deeply.

“Smell so fuckin’ sweet, bet you taste even sweeter.” The flat Rafe’s runs through your folds up to your clit before circling it a few times. He nips it with his teeth and shoves his tongue as far as it can go inside of you causing you to cry out and arch your back off the mattress.

“Quit wiggling.” Rafe growls into your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His large hand splay on your hip, holding you down as he eats you like a man starved. He circles two fingers at your entrance before pressing them knuckle deep inside of you. He caresses your sweet spot while sucking your clit into his mouth and it has an explosion of pleasure washing over your body as your orgasm consumes you.

Rafe pulls off of you when you come down from your high and brings the fingers that were just inside you to his chin dripping with your juices. He smears it around before sucking his fingers clean, groaning like he just ate the best meal of his life. He leans forward and plucks the panties from your mouth before slamming his lips against yours. The kiss is dominating and he shoves his tongue deep into your mouth, swirling it around and coating your taste buds with your own cum. He leans back to admire you and he feels like his cock is going to burst. Your hair is a mess, your dark lipstick is smudged and slick, and the zipper on that tight little dress is barely hanging on. Your tits are on full display as you lay like a perverted little angel with your legs spread beneath him.

“God damn. I’ve gotta fuck that pussy, baby.” Rafe pulls the zipper of your dress the rest of the way down before leaning up on his knees and reaching for the buttons on his shirt. “Take that shit off. Leave the socks and shoes though.”

He licks his lips as he continues to unbutton his shirt while his eyes practically swallow you whole. You quickly rid yourself of your dress and push yourself up onto your knees to watch him undress. You have to stop yourself from jumping him when he gets his shirt all the way off, his perfectly toned body towering over you. When he gets his pants down enough to get his cock out you can’t even hold in your gasp. He’s huge. So thick you aren’t sure you could wrap a single hand around him and so long that you aren’t sure if you could take him all down your throat.

“Fuck. I don’t know if that’s going to fit…” Your eyes are the sizes of saucers as you stare at his cock with your jaw slack. Those words make Rafe feel like he’s going to go insane and his hand flies to your hair, grasping onto it at the nape of your neck and yanking your head back.

“Oh, it’ll fit.” His tongue slides over his teeth and he takes his shaft in his hand so he can rub his precum along your lips, adding to the mess. Rafe uses his grip on your head to manhandle you onto your back before throwing your legs over his shoulders. He smirks down at you while he pumps himself in his hand. “You want it?”

“Yes, fuck. I want it so bad.” You tilt your hips towards him searching for any kind of friction but his hand presses down on your hip, stilling your movements.

“Oh, come on, baby doll. You can do better than that. How bad do you want it?” He taps the head of his cock against your clit a few times before running it through your folds. You try to angle your hips to push him further inside of you and he just tuts at you like you did something naughty before pulling his cock away entirely. “Let me hear it, beg.”

“Please, daddy, I want it so bad.” Rafe breathes out heavily through his nostrils and grips onto your throat, leaning down so his face is inches from yours.

“Oh, little mouse.. you’re just full of surprises, huh? I don’t think you know what you’ve done.” Rafe chuckles darkly and leans back up onto his knees, positioning his cock at your entrance. He presses his head into you and he’s so thick you already feel so full by the time he’s only a few inches in.

“Oh, god. I don’t - I really don’t know if it’s all going to fit.” The air is nearly taken out of your lungs when he thrusts his hips forward and you’re sure he’s all the way inside of you now but he pulls almost all the way out before slamming his cock into you to the hilt with his hips flush against yours. “Holy shit, oh my god.”

“I thought you wanted it so bad, now you’re whining that it won’t fit? I’m gonna fuckin’ make it fit and you’re gonna take it like the dirty little slut you are.” Rafe rams his hips into yours at a brutal pace as he grips onto your throat again and squeezes tightly. His free hand comes to rub circles on your clit and it makes your vision blur. “Yeah fuckin, take it. You gonna come for me? I can feel your pussy squeezing me. You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

“Yes, fuck daddy, please make me cum.” Your voice is a broken sob as your makeup smears messily down your face. “I’m so fucking full.”

“Yeah, that’s right, sweet thing. Give me your cum.” That’s all it takes to have an all consuming orgasm washing over you. Your walls convulse around Rafe’s thick length and he picks up his thrusts, chasing his own high. He uses his grip on your throat to press you down into the mattress and your legs fall down onto his hips. You lace them around him and this new angle has him hitting so deep you swear you’re going to feel him for days. The hand not on your throat hooks onto your bottom teeth, pulling your jaw open so he can spit on your tongue. You swallow without asking and then suck his fingers into your mouth greedily.

