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pathologicalreid · 2 months ago

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omg consider this a request to bury reader again lol. imagine having to go through that again…imagine SPENCER knowing you’re experiencing it again…….margot pLS IM BEGGING🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🙏🙏

black hole | s.r.

in which the BAU has to race against the clock to find you after you've been buried alive, again

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: spoilery content warning at the end of the post. lol. claustrophobia, being buried alive, death. reader does NOT die, spencer reid crashout, kids/pregnancy, blood, hospitals, spencer's addiction, being drugged, the replicator, i probably missed something!!!! word count: 5.35k a/n: guys can u believe my first fic on here was buried alive. and here we are. doing it again?

Spencer was surrounded by people who cared about him, and yet, the only person he genuinely wanted to see was nowhere to be found. He’d sent you home from the office, passing the car keys along and swiping the incomplete files from your desk.

You’d kissed his cheek the same way you’d done it thousands of times before, and he’d taken it for granted. He should’ve turned his head to kiss your lips. He should’ve left the files to finish tomorrow and gone home with you. He shouldn’t be looking over his shoulder right now, searching for something that wasn’t coming. You weren’t coming.

He’d sent you home, only to find himself standing in your kitchen hours later, surrounded by evidence of a struggle. There had been blood smeared across the floor, a nauseating pattern that, in his professional opinion, looked like someone had been dragged. Without enough time to DNA test the blood, he couldn’t be sure, but once the crime scene unit had typed the blood and it came back as your type, he felt comfortable in his assumption. You had been taken.

Abducted right from the home that the two of you had created for each other, a safe haven to retreat to when the world felt too cramped, too dark.

Remnants of fear lingered in every corner of the house, skylights built into the ceiling for optimum light and nightlights in every room. Spencer had designed the house for you, and Derek arranged the construction. To the average bystander, the open floor plan looked like a modernization of the original structure. To you, each wall was placed purposefully so that you’d never feel like they were closing in on you.

The first person he called was Alex. Part of him wondered if he’d chosen her because she was the only member of the team who hadn’t been around to witness this the first time. The first time Spencer had been standing in a room and had been told you were missing; it felt as though time had completely stopped. This time, it felt like a jackknife to the chest, stabbing him continuously until his legs went out from under him, leaving him gasping on the phone to his friend. The rational side of his brain tried to tell him it was because Blake lived closest, but the irrational portion of Spencer Reid was the only part of him that ever had second thoughts.

That irrational side of him was the side that was in love with you, and he couldn’t justify the probability of this happening again. The math couldn’t be completed, and Spencer was once again left in fragments, nothing more than a shattered mirror that bore the reflection of someone who had it all.

Now, back at the BAU, he stared at the confidential FBI folder that had been abandoned on the kitchen counter by your abductor. It had been dusted, only to find no sign of fingerprints. The evidence was laid out on the roundtable; each page, each horrifying photo served as a memory of what had happened to you two years ago. Left on top of the folder was a piece of paper torn from the journal your therapist had instructed you to keep. Scrawled in unfamiliar penmanship, the note read: He who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears.

He wasn’t concerned with the origin of the quote; he’d recognize Michel de Montaigne as surely as he would his own work. No, Spencer’s concern laid solely with the implications of the quote, and there was only one outcome he could come to. After all, suffering and your name were synonymous in his mind, even after all of this time.

You kept your eyes closed, grounding yourself just as your therapist had taught you in your hundreds of sessions. Soon enough, Spencer would wake up to your soft whimpers, and he’d coax you out of your paralysis. His hands would find their way to your shoulders, skimming his palms over the cotton of your sleep shirt, and he’d pull you up.

Any minute, Spencer would use the fader to illuminate your bedroom, providing you with the light that you needed as proof that everything was going to be fine. You’d anticipated this; the second anniversary of you being buried alive was just around the corner, and with it, the trauma bubbled to the surface. Even still, you found yourself frowning at the things your senses picked up—the smell of the dirt, the hard surface you were lying on, and the eerie silence of your surroundings. It took you a moment to realize that Spencer wasn’t cooing your name, trying to get you out of your nightmare without scaring you too much.

Clenching your fists, you found yourself missing the familiar pressure of your wedding ring on your left hand, and you told yourself that this had to be a dream. Since you’d gotten it, you only ever took it off if it was absolutely necessary. You’d missed the band so much that you’d gotten a cheaper one to replace it while you had the two pieces soldered together.

You took a deep breath, immediately overwhelmed by the rich earth that flooded your senses, the scent so pungent that you could almost taste it. Against your better judgment, you opened your eyes, letting the lids flutter open while you tried to adjust to the all too familiar darkness. A wave of nausea ran through you, churning your stomach while you tried to swallow it down—not wanting to lay in a puddle of your own sick. “No,” you breathed, having half a mind to sit up and look around, but as your eyes adjusted, you estimated there were only a few inches from the tip of your nose to the roof of your enclosure.

Tentatively, you felt around, grazing your fingertips across the interior surface of your newfound prison. Opposed to the smooth silk of the casket, you were met with a rough wooden surface that grated against your skin, tugging and pulling at the ridges of your fingerprints while you tried to bury your panic.

Denial only got a person so far, and there was nowhere else for you to go except to accept it. This was happening to you again.

This time, it seemed as though you were trapped within the confines of a wooden box, a collection of old two-by-fours haphazardly connected with various nails and screws. You could smell the age of the wood, damp and mildew only served to nauseate you further when mixed with the smell of the dirt.

He’d been put in time-out. Not that Hotch would ever use such layman’s terminology to describe the action taken but being told to sit in the roundtable room and stay there until they knew something felt like a child’s punishment. A flash out of the corner of his eyes signaled that JJ and Rossi had returned from checking the house, meaning Spencer had some explaining to do.

“What did you see?” Hotch asked as soon as they walked into the room. Spencer turned his head to gaze out the windows, watching the cacophony of the joint task force as it entered the next hour. He avoided JJ’s curious eyes, knowing that she knew.

Rossi’s leather boot tapped at the worn carpet in the doorway. “There was a cup of what looked like water on the kitchen counter,” he responded, nodding at the rest of the team as they all filed into the room. “The crime scene techs took a sample of it for testing. The field test came back positive for narcotics, but we won’t have an exact makeup until it comes back from the lab.”

A test that you didn’t have time for, but Spencer felt it was unnecessary. Hearing what they knew from the scene was enough to turn his stomach inside out, the kind of information that gets delivered and then all of a sudden, your ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. He’d subconsciously tuned out any other news to protect himself while he looked at the data on the form that Rossi had given him. For a long time, Spencer had accepted that his brain was one that worked with figures and reason, but looking at the numbers in front of him—nothing processed. Every number seemed foreign to him, and nothing made any sense to him.

He stood up suddenly, sending his office chair flying behind him, the aged wheels clattering within themselves as he looked around. Horrified looks were sent to him from everyone in the room. It only took one glance at your picture on the screen for him to grab the paper from the polished wood table. “I have to… I need to…” He rambled aimlessly, staring at the paper while he blindly tried to find his way out of the roundtable room and down the ramp.

Practically bolting out of the bullpen, Spencer sought the fresh air that the campus would bring, but Hotch had told him to stay put, so he settled for the more or less abandoned interview room that neighbored Morgan’s office. The room sat unused most of the time, a fine layer of dust coating everything in plain sight.

Gracelessly pulling at the strap of his watch, he flung it across the room, each faint tick of the seconds a haunting reminder that you were rapidly running out of air. He lowered himself to the ground, sitting down before his legs had a chance to give out beneath him. If he had shut down the first time, he was nothing more than a shell of himself right now, merely a pile of skin and bones that concealed organs—like a heart that was breaking. Pulsatile tinnitus made it seem like his heart was pounding in every area of his body, causing him to pull his legs to his chest, condensing himself so he didn’t take up so much space.

A soft knocking saved him from his own pit of despair, a familiar curtain of brown hair on narrow shoulders greeted his eyes, and the soft smile that Blake gave him dripped with pity. “Do you mind?” She asked rhetorically, gesturing to a chair in front of him before taking a seat. “What is it?”

Spencer’s brows furrowed, too stressed to deduce the meaning of her question. “What is what?” Dropping his hands, he thumbed the hem of his slacks, fiddling with a loose thread to occupy his busy mind. He tried to act as if there weren’t tornado sirens going off in his head, cluing him to an impending storm—one where he was bound to be swept up.

“There’s more to this thank you’re letting on,” Blake nudged the toe of her boot against Spencer’s sneaker. “Hotch wouldn’t have taken you out of the field if there weren’t exigent circumstances.”

Sometimes, he had to remind himself that even though she hadn’t been a profiler for very long, Alex had plenty of experience in the bureau. She had a knack for reading people and reaching conclusions, and, at this moment, Spencer despised her for it. He turned his head, resting his cheek on his knee, the displacement of his face causing one of his eyes to close. “She’s pregnant,” he confessed, the weight of the secret crumbling from the air around him.

He shut his other eye to avoid the look of shock that had inevitably taken place on Alex’s face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen; you were supposed to be able to wait three more weeks until the second trimester and be able to tell everyone. It was supposed to be a joyous moment, not a secret choked out when there were no other options. “Hotch knows?”

Blinded by his eyelids, Spencer nodded. Hotch was the first person he’d told once that little plus sign popped up. Before you’d told any friends and family, Spencer knew he had to tell Hotch about the baby; he had to keep you safe. What a waste that had been.

Just last week, you’d gone to see the baby for the first time, the sonogram had been gleefully posted on your refrigerator that same day. He knew the chances that JJ and Rossi hadn’t seen it were next to none, so really, there was no more secret to keep.

You were just barely nine weeks along, the last few days had been spent debating whether or not you wanted to do a blood test to find out the sex, and now you might never know. He’d thought you’d be better off at home. He’d thought getting away from the office at a normal time would be healthy for you, but instead his well-meaning gesture had placed you under the radar of someone who wanted to hurt you. What was worse was this person undoubtedly knew who you were and what you were afraid of, they’d probably been watching you for a while.

Guilt burrowed deep inside of his gut when he lifted his eyelids, looking at the paper he’d taken from the roundtable room. Mixed in with whatever they’d given you to knock you out had been an unlisted narcotic. The field test hadn’t been precise enough to name the drug, but in the end, Spencer found he didn’t really care about the specifics. He only cared about what he knew. Narcotics were known to cause miscarriages, and when you combined that with whatever had knocked you out—GHB, Rohypnol, whatever—it only killed more hope. It brought Spencer to a place of desolation.

He was miserable as he handed the paper off to Blake, vaguely aware of the people passing by in the hallway, rubbernecking near the door to try and get a glimpse of him. “Did the UnSub just take whatever was left over in your medicine cabinet and give it to her?”

The question was innocent enough. Maybe in another lifetime, you’d have a few pills left over from various hospital trips, but that wasn’t the case in this timeline. “We don’t keep narcotics in the house,” he answered a tad too quickly.

Interrupting his thought process, JJ poked her head into the interrogation room, “Uh, Hotch wants everyone in the roundtable room.” Her sorrowful blue eyes pierced through Spencer, with him sitting on the floor, everyone felt so much bigger than him. “The Replicator sent us a message.”

You gasped a sob, trying to rein in your emotions so you wouldn’t use as much of your limited air supply, but with every passing moment, you found it that much more difficult to hold yourself together. Reaching up a hand, you pressed your palm at the ceiling above you, pushing up at the roof of your enclosure to no avail. Paranoia was beginning to creep in, telling you that the things you were hearing were the worms in the soil preparing to return you to the earth.

Swiping your hand on the wood, you repeated the motion until you were clawing at the rotting material, attempting to burrow yourself out of confinement. The split grains tugged and pulled at your fingertips, leaving splinters to interrupt the fine lines of your prints. You were on the verge of throwing a tantrum, kicking and scratching at your confines, until one of the boards broke, bringing you to a screeching halt.

You’d kicked one of the boards loose, breaking it and leaving the void to fill with dirt. Lowering your shaky hands, you took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regulate your breathing through techniques you’d learned over the years. You’d spent countless hours in therapy trying to help your claustrophobia, but you’d used that time to navigate things like elevator rides and tiny bathroom stalls. You never thought you would need to prepare for this to happen to you a second time.

You couldn’t halt the tears when they finally came. Part of you knew that crying would use up what little oxygen you had at a fast rate, but the other part of you, the despondent part, didn’t have the energy to care. You tried for a moment, covering your mouth with your bleeding palm to contain the volume of air you were taking in, to no avail. You had finally lost control, and the fuzzy feeling in your brain was only exacerbated by the scent of the dirt that coated your hands.

It just wasn’t fair. Subconsciously, you knew the concept of fairness should’ve been something you’d given up on years ago, but as the air surrounding you grew stale, it was all you could think about. The idea that you’d spent your morning with Spencer trying to prove to you that your bump was showing, giggling while using the false name you’d assigned to your unborn child as you insisted you were just bloated.

Slowly, you dragged your bleeding fingertips down your torso, leaving them resting hesitantly on your lower belly, the exact spot that Spencer had insisted was protruding just that morning. Bile rose in your throat as you feared what your day of turmoil meant for your baby. You had no idea how long you’d been in the ground, and you had no idea how much time you had left. Spencer would’ve figured it out—he had last time. One sleepless night, you’d made him explain tidal volume to you, and he’d let you comb your fingers through your hair while he told you the story of the last time he came to your rescue.

As you lay there, paranoid, wondering if you were imagining the pain in your head and stomach, it occurred to you that you never should have come back to the BAU the first time. The sleepless nights you’d spent combing through the trauma of your teammates, convincing yourself that what you’d been through was nothing in comparison to their scars, had been entirely unnecessary. You kept a tally of the flights of stairs you’d taken when one elevator ride would’ve sufficed, wearing the count as a badge of honor. You could count on one hand the number of elevator rides you’ve taken in the last two years—they were usually spent with your head in your hands and Spencer’s hand on your back.

You’d always compared yourself to Emily, who’d lost her life, and Hotch, who’d lost his love, and you decided that if they could return to the field after those events, then there was no reason for you to lag behind. You forced yourself to play a part you didn’t belong in, and you could never forgive yourself for it. It’s part of the reason you let your eyes fall shut when the air grows thin, wondering if there was any point in coming back to a life you weren’t mean to be living.

He'd run out of things to throw, eyeing the books that he’d left scattered on the ground, his watch still discarded somewhere in the interview room. His tie was loosened to the point that it was almost slipping off of his neck while he desperately tried to catch his breath. Each time he settled down, he remembered you were suffocating, and the cycle continued.

The Replicator had all but taken responsibility for your abduction, and the world around him had begun to spin. Quickly, everything began to make sense, repeating a crime that had been committed against you and using narcotics to knock you out.

His addiction had never been officially documented in any FBI files, but that didn’t stop Spencer from placing fault on himself. There were easier ways to incapacitate someone, and somehow, the Replicator had chosen the method that was likely to do the most harm. Spencer put his trembling hands over his head, knowing that if he’d never taken that vial off of Tobias Hankel’s corpse, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. His mind that had been previously praised for genius drew convoluted lines between the dots, making connections that he never should’ve considered.

In the doorway, Alex came to his rescue once more, holding a Kevlar vest in her hand while smiling at him kindly, “We found her.”

The distance between Quantico and the cemetery was no more than a blur to him. He had no idea when it had started to rain, but he found each pelt of a raindrop to be soothing, welcoming the constant drumming that occupied his minds, keeping him away from catastrophizing.