“You’re so fuckin’ nasty, ya know that? Letting your dad’s boss fuck you till you cry while he’s right down stairs. Leaving me your little fuckin’ panties. This perfect god damn pussy.” Rafe is babbling like a man possessed as he pumps into you hard and deep until his cock starts to twitch inside you. He growls as he fills you with ropes of his cum. When he pulls out you feel nearly hollow and then he shoves his fingers knuckle deep inside of you, collecting some of his cum on his fingers. You pull his hand back to your mouth and lick his fingers, moaning at your combined tastes.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you, little mouse.” Rafe stares down at you with a hunger that’s laced with obsession and you don’t even care because you’re just as obsessed as he is. “You’re mine now.”

Taglist: @nemesyaaa @strawberrydolly333 @sturnioloshacker @loserboysandlithium @gri959 @rafeinterlude @xoxohoneymoongirl @tacymbcm @bunnies-p1tst0p @starkeysprincess

Dividers by @anitalenia

[aronaut]

Warmth

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x gn!reader Summary: You're a former researcher that was working before the blacksite lockdown. Forgotten and abandoned, you have no other choice but to work with a certain shopkeeper. Needless to say, you have your differences. Warnings: Explicit mentions of blo/od and inj/ury in the beginning. Not beta read Word count: 4,191 (This is a drabble I plan to include in a long list of loosely connected ideas. Consider it the middle of an enemies to qp partners plot :] )

...The low, ominous groan and creak of metal is enough to put anyone on edge, you think, as you traverse the seemingly endless halls.

Rifling through the cabinets and drawers, scrounging up scraps left behind by hasty thieves, the unsettling ocean ambience is all you have for company. You wonder, just when did your life derail so horrifically, when the sight of a crumpled body on the ground fills you with elation. The heavy, steel doors slide open with little fanfare. Beyond the mangled corpse, your eyes immediately set on a black light laying just a few feet away. Stepping over the expendable, you collect the item. There is little battery left in the light you note, before stashing it in the worn messenger bag slung over your shoulder.

With a heavy sigh, you eyes scan below. Scarlet scatters across the floor in a chaotic spray, drawing your eyes towards the deep crimson pool steadily crawling towards the toe of your shoe. In the center of it all, lays the head of a late expendable, expression locked in a display of permanent shock. From below their eye, a coat of flaky, dry red webs down from their chin to all the way down their shoulder.

The collar of the expendable’s wet suit is torn completely; black shreds of neoprene fray out from below the sternum. It's hard to tell the rubber from the darkened crimson spilling out from the brutal tear in the prisoners neck.

Z-90– the Wall Dweller, you determine. Recent too, if the wet shine on expendable's neck is anything to go off of. The considerably uneaten state of the body leads you to believe it might still be in the area, biding it's time until it can claim the expendable's companions as well.

Or, well, possibly even you…

With that thought in your mind, you crouch down, your hands roaming over surface of the expendable’s clothes for any other possible hidden goods. Sparing glances every so often behind you, straining your ears all the while, you’re cautious during your search.

Any research the expendable might have had is completely useless now, waterlogged with sticky blood and pasted to the body. Attempting to reach into the pockets only rewards you with a sharp jab in your palm, the tips of your fingers cold and wet with spilled vial fluids.

Withdrawing from the body, you finally stand back up to full height. The sudden rush to your head is enough to make you sway, your stomach starting to pinch from the overwhelming, metallic stench permeating the room. With a shaky exhale, you urge yourself forward.

The persistent stinging in your eyes doesn’t do any favors for you as you try and navigate the dimly lit halls of the facility, an incredibly sore ache pulsating in your feet with every step. You are… so tired.

A distant roar of an entity sounds suddenly, reverberating across multiple rooms and rocking the facility. The floor rumbles faintly below your feet, and you can almost barely make out the disorderly sound of blinking lights. Bracing yourself against a wall, you wait out the tremors.

Though exhaustion tugs at you, you acknowledge that you cannot rest here. The dark corners of the room whisper dangerous promises, and as you traverse the rooms you can’t shake off the ever persistent feeling of being watched.

Any human in this place is simply prey, and as you tuck your hands into the pockets of your tattered, beaten white coat, your mind rings out with a grim thought; if every human here is prey, you are high game.

Approaching the next door, the screen doesn’t label it with a number but instead a red line. Taking the keycard from your lanyard, you unlock the door, and step inside. Instead of being met with lockers and scattered drawers, you find yourself in a familiar office. The small room is crowded with desks, computers that have long since powered off, and fake potted plants that fill you with a bittersweet sense of longing. Tucked under the desks, the rusted office chair beckon you to rest, but you push the thought out.

There is no doubt in your mind that he is getting aggravated over the fact that you’ve taken this long already.

Behind the desks there is another door, bracketed by two item lockers long since rummaged through. It’s marked by another red line, but you already know where it leads.