Rossi, Hotch, and Emily had arrived only moments before the second SUV, but they’d wasted no time in getting the cemetery staff to dig at the coordinates Penelope had found in the message sent by the Replicator. The rain made the soil move like sludge off of the makeshift casket that contained the love of his life, and he took his first step toward you when he saw the broken pieces of wood.

A familiar arm went out in front of him, blocking his path to you with a sense of fraternal protection, but Spencer tried to push Morgan away. He was the weaker of the two, exhausted by his own emotions as he shoved his way through to you. Distantly, he heard himself asking to be let through, but it wasn’t until the lid of the casket was popped that Blake spoke up for him, “Derek.”

Immediately, Derek’s arm dropped, releasing the hold he had on Spencer and allowing him to run to you. The sopping ground sept into his shoes as he ran, falling into the mud while Emily and Hotch precariously pulled you out of your enclosure. Morgan’s intention had been to shield Spencer from the harsh reality of your death, but even if you were gone, he still felt an otherworldly pull to you. After all, what was the point of promising ‘til death do us part if he wasn’t with you when you went?

Mud coated every spare inch of his clothes, but he couldn’t care less as he scrambled to take your hand in his, gently pressing his fingers to your wrist and waiting for something—anything. “Baby, please.” He couldn’t tell, the radial pulse could be undependable, so he moved his hand to your neck and crouched his head over your face, immediately comforted when he heard the faint whistle of air flowing through your nostrils.

Relief flooded his senses, inclining his head to rest his forehead against yours and nodding profusely when Emily asked him if you were alive. His chest shook with a sob as he pulled back, tugging his FBI jacket off and laying it over you to try and warm you up, the rest of the team following suit while JJ and Hotch tried to flag down the ambulance. He tuned out the frantic discussion of the team and the loud blare of the emergency vehicles.

Shifting so he was sitting on the ground, he gingerly placed your head in his lap, using his fingertips to deftly wipe away the dirt and blood that covered your marred skin. He noted a scratch on your head, and a quick scan of your body didn’t show him any visible injuries, though your hands displayed a nauseating portrait of your time in the ground, torn apart with dozens of splinters. “I’ve got you,” he cooed to your unconscious body. He looked up to see a team of EMTs running towards you, decked out in rain gear and medical supplies, “She’s pregnant.”

His words elicited a stare from one of the rain-soaked paramedics, telling him he had reached the same conclusion that Spencer had already resolved himself to. “We’ve gotta get her out of this rain,” he said, loading you onto a spine board and lifting you to the gurney so they could easily roll you to the ambulance, leaving Spencer scrambling to catch up with you. He practically threw himself into the ambulance, refusing to separate himself from you.

Spencer squeezed your hand, hoping you’d squeeze back, staying as far back as he could from the paramedics while keeping his fingers intertwined with yours.

Nothing hurt when you came to, but you could feel the familiar pressure of a bandage around your leg. Sensation traveled up to your hands, each of your fingertips precariously wrapped with cause, initiating the healing of your cuts from when you’d tried to scratch your way to freedom. Slowly, you took a deep breath, letting the antiseptic air of the hospital flood your senses.

Through your eyelids, you could see that the room around you was bright, and a soft smile tugged at your lips despite yourself—Spencer was here. You felt him now, the soft touch of his hand on your arm, the imprint of a hand you knew as well as your own. The warmth of his palm served as a brief distraction before your brain registered a dull ache in your stomach, and somehow, you just knew. A low keening sound slipped from your throat, more from the compressed escape of air than a complaint of any pain you felt.

“I love you,” Spencer whispered gently, his voice hoarse with emotion, “So, so much.” He took your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your battered knuckles. “Oh, honey,” he sighed, gently squeezing your hand, minding your wounds.

He was so gentle with you—he always had been. His fingertips drifted over your arm with an attention to detail that rivaled a medical doctor, minding the IV in your arm when he moved past it. You tried to mumble an I love you in return, but the words came out unintelligibly.

Spencer’s ministrations came to a halting stop at this first sign of life, “Hey,” he cooed, “What was that?” You felt the side of your mattress dip as he took a seat on your bedside, he hushed you gently, dragging a knuckle up and down your cheek while silently pleading for you to speak.

He was testing you, that much you knew. He wanted to know if being deprived of air had cost you your ability to speak. You shook your head at him, denying the implication as you cleared your throat determinedly, “I love you, too.” Your voice was gravelly, likely from all of the screaming you had done in the tomb, but it was there, and it was coherent.

The hospital sheets scratched at your skin while you tried to coax yourself into opening your eyes, the promise of seeing Spencer providing an incentive. Taking a deep breath, your eyelids fluttered open, looking up at his sorrowful eyes. Even so, he smiled at you softly, just happy to see you awake, “There’s my girl.”

The tear tracks on his face were like daggers to your heart, bringing with them a terrible reminder of whatever fear he felt when you had gone missing. You blinked additional sleep out of your eyes, focusing on him and his exhaustion, “How long?” You asked, watching him reach over for a glass of water, guiding the straw to your mouth.

He waited until you’d taken a few sips before answering your questions, “You’ve been asleep for two days.” He said, setting the cup to the side—close enough that you could grab it on your own if need be.

You made a face—two days was a long time—and sighed, relaxing back into the pillows while you tried to find the right words to say. “How’s…. Am I…?” You stumbled through the question, tears welling in your waterline before you even had the chance to ask. Swallowing thickly, you could only hope Spencer understood when you were getting at before you had to force the words out.

Your husband shook his head softly, “There’s no heartbeat.” His voice was tight, but he maintained his position as a pillar for you to lean on, keeping your hand in his just in case you needed additional support.

It didn’t hurt, not right now. You were sure the grief would hit you at some point in the near future when the sun hit your face just right or a blue car passed you by. Some inexplicable harbinger of grief would enter and exit your life just as quickly as your child had. “Okay,” you breathed, gazing at Spencer, hoping your eyes would have the ability to convey how you felt.

“They haven’t pinpointed a cause; it could’ve been any number of things, but it’s not… Are you in any pain?” He cut himself off to check in on you; he studied your expression with a stoicism that rivaled your boss.

You shook your head, “No.” The achiness you felt wasn’t strong enough to fully qualify as pain, and anything that was there, your body had already gotten used to. You were sure there was something in your IV that was assisting the numbness in your limbs.

Spencer raised his eyebrows doubtfully, “Would you tell me if you were?” He asked you, giving you a look that reminded you he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Will you just… not tell anyone I woke up yet?” You shifted uncomfortably on the bed, “I’m not ready.” You needed time to prepare for the prying eyes and barrage of questions that were bound to come with the BAU.

His head bobbed, “Anything. Anything you want,” he promised, dragging his knuckle up and down your cheek. Subconsciously, you leaned into his touch, prompting him to cup the cold skin in his warm palm. “You could go back to sleep if you wanted to.”

You hummed woefully, “Not yet. I missed the light.” Besides that, you wanted to enjoy your sedated mind before it became overwhelmed with a flurry of emotions. Right now, you felt peace, and you deserved to have that kind of silence. Surely the dam would break, but as long as you could hold it off, you just wanted to lay in bed with Spencer. “’m cold,” you mumbled thoughtlessly, thinking of it as a throwaway comment before you remembered who you married.

Spencer had a pile of blankets to his left, and he deftly pulled the top one from the pile and got to work placing it over you. “Is this better?” He asked, timidly tucking the blanket under your side and making sure you were well-covered.

Wincing, you slid your hand beneath the blanket and lifted the side, creating an opening for him to slip into. Your silent invitation was accepted when Spencer kicked his shoes off and joined you in the crowded hospital bed, “Much better.” You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, “Spence?”

“What is it, honey?” He asked, skimming the pad of his thumb over your side, his large hand splayed against your back.