The door opens with an exhale, the frigid air greeting you as you walk on through. Unlike the rooms before, this room is brightly lit, the florescent lights buzzing loudly. Your eyes burn momentarily from the sudden change, taking a moment to adjust. The hall is short this time, and in your view you see another door marked ‘50.’

Your bag is disappointingly light on your shoulders, only holding a gummy flashlight, a few batteries, and the black light you just found. You’re not looking forward to the condescending comments that awaits you behind that door.

Resigning to your fate with a heavy sigh, you begin to trudge forward, but stop short suddenly when you hear what sounds like a loud flash, followed by a furious shout and the rush of footsteps. You only have a split second to react, hastily throwing yourself into a locker, the clang of the metal door muted by the hissing of an opening door.

Laughter rings out in the room, accompanied by a multitude of heavy footfalls. The light peaking through the vent of the locker momentarily obscures as you count three expendables pass by, completely unaware of your presence. They are loud and boisterous, a harsh rhythmic squeak of their boots resounding as they run through the hall, the dull thuds of drawers being pulled out to their full extent in a fruitless endeavor to find more loot. They don’t stay long, and soon enough you hear the hydraulics of the door once more and the footsteps dissipate.

You wait a minute before exiting the locker, hurriedly making your way to the fiftieth door. There is a low, agitated hiss drawing out low from the ground, echoing through the tunnel next to your calf. Crouching down, you crawl on into the vent, your elbows clanging against the thin metal.

Emerging on the other side, you find yourself once more in the confinement of Sebastian’s shop. It’s possibly the smallest room in the facility, the walls looming over you in a claustrophobic fashion. Or, perhaps, it’s just overcrowded with stacked crates strewn about, the floor littered with various gadgets inoperable by you, and piles of paper files scattered across the floor. Your eyesight leads to probably the most useless thing in the room, roaming over the giant tail fin flicking against the wall and up the elongated tail it was attached to.

Sebastian is rubbing furiously at his eyes, lure blinking not dissimilarly to the way the room lights do when in the presence of Z-283. He’s grumbling low beneath his breath, mumbling incoherently between rushed clicks and growls.

When he’s done, he acknowledges your entrance with very little care,

“About time. Stock’s so low, I’ve had to sell half-charged flashlights to the last gaggle of idiots,” his arms drop, and he glares to you. “What the hell took you so long?”

The messenger bag drops from your shoulder with little care, the metal of the flashlights clinging with the floor through the thin material. You fix him with a similar expression to his, squinting up at him.

“Trying not to get caught, asshole. If you want shit sooner get it yourself next time.”

He chuckles sardonically at you.

“Please, I’ve got better things to do,” he responds. “You keep up your half of the deal, and I keep up mine.”

You roll your eyes pointedly, breaking away from the staring match when the brightness of his lure starts to cause dark spots to swim in your vision. Crouching down, you begin to rifle through the bag. He looks unimpressed at the pitiful amount of batteries you set beside yourself, but you do notice the room getting ever so slightly brighter when you pull out the black light.

“Just keep being a good little errand boy, and your efforts won’t go unpunished,” he purrs. You clench your teeth, face warming in anger.

“Oh yes, your part. Totally. I go out, digging around for junk, risking my neck to monsters and delinquent prisoners, while you get to sit in here and play retail worker,” you ramble, frustrated, rolling the gummy flashlight over to his general direction with a not too gentle shove. “Fairest trade in the world.”

Your heartbeat picks up ever so slightly as you feel a shadow cast over you, the bulb of Sebastian’s lure hanging overhead as he leans down towards you, slow. You urge yourself to keep his gaze and stay there as his smile stretches into a sharp grin, light glinting off the razor sharp fangs. His hand stretches towards you, and your shoulders jolt in a half-flinch as they reach towards your neck. You don’t look down from his eyes as his claws pull at your lanyard, the thin fabric brushing against the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows furrow as he pinches the card between his thumb and index, his claw sweeping over it’s laminated surface.

“Would you like to switch roles, ‘doctor?’”

You reach up, and promptly slap his hand away.

Instead of retaliating, Sebastian merely laughs at you.

“I didn’t think so,” he drawls, before slowly ascending back to full height, away from you.

The bag, now empty, sits lightly on your shoulder as you pull it over your head. It’s weight is nearly nonexistent. You approach one of the stacked storage containers and with a tired groan plop down, leaning back and stretching your legs out in front of you.

It’s instantaneous relief, you note, your joints popping in rapid succession of one another as you stretch your arms up, crossed at the wrists. Your shoulders are practically buzzing, no doubt having been pinched at some point during your venture in the facility. Your knees creak and ache from crawling through vents and desks, your legs stiff and feet beyond sore. After your stretch, you slump down in your seat with a sigh. Finally, you get to relax.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Ugh.

“Resting, Sebastian.” You respond dryly. “I’m freaking tired, okay? Leave me be.”