Clenching your left hand into a fist, you sighed, trying to ignore the tears that were pricking your eyes. “Did you find my ring?” You remembered missing it in the ground, but you’d forgotten until just now, your finger once again intolerably bare.

A gentle kiss was pressed to the crown of your head, “Yes.” He twisted back, plucking the familiar ring off of your bedside table and returning it to its rightful home on your ring finger. “It was on the back of your sink in the bathroom,” he explained, twisting the band so the gem was facing out.

Small, sad tears trickled from your ducts. You sniffled, and Spencer’s grip on you changed—not tighter, but firmer as if he had anticipated this moment. The moment when what you had been avoiding finally caught up with you.

“I’ve got you,” he reassured you. You didn’t even have to ask for him to rub small circles on your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. As it had been for years now, Spencer was the only reason you felt safe enough to let your eyes fall shut, and even the darkness of sleep didn’t seem so intimidating when you knew you had him near.

spoiler content warning: miscarriage

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot

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darkmatilda · 3 months ago

Text

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer needs your help examining a crucial piece of evidence...but the moment he sees you, his mind goes blah blah blah...proper name, place name, backstory stuff...

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist! female reader, same reader as in pick your poison but you don’t need to read that first—there aren’t any major references, suggestion that the reader engages in casual hook ups, reader has a belly button piercing and a described outfit, spencer's pov only

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by @trulymadlydarling it was slowly gathering dust in my inbox 😭 sorry!

"I think the threshold of my lab isn't exactly the best place for camping."

A woman's silhouette cast a shadow over Spencer as she appeared right above him in the dimly lit hallway.

Spencer sighed in frustration and hauled himself to his feet. As he brushed off his pants, he kept his eyes off the woman in front of him.

"Well, I didn't think you'd make me wait fifty-eight—"

"Oh, just say the hour. Is rounding numbers really that hard for you?" she scoffed, her voice carrying a trace of genuine curiosity. She swiped her access card, unlocking the door to the lab. With her back turned to him, he took in her appearance—an oversized fur coat draped over her shoulders, a designer handbag hanging from one arm. His gaze drifted downward, and to his surprise, he noticed…pajama pants and slippers?

"You should be grateful I even bothered to show up at this hour," she added.

"This is really important," Spencer replied as she led him inside.

She moved through the space with effortless familiarity, heading straight for the light switch. Well, this was her domain, after all—the place where she spent most of her days.

"I don't care," she replied. "Unless you've found proof that Marilyn Monroe was the Zodiac Killer all along—then, well, I care a little. Honestly, you have no idea how much you owe me for showing up..."

He rolled his eyes.

"Should I be thanking you on my knees, or...?"

"I could have been busy. I could have been out with the girls at a club. I could have been having the night of my life..."

"I get it, you made a huge sacrifice answering my request, but can you now—"

"I could have been in bed already. My own. Or not my own," she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Though in that case, I wouldn’t have picked up."

Spencer simply sighed. By now, he was used to it—the way most of their conversations followed the same pattern. How she always set the pace, steering the direction as she pleased. How she sometimes deliberately ignored his words and didn’t care if it made her seem rude. How, in general, she didn’t care what impression she left on others.

He had witnessed it countless times, found it irritating every single time, and yet—every single time—he kept the conversation going. Funny.

She switched on only one of the lights, leaving the room bathed in a soft twilight. Her handbag landed on the long counter beside one of the microscopes, and she tossed her fur coat next to it, completely unconcerned about knocking something over.

Sometimes, he watched her with quiet fascination—the effortless confidence in her movements—and wondered if she had ever, even once, smacked her hip against a doorframe. Or stubbed her toe on a cabinet. Those small, mundane humiliations and everyday mishaps simply didn’t seem to fit with who she was.

He tightened his grip on the plastic bag he had brought with him, the one containing something that needed to be examined. The team didn’t know about it yet.

The thought, the theory, had quite literally yanked him out of sleep. He couldn’t function without checking this lead immediately. But he knew that if he went through the lab, he’d have to wait until morning for the results…so he decided to ask for a friendly favor.

Okay friendly was a big word.

They had known each other for a few months, worked together on several cases, gone on a date, slept together.

Not necessarily in that order.

He was just about to open his mouth, say something, hand her the bag… when, for the first time, he actually saw her in better light than the dim glow—or rather, lack of it—in the hallway. Against his own will, his gaze started its journey over her.

From the slippers on her feet, up the loose pajama pants that ended just below the piercing in her navel, the black camisole with thin straps, to her face—completely free of makeup.

Until now, he had only seen her in two versions. One was her usual, elegant work attire. The other was her evening look—form-fitting, designed to turn heads and keep them there.

On second thought, there was also a third version. Without clothes.

But he had never seen her like this. Casual, comfortable, dressed for nothing more than wandering the walls of her own apartment.

She lifted her arms to tie her hair into a ponytail, and her shirt rode up slightly.

“If my piercing fascinates you that much, I can give you my piercer’s number,” she offered dryly, a fleeting smirk on her lips as she caught his stare. He immediately snapped his gaze back to her face, cursing internally when he realized he probably looked like he had been caught staring. Which, of course, he hadn’t been. “Excellent work. Full professionalism. Experienced hands…”

"I need you to check this stain," he interrupted, raising the bag.

They had been talking too much, and he really needed to know if his suspicions were correct.

She stepped closer to take the bag from him.

“Is this a crucial piece of evidence, or can I touch it?”

“You can touch it…”

She stopped just a step away, shifting her weight onto one hip and tilting her head to get a better look.Spencer instinctively straightened, feeling a strange tension along his spine.Earlier, he had been looking at what she was wearing. Now, what caught his attention was how she looked.

There’s a certain kind of beauty you never quite get used to, no matter how often you see it. The kind that, every time, knocks the air from your lungs for just a second—that fleeting disbelief that someone like this actually walks the earth.

She had it. She radiated it.

And she was just a step away.

She took the garment out of the bag. It was a red turtleneck sweater. She lifted it higher toward the light, furrowing her brow as she examined the stain.

Spencer’s gaze fell on her beautiful face, her eyes shimmering slightly, her lower lip slightly pursed in thought.

Suddenly, she scoffed, snapping him back to reality.

"Mystery solved, and I didn’t even need a microscope," she said, shoving the sweater back into his hands. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers, catching him slightly off guard. "It’s foundation. I’d recognize that stain anywhere. So, hooray, happy to help, no need to put me in the case report, have a good night, and see you—"

He grabbed her wrist before she could step away, stopping her in place.

"This isn’t a joke," he said, his voice dropping, tinged with sudden irritation.She raised an eyebrow at both his tone and the way he—unintentionally—closed the distance between them. As usual, she looked him straight in the eyes, and as usual, it was hard not to be drawn in. But he tried, because this case was really consuming his thoughts. "Listen, I called you because I need someone to actually test it. Not just glance at it. It'll only take a moment, and then you can go back to crawling into bed with whoever you want. Can you do that?"

The second-to-last sentence made her expression shift slightly.

For a moment, they stood there, unwavering, eyes locked without so much as a blink. Then, the corners of her lips tugged upward—just barely. But it felt more like a forced gesture, an attempt to maintain her carefully practiced expression, rather than a sign of genuine amusement.

"Alright," she replied softly. Not to be mistaken for shyly. There was nothing shy about her, a fact he was reminded of constantly.

"I’ll test it, since it matters so much to you. And then I’m going back to bed." A slow blink before she yanked the sweater from his hands. "With whoever I want."

Why did swallowing suddenly stop being an automatic reflex and turn into something he had to consciously work through?

"That’s great," he said shortly, dryly. He could feel himself slipping into the trap again, letting her toy with him. "Have fun."

"I will."

With that simple assurance, she walked away, and the very particles of air around him seemed to loosen, finally allowing him to breathe again. He turned after her instinctively, the way a swivel chair spins when someone sets it in motion.

She crossed the lab table and leaned over an empty workstation—empty, like all the others. The entire width of the counter separated them now, along with the return of cool detachment to her face. Slowly, Spencer rested his hands on the smooth surface, watching as she got to work. Watching as her hair bounced slightly with the shift in position. Watching as her jaw tensed in concentration. Watching as she leaned over the workstation slightly.

"So," she began flatly, not pausing her work or even looking at him.

Spencer gave his head a small shake, realizing that this time, he really had been staring. At least she hadn’t seen it.

"What exactly am I testing?"

His gaze drifted to her again.

"Something related to the case."

"Wow, I never would've guessed."

He was too distracted to mentally slap himself for how pathetic he was.

"Uh, it’s not exactly groundbreaking," he began.

He could focus—he just had to try hard enough. He just had to clear the lingering trace of her scent from when she’d stood so close. Had to shake off the echo of her words. With whoever I want, she had said. The more he thought about it, the more accurate it seemed. He firmly believed she could have whoever she wanted. With that confidence. With that face. With that body…

"That’s why I’m checking it after hours. Just, you know…backstory stuff…"

A sound escaped her lips—somewhere between a scoff of disbelief and a startled laugh. She looked at him—no, she pinned him with her gaze.

"Backstory stuff?" she repeated, her lips curling into a smile. Not even a mocking one anymore. She was genuinely amused. "Did you, Doctor Spencer Reid, when asked what the evidence pertains to, actually respond with backstory stuff…?"

“No, I…I mean…”

“Oh God, it’s a good thing they don’t put you in front of cameras. Imagine you, at a press conference. Just casually dropping backstory stuff on national television…”

“I can handle myself in front of cameras,” he clarified, feeling an odd warmth creep up the back of his neck. “But there aren’t any here. And besides, I didn’t realize you wanted me to recite the entire case file from memory…”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said with another amused snort. “Backstory stuff is actually a surprisingly accurate term. You know, very professional.”

He rolled his eyes, feigning irritation, though what he really felt was more akin to embarrassment.

“Speaking of professionalism, maybe you could get back to work?” he suggested.

“I don’t have to,” she replied, flashing him a sweet smile. “I already checked everything. And I was wrong. It’s not foundation—it’s nitroglycerin.”

Spencer’s jaw practically hit the floor.

For the first time since stepping into the lab, his mind was running at full capacity.

"Nitroglycerin? Are you sure?"

"Well, I don’t get these things wrong," she said, almost offended.

"Nitroglycerin," he repeated in a whisper.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Suddenly, everything made sense.

She leaned her elbows on the table, watching him with interest.

He wanted to kiss her.

No—he did not—

"Thank you," he blurted out, her words becoming background noise as his thoughts raced. "Thank you for coming. This…this really helps. I have to tell the team—"

He turned toward the door, dazed by the realization.

Something stopped him.

"Spencer," she called gently.

She didn’t seem angry that he was leaving so abruptly. If anything, there was a certain soft glint in her eyes, a quiet fascination with his sudden revelation. Standing in the doorway, he looked at her one last time, feeling himself freeze in place again. He said nothing, sensing that she wanted to say something instead.

She tilted her head slightly.

"You owe me a favor," she said.

There was something about the way she said it—something that sent a slow, deliberate shiver down his spine. Not even a shiver. More like a careful march of cold fingertips down his vertebrae.

So, naturally, he did what any grown man with an IQ of 187 would do.

He parted his lips slightly and nodded.

#spence reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fic

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 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 the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.

Jos: ��And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!

Max: Yes.

Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element.

High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space.

She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing.

Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.

She was different here.

Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.

Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.

“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept.

“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.

“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.

Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”

She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.

So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”

“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”

“Max…”

“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”

She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”

She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges.

“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky.

Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”

She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.

Isabelle: I said yes.

Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??

Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.

Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.

Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.

Emilie: So when do we pack?

Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.

Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine.

Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.

Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.

Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?

Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.

Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.

Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.

Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.

Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.

Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.

Highlights included:

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books.

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister.

A heavy coffee table book about golf.

A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.

A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from.

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise.

A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.

A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway.

A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow. Two full size too big.

It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.

Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.

“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”

Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.

“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.

“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.

God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well.

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.

Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.

She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.

And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.

The support system.

The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes.

“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.

But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.

Or no—that wasn’t it.

Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.

Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.

And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.

She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.

She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.

She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”

Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.

But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.

And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.

He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.

And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.

Max didn’t just love her.

He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.

Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.

And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.

And now… for them.

Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.

And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.

It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.

This was real.

She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?

What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?

She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.

Would Max care?

Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store.

The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.

The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.

She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.

They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.

But she wanted this one.

This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.

She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

The words were quiet, but steady.

A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?

Max: Define “a few things.”

Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks.

Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”

Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.

Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put the throw pillows I just found on the couch.

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.

Max: Touché.

Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.

Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.

Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!

@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.

↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.

@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!

@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.

***

Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.

She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.

He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.

It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.

But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.

“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”

“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”

She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”

Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”

“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.

She nodded, eyes down.

Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”

She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”

“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”

He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.

So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.

Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.

The roll up keyboard. That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.

“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”

Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”

“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”

There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.

“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.

Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”

He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”

She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know. “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.

She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”

Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.

“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”

She blinked. That was… accurate.

“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”

And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.

Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.

“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.

“What kind?”

“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?

Max: …What?

Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones. Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?

Max: I’m sorry… what?

Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.

Max: I do love that wall.

Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.

Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.

Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane.

Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?

Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.

Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.

Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

Max: Send me a photo when it’s done? I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.

Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.

Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.

Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.

“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”

Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”

“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”

Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.

It was… insane.

Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.

Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!

It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.

He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”

Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”

Lando stared. “Your what?”

Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”

Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’m your friend, Max!”

And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”

Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”

Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”

She smirked. “Clearly.”

Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”

Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”

Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”

“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.

Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”

“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”

Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”

Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”

“Noted.”

“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”

Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”

And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.

Isabelle’s Emilie.

The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”

Max was… a little afraid.

He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.

Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.

The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.

When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”

“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.

Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out.

Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing.

Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”

“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.

“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”

“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.

“Smart man.”

She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.

“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”

Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”

Emilie stared at him.

Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.

“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.

“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.

And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?

That meant he was doing something right.

Which mattered.

Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.

Lando: SAME THING.

Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.

Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.

Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.

Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.

Max: Thanks.

Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”

Gianni Vecchio: “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”

Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”

Chris: “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”

Gianni: “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”

Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨

Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"

Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.

Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]

[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous.

Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?

Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.

Chat:

max literally lives in a batcave

this is a SIM LAIR

rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment

WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.

Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.

***

Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.

She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.

Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.

“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”

“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”

“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.

“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.

Still, she tried.

“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”

Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”

“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.

“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”

“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.

No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race. No one circled back to Isabelle.

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”

“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.

Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”

“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”

…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted.

“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.

“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”

No one had an answer for that.

And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.

“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”

***

The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.

Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”

Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.

“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.

He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby, a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.

“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”

He let the silence hang, waiting.

“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”

Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”

“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.

“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”

Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.

“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”

Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?

Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.

Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?

Lando: Mhm.

Chat:

LANDO WHAT

BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?

Lando: Yep.

Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?

Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat:

“do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break.

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French.

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either.

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him.

What was that about now?

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease.

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

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simplygojo · 4 months ago

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12 Days of Desire ⸺ Kento Nanami

author's note ⸺ MERRY CHRISTMAS! Here is a lil something for the holidays, just a lil smutty blurb. pairing ⸺ Kento Nanami x reader content ⸺ 18+ SMUT, MDNI, oral sex (reader recv.), overstim., fingering, Nanami being sexy asf, full fledged mating position, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns

materlist || request guidelines || commissions ||

The 12 Days of Desire 'adult advent calendar' was a bold purchase—one you hadn’t quite expected your boyfriend, Kento Nanami, to agree to.

Yet, there it was on the kitchen counter, with its sleek, black-and-gold packaging and an air of understated mischief.

You had giggled when you saw the name, and though Nanami’s face had remained as stoic as ever, you could swear there was a flicker of curiosity in his gaze as you brought it to the register.