Sebastian simply scoffs. You don’t acknowledge him as your eyes draw shut.

“Go somewhere else for that, I have a business to run.”

“And where do you suggest I go? Where is there that doesn’t have a wall dweller lurking or some other hellish atrocity waiting to get at me?” You argue, opening your eyes to challenge him with a glare.

“That isn’t my problem,” he leans down slightly, arms crossed and third arm tucked in awkwardly. “Leave before someone comes in.”

You mirror his pose, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up at him.

“Get out.”

You shuffle in place, legs crossing. Sebastian scowls, growling low in his throat. His arm shoots out, pointing to the vent and shouting.

“Get OUT!”

Your shoulders jump, but you’re stubborn. Drawing your arms around yourself tightly, you shout back.

“Screw you, man! There isn’t anyone coming!”

Sebastian hisses, the only warning you get before he darts down toward you, your arms pushed into your chest as he holds you in a tight grip, claws pinching your skin underneath the thin fabric of your coat.

He is directly in your face, eyes glowering at you as he spits,

“You absolute, goddamn MORON. If you do not LEAVE-”

He cuts himself off suddenly, and in your peripherals you catch the way the fins on the side of his head seem to twitch bizarrely. Soon you hear the pang of metal resounding off the walls of the vent and echoing into the room. With a quick, uttered curse, Sebastian quickly draws back, but he doesn’t let you go, instead pulling you up and with him.

Your arms sting in his hold, your face twisted in a grimace as suddenly your feet are no longer touching the ground. The weight of your body hangs as he effortlessly lifts you up.

“What the hell???” you wheeze. “Let me go!”

A cold hand slaps over your mouth harshly, clasping your face nearly entirely as Sebastian growls.

“Shut the hell Up!”

You get little warning as Sebastian all but stuffs you behind him, crowded by his tail. You try and leverage yourself with his tail, pushing up with your arms as your chest pressing uncomfortably against him. His tail coils and folds in response, pushing over your chest and weighing heavily till you fall back to the floor. The air punched out of your lungs, and you let out a strangled gasp. Panic seized you as you wriggled beneath him, writhing in place to try and breathe. Noticing your struggle, Sebastian lifts his tail ever so slightly, no longer crushing you. You jumped at the opportunity, attempting to sit up before Sebastian’s third arm came down, hand tangling into your hair and shoving you back down.

“Stay down,” he says, low, with a hint of a threat tracing the edges of his voice.

The weight of his hand on your head disappears, and you watch from behind him as his attitude immediately shifts from disgruntled to a calculated calm.

“Welcome, welcome!” he greets, near automatic and practically off a script. You cannot see who he is talking to from your position, but based off the sound of shuffling and whispers, you assume another group has just entered. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not gonna hurt you. Despite what you have seen, heard and/or been told, my name is Sebastian.”

He goes on with his typical spew, and you surrender to the solid weight laying over you. It’s a bit awkward for Sebastian, you realize, as he attempts to move along with his usual transactions now that the upper part of his tail is occupied keeping you hidden. You feel almost smug about it, counting it off as a win in the mentally constructed chart in your mind that keeps loose tabs on the constantly tipping scale between you and Sebastian. It’s not like you want to be seen by the expendables, as it risks the possibility of them reporting back to Urbanshade that one of their esteemed researchers were still alive down here and working against them with the active saboteur. Though, given how long you and Sebastian have spent down here, you highly doubt that is likely to happen anytime soon. The expendable project was a long going mission that has yet to bare any fruit.

As Sebastian drawls on, you can feel his voice reverberating through his tail. As much as you hate to admit it, the rumbling was soothing. The weight of him was less of a burden than it was before, instead it became rather pleasant in grounding you, not unlike a weighted blanket… and a cooled one, at that.

The transaction seemed to be dragging on longer than usual, or maybe that was just you. The events of the day quickly starting to catch up with you, slowing your perception of time as you stared up hazily at the ceiling, with Sebastian’s elbow and back occasionally coming into view. Pressing against the wall, you could feel the way the facility subtly rocked in the waters. Holding your ear to the ground, you could almost hear the ocean, the cold metal soothing against your flushed face.

You could barely make out the voices of the prisoners, and what you could you pieced together that they must be attempting to negotiate. Puffing under your breathe, you smiled, bidding them luck with that endeavor as your eyes drew shut.

When your eyes opened once more, the room was dark. You could no longer hear the prisoners, or even Sebastian for that matter. Lifting your head, you realized also that the weight over you seemed to have disappeared. Sebastian was no longer laying over you.

You couldn’t make out what was in front of you, but you still attempted to look around. Your thoughts were slow and disorientated, but slowly you discerned that you must have fallen asleep. How you managed in such an inconvenient expression, next to Sebastian of all things, you couldn’t fathom. You suppose you were more exhausted than you originally thought.

He must’ve moved you, you think. You could imagine the sneer he must’ve made at realizing you had fallen asleep. Where did he put you, exactly? You jostled awake fully at the thought that perhaps he threw you out in the cold, or simply dumped you in the nearest, darkest room to be preyed on by the experiments.

At this thought, you rushed to push yourself up with your hands, having awoken on your stomach. The floor was… odd in texture. It was rougher, not the smooth, biting cold metal that you were accustomed to. It was, also, ever so slightly warm. As you pushed against it, you noticed that while it was solid it also had a little give to it. Your mind reeled for answers, trying to piece together just exactly where or what you were laying on, when all of the sudden you realized you were moving. Or, more like, the ground was moving.

Your breath quickened as you slid ever so slightly down, and it registered finally that your legs weren’t supported by anything, instead hanging over an edge. Your thighs held together as your arms scrambled to hold on to whatever it was you were on, leaning forward with your face pressed up against something cool.

You could smell an an odd, distinct combination of what you could only describe as leather and fish. Cold air gently brushed down your forehead as you heard someone sigh.

Adjusting to the darkness, you could finally make out what was in front of you– or below you, rather.

Below you was a chest belonging only to Sebastian.

Clad in a white dress shirt and draped in a rough leather jacket, his chest rose steadily under you, raising you in tandem. Looking to his face, all three of his eyes were closed and you couldn’t make out his lure in the darkness. His expression was… peaceful. Relaxed. Despite this, you could see the dark crevices in his forehead and eyes, groves crafted and paved by long-term stress that he refused to let on existed. He was completely unguarded and vulnerable, and considering your position you concluded that he had willingly put himself there.

But why?

You couldn’t comprehend it. Maybe it was a mistake? You had never seen him asleep before… Given all of the traits he was spliced with, you wondered how long he could really go without sleep? Maybe he slept when you were gone? That wouldn’t make sense. He’s a research-fiend by nature, he’d never let a potential customer pass him by.

However, looking more closely, you took in his features. Unlike the rest of his body, his face was smoother; More akin to a human. Between his eyes and on the bridge of his nose, there was a very faint line– barely noticeable even in the light– a paler blue than the surrounding skin. A scar he had when he first came into the facility as a convict. As a human…

You doubt even Sebastian could reject the very notion of sleep. Beneath it all– the razor sharp teeth, the blue scales, and thin web veils on his ears and clawed fingers, you never stopped believing that he was human. You doubt he did, either.

It still didn’t make sense for you to be here, but that didn’t matter, because there was the definite possibility of him screaming at you when he woke up and saw you there in despite of his protests.

You gently tried to creep down, stretching your leg and trying to feel the ground with your toe. You stretched and stretched, flexing your foot before realizing that even at this angle you couldn’t feel the floor. You were up too damn high. Looking down, you could hardly make out the messy floor.

In the midst of your struggling, you felt a rumble pass through you from Sebastian’s chest. His hands, which you hadn’t at first noticed were resting on your hips, slowly caressed over your back before stopping at your shoulders. You laid there, frozen, peaking cautiously up at Sebastian to see he was, thankfully, still asleep.

Your situation got that much more difficult, you realized, as his arms laid heavy over your back and prevented you from moving any further without disturbing the serpent, likely into waking.

Huffing a sigh, you relented.

You still couldn’t see very well in the darkness, and you would no doubt sprain something trying to dismount Sebastian. He’s so cranky awake, you don’t want to imagine what he’d be like shorted a few hours of beauty sleep.

And as much as you loathed to admit it, the position wasn’t… uncomfortable. You felt warm, but not stuffy despite the room. Sebastian was like a pillow with two cold sides, and you discovered that as you sunk back down into him, that his skin seemed to absorb your heat.

You shut your eyes.

There was no point in struggling to leave, or worrying about Sebastian’s reaction right now. Bottom line is, you could go for a couple more minutes of rest. Chances are Sebastian would tell you to hop right back to work first opportunity he got, so you might as well take advantage of the situation.

Your breathing slowed, and as you relaxed you could just barely make out a very soft rumbling crackle coming from Sebastian’s chest, reminiscent of a cat’s purr. His fingers absently curled over your shoulders, the weight of them strong and comforting. You could get used to this, you thought, and didn’t bother to fight against the absurd belief as your thoughts slowed down, sleep creeping in.

A shrill scream roars outside, and the body beneath you jolts violently, jostling you in the process. You hear lights flicker discordantly, before hushing entirely.

You don’t dare to open your eyes as you feel Sebastian move under you, hearing him exhale loudly. From behind the lids of your eyes, you notice the room get slightly brighter. Sebastian is awake.

You brace yourself to be grabbed, or even thrown, as his claws curl that much tighter over your shoulders. But that doesn’t happen.