Now, on the first day of opening it, you and Nanami stood together, the morning light casting a golden hue over the kitchen.

You carefully pressed a finger against the thin cardboard flap marked "1" and peeled it back. Inside was a neatly folded red card. Pulling it out, you opened it and read aloud:

"Silent Night"

“No sounds tonight—just let your bodies do the talking.”

You glanced at Nanami with a mix of amusement and bashfulness. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. “That’s... specific,” he remarked, his tone dry but his eyes warm.

You laughed, setting the card down on the counter. “Well, I guess we’ll have to save that for later. When we’re both home and not thinking about deadlines.”

Nanami adjusted his tie, his expression softening further as he nodded. “Later it is, then.”

—

The day passed as it usually did, with both of you immersed in your respective workloads. You finished work earlier than Nanami and arrived home just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Deciding to make the most of the extra time, you headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable—an oversized sweater that draped over your frame, paired with a pair of Christmas-themed panties you’d bought on a whim.

The playful holiday pattern made you smile as you adjusted the hem of the sweater, letting it skim just enough to hint at the festive design beneath.

As you stood in front of the mirror fixing your hair, you heard the familiar sound of the front door opening, followed by the quiet shuffle of Nanami’s shoes against the floor.

“Kento?” You called out, your voice carrying down the staircase.

No response. You frowned slightly but shrugged it off. He was probably putting away his things or caught up in thought. It wouldn’t be the first time. Returning to your dresser, you barely had time to register the soft creak of footsteps on the stairs before he appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” you greeted, turning toward him with a smile. But instead of replying, Nanami crossed the room in measured, deliberate strides.

“Kento?” You asked again, tilting your head in curiosity.

But before you could say anything more, his hands were on your waist, pulling you close. His lips found yours in a kiss so fervent it stole your breath. The heat of his touch and the firmness of his embrace made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

It hit you then—the card.

“No sounds tonight…”

You let out a muffled sound of surprise, but Nanami didn’t falter. His hands roamed, sliding up your back and down your sides with an urgency that belied his usual composure.

His silence wasn’t cold or distant; it was commanding, a wordless way of communicating everything he wanted and everything he intended to give.

Your back met the edge of the bed as he guided you toward it, his hands never leaving your body.

Nanami eased you down, towering above you with his tie already loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone in a way that revealed the hint of his toned chest.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in another kiss that was slower this time, more deliberate. His tongue teased the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open until you melted under him, giving yourself fully to his lead.

Nanami’s hands moved with purpose, sliding your sweater up and over your head before discarding it to the side.

His lips didn’t leave your skin for long, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reached your soft, swollen tits.

Nanami’s mouth worked skillfully against your skin, drawing a soft gasp from your lips as he lavished attention on one breast, his tongue circling the sensitive peak before sucking gently.

His hand on the other breast mimicked his mouth’s rhythm, fingers rolling and tugging until you squirmed beneath him, a quiet whimper escaping you.

His lips trailed downward, leaving a heated path across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your festive lace panties, he paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You nodded, giving him the permission he didn’t need to ask for. With that, Nanami’s fingers curled around the fabric, sliding it down your legs with an unhurried precision that made the anticipation almost unbearable.

The cool air against your exposed skin sent a shiver up your spine, but it was quickly replaced by the warmth of his breath as his face settled between your thighs.

He took his time, his lips and tongue tracing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, teasingly close to where you wanted him most. The faintest flick of his tongue against your folds made you jerk, a soft cry slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

Nanami’s eyes darkened, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Quiet,” he murmured, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

But he didn’t make it easy.

His mouth found your clit, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bed. He alternated between gentle flicks and firmer pressure, keeping you on edge, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.

Your hands gripped the sheets, your body trembling as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm. When his fingers joined in, sliding into you with an ease that made your toes curl, the moan that escaped your lips was anything but quiet.

Nanami reacted instantly, his free hand moving to cover your mouth, his palm firm against your lips as he shot you a look that was equal parts commanding and amused.

“I said, quiet,” he whispered, standing up from his position between your thighs to look down at your flushed face.

Before you could react to him, Nanami shifted, positioning himself over you as he unzipped his grey-ish dress pants.

His shirt was still half-buttoned, the fabric brushing against your sensitive skin as he lined himself up. He paused just long enough to meet your gaze, his eyes asking a silent question as you watched his thick cock spring free from his pants.

When you nodded, he pushed into you in one slow, deliberate thrust that stole the air from your lungs.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as he set a steady, deliberate pace, his movements controlled but intense.

The soft creak of the bed and the sound of your bodies moving together filled the room, and despite your best efforts not much effort was made tbh, small, muffled cries escaped you.

Nanami leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I?”

His hand firmly covered your pretty lips once again, maintaining the pressure as his pace quickened. The slight edge of dominance in his actions only heightened the intensity, your body reacting instinctively to the way he held you in place, the way he claimed you completely.

But then, just as you thought you’d grown accustomed to the rhythm he set, Nanami pulled back slightly, his free hand sliding down to grip your thighs.

His strength was undeniable as he pushed your legs toward your chest, folding you into a position that left you completely exposed to him.

“Stay just like this,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding, his hand tightening around the soft curve of your thigh to keep you in place.

The new angle had him sinking even deeper into you, his cock brushing against a spot so sensitive it made your body jerk beneath him. The sensation ripped a muffled cry from your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders as your vision began to turn white.

Nanami didn’t falter. His hips moved with purpose, each thrust precise and devastating, the force of his movements making the bed creak beneath you.

His grip on your thighs didn’t waver either, his fingers pressing into your skin as he held you exactly where he wanted you.

Your muffled moans and the tension in your body were all the encouragement he needed. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, his composure fraying as his own release built.

When he finally reached his peak, his body shuddering above yours, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hand still covering your mouth to muffle the cries you couldn’t contain as you too felt the wave of pleasure overtake you.

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, catching your breath as the room filled with the sound of your slowing heartbeats. When Nanami finally pulled his dripping self out of you, his hand releasing you mouth, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead.

“You didn’t make it easy,” he said, his tone dry but his eyes warm as he helped you settle back against the bed.

You managed a tired laugh, your body still tingling from the aftermath. “Hmmm, I’ll try harder tomorrow.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow, a small, rare smile tugging at his lips. “Tomorrow?”

You grinned, your exhaustion no match for the spark in your eyes. “It’s only the first day of the calendar, Kento.”

author's note II ⸺ I did not edit this at all so imsosorry

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prettieinpink · 6 months ago

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HABITS TO IMPLEMENT BEFORE THE END OF THE YEAR ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹

DAILY AFFIRMATIONS

You can choose whatever time you’d like to say positive and affirmative statements to yourself. When saying affirmations, use the first person and present tense. E.g I am healthy, I take care of myself, and I am strong academically.

Affirmations are so helpful because our brains struggle to tell the difference between imagination and reality. So, when we visualise ourselves doing something that's not actually happening, it stimulates the brain areas as if we were actually experiencing it.

So, repetitive affirmations will encourage your brain to treat it as fact. While this only works to an extent, it does help with self-sabotaging thought actions and thought patterns.

EATING MINDFULLY

Eating mindfully is the practice of when consuming anything, you put your full focus on that meal. There are no devices that may distract you, you’re eating slowly and paying close attention to how different meals make your body feel.

To eat mindfully, focus on the time it takes for you to finish your food. Is it enough time for your body to give signals about your meal? To chew thoroughly? Another thing is to turn off and eliminate any distractions. Such as being on any devices or multitasking.

Eating too quickly means that your body may not have enough time to tell you that it's full. When you eat mindfully, it's easier for your body to register when it's full. Furthermore, it's easier to distinguish between true hunger and non-hunger triggers for eating.