His hands go lax, and you feel him sink back down, his third arm coming to rest over your lower back. The upper arms gently soothe down your back before brushing back up. Your brows furrow in confusion when a hand rests on your head, combing through your hair.

Warm breath ghosts over you as he leans down with a sigh, arms pulling you further up his body as his chin sets down over your head.

You dare to peek your eyes open, met with the light blue hue of Sebastian’s neck, gaze tracing over the smooth transition between human skin and scales. You feel Sebastian’s clawed hand leave your scalp, once more joining it’s counterpart in soothing up and down your back, the third hand picking at the frayed edges of your shirt.

You can see the bob of Sebastian’s throat as he swallows, coughing lightly in an attempt to clear his throat. His nose presses ever so slightly further into your hair, and you have to suppress the sudden need to jump when the third hand traces up your back, under your shirt.

Your hands brace against him, ready to launch yourself upward and ask just what the hell he is doing, before acknowledging that his hand doesn’t go any further than that. You decide to wait it out, see what he does. Maybe you can catch him doing something embarrassing, and use it as leverage in your next argument. Another point to your metaphorical score.

The other arms continue to stroke over your back, albeit more slowly, as his third hand continues to trail up your spine, leaving a path of goose bumps. The hair of your back raises at the temperature change. His hand is freaking cold. Colder than the rest of his body. Why is that?

As this continues, you feel him slump ever so slightly, all three of his hands slowing to a stop. His chest evens out once more, and you realize, he is asleep.

The hand under your shirt has become significantly warmer, and that is when you realize; Sebastian is cold blooded.

Well, you didn’t just realize, you knew this from the start. It explained his bizarre actions though, and as you took in your position you pieced together you were no different than a weighted blanket you accused his tail of being not long ago. A heated rock for his comfort. Like a snake or lizard basking in a lamplight, you were his source of heat.

Your mouth twitched into a smile. You were totally going to hold this over his head.

[rowarn]

bizarre thought.....shadow entity!ghost..... @sgtgarricks is responsible for this!!!

i already want to write another part to this LMAOOOOOOO

part : two

when you first moved into your new house, you knew it was old and had been vacant for a looooong time. it had a bizarre history of people living there and moving out months, even weeks later. most people declined offering a reason for their quick move but others would just vaguely supply that the 'energy was dark in that house', you weren't bothered.

it was a nice, big, house and for damn cheap too. you weren't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

your first nights in the house, you understood what they meant. there was something off about the house for sure. at random times, you would feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, as if alerting you to danger. when you would turn around, there was nothing there. but it would leave you with sweaty palms and a racing heart.

it wasn't until a week into your new life that the first weird thing happened. it was like something from a stereotypical horror movie. you heard a strange sound and got out of bed to investigate. when you got to your kitchen, all the cabinets and drawers were open and your kitchen chairs were placed on top of your table -- which had also been moved across the kitchen.

you tried to take some deep breaths to calm yourself as you returned everything back to normal. you went over and over in your head for some kind of explanation for the event before finally landing on the fact that this house was fucking haunted.

strange events kept happening after that. lights would turn on, your kitchen cabinets would be open, sinks and showers would turn on, doors would slam from across the house. you were losing sleep over it. every single night you'd be woken up by some strange event and you were beginning to understand why the past tenants had moved out so fast.

this was a rotten way to live.

the final straw for you was the night the activity really seemed to ramp up. whatever spirit was haunting you wanted you out now. multiple doors slammed, jolting you from your sleep -- your heart racing from how hard you had been startled from your dreams. you got to your feet and turned on your lamp only to find it wasn't working.

next, you tried the overhead light. same thing.

fuck. it had caused the power to bust.

now you were really scared.

you grabbed your phone, using the flashlight to navigate your way out of the bedroom. the floorboards creaked beneath you, considerably louder without the hum of electricity.

you were halfway down the hall when you heard it. quiet at first, but definitely there. footsteps. mimicking your own, as if echoing after you took your own steps, making sure you knew it was there.

you spun around, shining the light upon nothing. you let out a heavy breath, noticing the way the flashlight shook from how hard you were trembling.

"a-alright, ghost," you called into the empty house, too scared to feel stupid that you were talking to nothing, "i-i'll admit i'm pretty scared right now. i-i know you probably want me out of your house. this is your house, i get it. bu-but i already sunk all my damn savings into moving in here s-so i can't leave!" you swallow, a loud gulping sound that would be funny if you weren't about to piss yourself, "s-so if we could just live together for a little while longer. i-i promise i'll get out the second i have the money!"

there was nothing but tense silence. you felt like an idiot the more seconds that passed. were you trying to make a deal with a fucking ghost? a spirit of someone who probably died in this house? what kind of shit had your life become?

you peered into the inky blackness of the hallway, blinking as you try to futilely see. it takes you a moment to realize you're not just staring into the darkness of your hallway. it's something else.

pure darkness. a dark entity taking form in the blackness of the night. you want to step back, primal fear coursing through you like you never felt before. whatever fear you were feeling was primordial in nature -- as if this entity was something you were born to fear.

the darkness began to swallow up the hallway, eating away at the light your flashlight had created. the air felt heavy and oppressive, making it difficult to take in oxygen.

you swear you could feel hands on you, grabbing you and pulling at you. the longer you stared into the darkness, the more you thought you could see things. eyes. hundreds of eyes. but when you blinked, the images vanished.

then, all at once, the entity was gone and your light was shining down the hallway again unimpeded. after another second, the sound of the electricity slamming back on filled the house and you collapsed to your knees.

whatever that was, it was dangerous. you knew that now.

but it didn't hurt you. perhaps it agreed to your terms and would leave you be now?

oh how wrong you were. sure, it wasn't nearly as scary as that night but now you saw it.

around every turn.

you could see the shadow take shape from the corner of your eye but when you looked, it would be gone. you would be brushing your teeth and when you looked in the mirror, it stood behind you, making your heart leap out of your chest. when you would turn, it wasn't there.

you were no longer woken up in the night, at least. but you weren't sure if you preferred the regular haunting stuff to seeing the ghost or not. you were on the fence about which was worse.

after another scare from the ghost, you jumped so hard that you almost fell over, "alright you -- ghost! will you quit scaring me like that!?" you found yourself shrieking.

to your abject horror, you heard laughter in return.

the shadow shit was fucking laughing at you. like it was enjoying this.

it wasn't evil laughter either. it sounded like pure enjoyment.

you suppose it wasn't out of the realm of possibility for a ghost to make sounds but it didn't make it any less horrifying.

you started talking to it more after that. once you heard its voice - sort of- it became easier. the fear also dissipated in time. sure it would jump scare you from time to time to get a laugh but other than that, it became like living with a really annoying roommate.

"will you get out of my mirror!" you snapped, mouth full of toothpaste with you facemask on. its disappearance was marked with its mirthful laughter.

you also noticed as the days and weeks passed, it stopped looking like a shapeless shadow and more like a person -- a big one at least. well over 7 feet tall. if you looked for long enough, you could almost make out what you think is a skull where the face would be on a human.

one night, you're laying in bed, comfortable. there's rain pelting outside on your window and distant thunder, too nice of weather to sleep away. so you just choose to relax and listen to it.

"ghost?" you find yourself calling into the darkness, "are you there?"

its silent but you feel the air grow heavy and you know that it's arrived. it seems to have...consciousness, you realized. it reacts to you and listens to you. there's one thing that's been plaguing you that you want to ask, though you're not sure if it will answer -- if it can answer.

"you're not really a ghost are you?" you ask.

you're greeted by silence for several, long seconds before you hear it. it's deep and masculine, a whisper of an echo following its voice when it speaks as if multiple things were speaking but only one voice was amplified, "no."

it's the answer you were expecting but that didn't mean you liked it. you swallow harshly around the lump of anxiety in your throat.

"are you going to hurt me?" you ask it, dreading the answer to this one. just because it's been toying with you doesn't mean it's not still dangerous.

"no," it responds again. you can hear footsteps, the entity walking closer and closer to your bed.

you let out a relieved breath at that. though, you're not sure if you should actually believe the dark entity that lives in your house. but at this point, you've really got no choice except to take it's word for it.

"what's your name?" you find yourself asking it.

"ghost," it responds quickly.

you laugh at that, "no, you're real name."

"ghost," it insist, "you gave me a name."

a lightbulb goes off over your head.

"is that why you're being so nice to me?" you ask, not sure if 'nice' is the appropriate word to use.

"i wanted a name," it answers, "you gave me one."

"a name in exchange for living in this house," you muse, deciding to roll over in bed, "alright then. goodnight, ghost."

"rest well," it responds before vanishing, freeing the room from that oppressive feeling.

you close your eyes and will yourself to fall asleep, briefly wondering where ghost even came from and what exactly it was.

this is unedited i wrote it in a fury of inspiration i hope u enjoyed it regardless of how WEIRD this was LMFAOOOOOOOOOO

[menagerofmischief]

sweet as sin -> cl16

main masterlist / navigation

porn star!charles chronicles -> here

tags: everyone's got normal lives (no F1), mentions of porn/OF, very very suggestive (or very light smut idk?), mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex toys

a/n: this is just an introduction to the au. if you have any ideas or things you think would go well with the au, send an ask and lmk <3

“Oh, I don’t know, Gwen!” You said, swirling your straw around in your drink as you eyed the friend. “Other than the fact I’m moving soon, my life is a bit too boring lately. I’m done with dating apps after the last big failure and I just need something interesting to happen!”