CREATIVE OUTLETS

For a lot of us, 2024 was a stressful year. We’re constantly hustling and not letting ourselves process what's happening in and around us. Having a creative outlet helps us to release and detach from those emotions. It allows us to experience that feeling, but leave it all behind in the end.

Some examples are painting, clay artwork, creative writing, designing, sewing, crocheting and music. There’s a lot more you could do, but ultimately you have to do what's best for yourself.

LEARNING SOMETHING NEW EVERYDAY

At least one thing each day: aim to learn something completely new to you. Other than the fact that you are learning something new, it allows for your curiosity to grow and expand outside of your typical education institution. With curiosity, comes with the skill of being able to explore complications and come up with solutions.

There are many ways you can learn, but I think the best way is by coming up with your questions in an area you’re unfamiliar with and then looking for an answer to your question.

My favourite way has to be watching video essays. Doesn’t always have to be social commentary, but anything that seems interesting enough for me.

COMPLIEMENT-A-DAY

I love receiving compliments from strangers. It leaves the widest smile on my face and I swear I feel so much lighter like I’m floating around. However, I never think to give a compliment to someone else who I don’t know. So, whenever you see the cutest outfit or the perfect lip combo, make sure to say it!

For those who may be shy in those kinds of interactions, practice saying it in your head. You don’t have to say it out loud to them, but thinking positively of other people will reflect on how you think about yourself.

That is it for this post, thank you for reading until the end ♥︎ Until next time, take care of yourself ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹

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perpetualspinach · 7 months ago

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[ID: 4 photos of a green v-neck sweater vest, with designs from 1760 in light beige yarn. The first two photos show the front and back of the vest. There is a design with birds and flowers circling the bottom. The front has a lying down dog, facing left but with its head turned back to the right. The back has a man on a horse, holding a bird in his hand. The v-neck and armholes are 1x1 ribbed, and the hem is ribbed in a “baby cable” pattern. The third photo shows a close up of the colourwork from the inside. The birds along the bottom are stranded, whereas the larger designs on the front and back use ladderback jacquard. The fourth photo shows a closeup of the design along the bottom. Two birds face eachother, with a pole inbetween them and candlesticks to the side of them. End ID]

A sweater vest for my friend, using designs from a 1760 german pattern book that i meticulously copied into stitchfiddle and then arranged onto a pattern.

I'm really proud of this, I knit the same vest pattern (but with different, simpler colourwork) almost exactly 2 years ago, and seeing my progress since then is really cool!

#sweater vest #knitting #knitblr #knitted sweater #colorwork #knitters of tumblr #1760s #18th century

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slytherinsmuse · 6 months ago

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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Yours, Always | Theodore Nott ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem! Reader

Warnings: characters are 18+, not canon,SMUT (minors please look away), smoking, drinking

Summary: Smut, fluff, light angst|Amidst the quiet chaos of a summer at the Malfoy Manor, Theo and his ex navigate the tension of unresolved feelings .

Word count: 12109

author's note: This is a bit longer than what I have posted. Honestly I hope you enjoy because I feel like I am bad at writing smut (despite loving to read it).

The fire crackled and hissed as the group gathered around it, the orange glow casting flickering shadows across the sprawling Malfoy gardens. The scent of freshly trimmed hedges mingled with the faint aroma of smoke, the warmth of the flames competing against the cool evening breeze that whispered through the manicured lawns. Laughter echoed through the warm night air, conversations overlapping in a symphony of easy companionship. Astoria leaned into Draco’s side, her hand resting lightly on his knee as they exchanged whispers. Daphne and Blaise shared a bottle of wine, their heads close together, their laughter a soft, musical undercurrent. Pansy was perched on Mattheo’s lap, giggling at something he’d said, her wine glass dangling from her fingers as though she’d forgotten it was there.

And then there was you.

You sat silently in one of the ornate garden chairs, its wrought-iron design digging faintly into your back as you nursed a glass of wine. The firelight danced on the surface of the dark liquid, flickering shadows reflecting your own stormy thoughts. You did your best to appear absorbed in the flames, as though the mesmerising flicker of orange and gold could distract you from the oppressive knot tightening in your chest.But the warmth of the flames did little to thaw the cold discomfort that had taken up residence there.

It had been a mistake to come. You knew that now.

You’d spent the better part of the past week convincing yourself you could handle it—convincing yourself that enough time had passed since your breakup with Theodore Nott, that you could sit across from him and feel nothing. That you could be surrounded by the memory of what once was, of what you’d lost, and still hold yourself together.

You’d been wrong.

Theo sat across from you, lounging with his usual effortless ease. The firelight played in his sharp features, highlighting the angles of his jaw and the unruly strands of dark hair that had always refused to obey him. His long legs stretched out lazily, one arm slung over the back of his chair. Every so often, his gaze would flicker your way, lingering just long enough to send a shiver crawling up your spine, only for you to quickly look away, pretending not to notice. You could feel the intensity of those glances, though, burning as vividly as the flames that cracked and danced in front of you.

The tension between you was suffocating, a silent storm raging beneath the veneer of calm you both pretended to wear. And yet no one else seemed to notice. The couples were too wrapped up in their own happiness, too absorbed in their easy laughter and whispered conversations, to see the battle playing out in the spaces between you and Theo.

Not that the tension was entirely his fault. If anything, it was your own for agreeing to come in the first place. You’d known the risks. But you’d come anyway, clinging to the false hope that you could prove something to yourself—prove you’d moved on. Instead, you were sitting in silence, your heart twisting painfully every time Theo laughed at one of Blaise’s sarcastic quips or leaned back with that maddening smirk.The worst part wasn’t just Theo. It was everything. The whole scene was a cruel reminder of what you didn’t have anymore—what you’d lost not once, but twice.

The couples were like something out of a picture-perfect fairy tale, their laughter and soft touches a sharp contrast to the gnawing ache in your chest. Astoria’s fingers lightly traced patterns on Draco’s arm, her delicate laugh blending seamlessly with his quieter chuckles. Daphne and Blaise were a study in effortless intimacy, sharing quiet jokes you couldn’t hear, their heads so close they might as well have been sharing the same breath. Even Pansy and Mattheo, chaotic as ever, were locked in their own little world, her laugh ringing out as he whispered something in her ear that made her swat his chest.

The breakup with Theo had been bad enough. It had left you raw, hollowed out in ways you hadn’t thought possible. But at least you’d had something to blame then. At least you could point to the fight, the accusations, the heartbreak, and tell yourself it had been inevitable.

But then came the Ravenclaw. The safe, soft-spoken boy who had seemed like the perfect antidote to Theo’s sharp edges and cutting words. The boy who had treated you with kindness, who had said all the right things and made all the right moves, but who had left you with the same emptiness.

“I think you still care about someone else.” he’d said when he ended it, his tone tinged with sadness. “And I think you need to figure that out before you can give your heart to someone new.”

You hadn’t been able to argue with him. You’d known he was right.

And now here you were, back where it all began, surrounded by couples who had figured out how to make it work, while you sat across from the boy who had broken you, pretending you weren’t still in love with him.The fire crackled again, louder this time, a log splitting in two as it fell deeper into the flames. You glanced up instinctively, your gaze colliding with Theo’s.

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

His eyes held yours, icy blue and unreadable as usual, the firelight reflecting in their depths. Your breath caught, and for the briefest second, it felt like the world had gone quiet, like the laughter and chatter of your friends had faded into nothingness. You looked away, breaking the moment before it could shatter you completely. You took a long sip of your wine, forcing yourself to focus on the heat spreading through your chest instead of the ache threatening to overwhelm you.

It was going to be a long two days.