“You mean you need to get laid!” She accused, mischief sparkling in her eyes as she giddily sipped her mimosa, already a bit tipsy from all the previously consumed ones. “When was the last time you had a good orgasm?”

You coughed, nearly choking on your drink as you stared at her with wide eyes. “We’re so not talking about this!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘very long ago’,” Gwen said, eyeing you over the rim of her glass. “Just because you’re not dating doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun.”

“Didn’t you hear the part when I said how all the guys are sleazy and disgusting?”

She chuckled, flashing you a smile. “You can have fun on your own. Nothing wrong with that, in fact, it’s my favourite.”

“God,” you laughed, swatting her arm. “You’re definitely too drunk for 12 pm, Gwen.”

However much you tried to push it from your mind and deny, Gwen’s words stuck with you through the rest of the day. A constant echo in the back of your mind that played like a mocking tune whenever you found even a second free.

With a groan you pushed yourself up from your couch, the TV show playing on the screen already long abandoned. In the silence of your apartment you could hear every step you made, every thud of your feet against the ground seemed to echo like a thump of your heart within your chest.

You reached your bedside, eyes narrowed in a glare as you rummaged through the drawer in search of your old vibrator, an unfamiliar sensation stirring in your chest once you finally pulled it out, the thing still fully charged and ready to be used. 

You settled on the bed, head nestled on the pillow as you closed your eyes and tried to tease yourself but it was so damn hard when nothing came to mind. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you reached for your phone, holding it up in a slightly shaky hand you unlocked it and made your way onto the good old trusted … twitter porn.

Your fingers hesitated over a video of a guy. His face was half visible, but his body was in the full picture and he looked sweeter than sin. Hard abs, perfectly toned, arms worth salivating over. Yeah, the guy was made to be pornographic, that you were sure of.

You clicked play, watching as he teasingly ran his hands down his body, wrapping one big hand around his equally as big dick, the sound of his low groaning coming through the speaker.

A sigh slipped past your lips as you mimicked his movement, running your hands down your body, teasingly scraping your nails along your skin before slowly reaching your fingers under the waistband of your shorts.

The video ended just as your fingers reached your clit and a low spark of annoyance ran through you. “Fuck …” you muttured, staring at the replay button. Then the words under the video caught your attention.

Want more? Check out my OF ;)

Next to them was a link. Without thinking twice, or much, you pressed the link, watching as his OnlyFans page loaded up.

You glanced at the vibrator next to you on the bed, Gwen’s words, or more so the “You can have fun on your own,” echoing inside of your head once more.

“Fuck it!” You whispered into the darkness of your room, and then pressed the subscribe button.

taglist: @alenix @briefkittenearthquake @gamesetcheckeredflag @yara011

[bokutoko]

AKAASHI confessed his feelings in a handwritten note.

he felt silly, really. a grown man, working a full time job and living on his own as a (mostly) fully functioning adult, and he couldn’t seem to say how much he cared for you to your face? it was a shame how much akaashi’s overthinking truly held him back. he was a handsome man, with a tall, lean—though recently gone softer—build, a full head of soft and healthy hair, and a pair of beautiful chocolate brown eyes that had the ability to bring anyone to their knees.

he was gorgeous.

but his mind betrayed him often, acting as his own worst enemy.

before he psyched himself out this time, though, he grabbed a pen and paper from his desk drawer. before he lost the courage, he wrote a note from the heart, explaining how wonderful you were—how you helped him believe in himself, offered advice and listening ears when needed, and brightened his days every moment you were on his mind—which was all the time, actually.

he hastily folded the note in the envelope, signed your name on the front, and placed it on your desk face-down before you and his other coworkers returned from lunch break.

hopefully, you’d see it.

and you did see it. reading every word over and over and over, your cheeks felt hot, stained scarlet.

akaashi didn’t want to look, but even if you didn’t feel the same, it was like a trainwreck—he couldn’t look away. in his peripheral, he saw—

you putting the letter away like it was nothing?!

his brows furrowed, confusion settling over his features. he was expecting you to at least meet his gaze; he wanted to see your pretty eyes, even if it was you rejecting him.

but then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. you were ethereal, destined to be his version of the epitome of beauty, his definition of divinity. you were intelligent, quick to match wits with any man who dared to challenge your skills in the workplace. you were incredibly funny—to the point that his drink (embarrassingly) once shot out of his nose at dinner when you told a story (he went home and took a shot of something stronger afterwards).

how could you, the embodiment of perfection, love a man like him, who fought gruesome wars in his mind on the daily?

this was, of course, until later that evening where you both were out at dinner with mutual friends. you mentioned an anonymous note, and that was when akaashi realized.

he forgot to sign the letter.

a/n: oh, akaashi…🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

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