The glass of wine felt heavier in your hand as your mind wandered again, thoughts spiralling down paths you’d tried to block off. You’d kept your breakup with the Ravenclaw—Dennis—a secret from your friends, not wanting to ruin the excitement of finishing school. They had all been so wrapped up in their plans, their triumphs, their relationships. The last thing you’d wanted was to bring them down with your own failures. Besides, it wasn’t like you had the energy to explain it. The breakup had been amicable, sure, but it had left you feeling alone. It wasn’t just the end of the relationship that hurt—it was the reminder of how little you’d truly felt for him, how you’d used him to try and forget Theo, and how much you’d failed.

You barely registered the voices around you until Astoria’s clear, sweet tone broke through the haze of your thoughts.

“Do you have any plans with Dennis this summer, Y/N?”

Your stomach sank at the mention of his name. The fire popped loudly, punctuating the sudden tension that tightened around your chest.

You glanced up, finding all eyes now on you. Astoria’s question was innocent, her gaze curious but kind. It wasn’t her fault, of course. None of them knew. You opened your mouth to answer, but the words stuck, your throat suddenly dry. You could feel Theo’s eyes on you again, sharp and piercing, but you refused to look at him.

Reluctantly, you forced a smile, doing your best to sound casual. “No.” you said, your voice a little too light. “No plans.”

There was a pause. Then Blaise chimed in, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What, is he too busy nerding out over his books or something?”

You chuckled nervously, trying to play it off. “Something like that.”

But Daphne wasn’t so easily distracted. She leaned forward slightly, her expression soft but probing. “Wait—why not? Didn’t he say he wanted to travel with you this summer?”

The group was silent now, all of them waiting for your response. Even Pansy, who had been laughing moments ago, seemed to have stilled.

You swallowed, the laughter bubbling in your chest too bitter to contain. “Because we’re not together anymore.” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The reaction was immediate. Astoria’s mouth fell open slightly, her eyes widening in surprise. “Oh.” she said softly, her hand instinctively tightening around Draco’s arm.

“What?” Blaise asked, his tone incredulous. “Since when?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Daphne added, her voice gentle but concerned.

You shrugged, forcing a chuckle that sounded too hollow to your own ears. “It wasn’t a big deal.” you lied. “It just… wasn’t working out.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched uncomfortably long. You took another sip of wine, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat.

“Well, good riddance.” Pansy said, breaking the tension with her usual bluntness. “He was too dull for you anyway.”

You couldn’t help but smile faintly, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks for that, Pans.” you said dryly.

But you could still feel the others’ concern. Daphne’s worried glances, Astoria’s quiet sympathy, even Blaise’s rare seriousness as he studied you. You hated it. What you hated most, though, was Theo. Or rather, the fact that you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting, as if he could see straight through the flimsy façade you were putting up. You refused to look at him, but you could almost hear the thoughts running through his mind. You could imagine the way his jaw would be tight, the way his fingers would curl into his palm as he tried to stop himself from saying something biting or too honest.

“Honestly, good for you.” Blaise said after a moment, his tone lightening. “Dennis never could keep up with you anyway.”

You chuckled faintly, murmuring a quiet “thanks” before finishing the rest of your wine in one long gulp.

“Well…” Astoria said, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground, “that just means you’re free to enjoy the summer without any distractions.”

You nodded, forcing another tight smile. But as the conversation shifted, their voices growing louder and more cheerful again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else wasn’t letting the subject go. You risked a glance at Theo then, just for a second. His eyes met yours, and the intensity there made your breath catch. He didn’t look smug or amused, the way he often did when you were forced into the same space. He looked serious. Concerned, even. The knot in your chest tightened as you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on Astoria’s voice. You hated how easily Theo could read you, how he could strip away the carefully constructed walls you’d built without even trying. But more than that, you hated how much you still wanted him to.

You sat up quietly, the ornate chair creaking softly beneath you as you placed your empty wine glass to the side. The laughter and chatter of your friends faded into the background as your fingers slipped into your pocket, fishing out the small carton you kept hidden.

Cigarettes.

It was a habit you had once despised—one of Theo’s worst, in your opinion. You’d argued with him countless times about it during your relationship, hating the smell, the way it clung to him like an unwanted shadow. But now? Now it was a habit you had picked up yourself. The irony wasn’t lost on you as you flicked the lighter, the soft flame dancing briefly before the tip of the cigarette glowed. You inhaled deeply, the familiar burn spreading through your chest, and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl lazily into the night air. It was another secret you’d kept from your friends, like so much else. They didn’t know. They didn’t know about the cigarettes, the way you craved the sharp edge they gave your frayed nerves, the way they dulled the ache that nothing else seemed to touch.

The wine in your veins and the hollowness in your chest made you not give a fuck.

You ignored the glances from the others. Astoria’s subtle frown, Pansy’s raised brow, even Blaise’s brief look of surprise. None of them said anything, though. Perhaps they could sense that this wasn’t the time to pry, or maybe they were just too shocked to find the same girl who used to chastise Theo for his smoking now doing the very thing she’d hated. The only one who didn’t seem remotely surprised was Theo.His gaze locked onto you immediately, his expression unreadable. You felt the weight of it, sharp and piercing, as you took another drag. You didn’t dare meet his eyes, though. You focused instead on the fire, on the way the embers popped and sparked against the night, on the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath.

But you could feel him watching you. Not with judgement, not with pity, but with something else entirely—something that made your skin prickle and your heart ache all at once.

“Didn’t know you smoked, Y/N.” Blaise finally said, breaking the silence. His tone was light, teasing, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind his words.

You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift away before answering. “There’s a lot you don’t know.” you said simply, your voice calm but distant.

“Clearly.” Pansy chimed in, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied you. “What’s next? You’re going to tell us you’ve taken up gambling?”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Not yet.” you replied, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

The group laughed, the tension easing slightly, but the moment didn’t feel any lighter to you. The cigarette burned between your fingers, a bitter comfort, as you leaned back in your chair and stared up at the dark sky.

Theo’s voice cut through the chatter, low and measured. “Thought you hated smoking.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, one laced with an undercurrent of emotion that only you could grasp.

You froze for a heartbeat, the cigarette hovering near your lips, before taking another drag and exhaling slowly. “Things change.” you said quietly, refusing to look at him.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Theo didn’t push further, but you could feel his gaze lingering, pressing against you like a touch you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Anyway…” Astoria said brightly, clearly desperate to shift the mood, “Who’s up for another round of wine?”

The others murmured their agreement, the conversation picking back up as the bottle was passed around again. You stayed quiet, the cigarette slowly burning to its end as you stared into the flames.

Across the fire, Theo kept watching you.

As the night deepened, the alcohol began to take its toll. Laughter grew louder, gestures more exaggerated, and the conversations turned increasingly ridiculous. Astoria was the first to start giggling uncontrollably, leaning heavily into Draco as she slurred something about how he was “too perfect for words.” Draco smirked, the kind of self-satisfied grin that only he could pull off, before helping her to her feet.

“Well.” he said, clearly amused, “I think someone needs to call it a night.”

Astoria protested weakly, but her flushed cheeks and half-closed eyes betrayed her exhaustion—or at least her inebriation. The two of them disappeared into the house, Draco’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

That was all it took for the others to follow suit.

Blaise stretched dramatically, letting out an exaggerated yawn as Daphne rolled her eyes but still stood with him. “Time to get some rest.” he announced, though his smirk told a very different story.

“Rest?” Pansy snorted, clearly not buying it.

“Shut it, Pans.” Blaise shot back, his smirk widening as Daphne tugged on his arm, steering him toward the manor.

Mattheo and Pansy weren’t far behind, though their departure was accompanied by far less subtlety. “Come on, love.” Mattheo murmured, his voice low and suggestive as he lifted Pansy effortlessly off her feet, making her squeal with laughter.

“Absolutely not.” she objected, though her arms were already looping around his neck. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” he replied with a grin, carrying her off toward the house without so much as a glance back.

And just like that, the once lively circle around the fire dwindled to two.

You and Theo.

The fire crackled softly, the only sound breaking the stillness that now enveloped the garden. You leaned back in your chair, gripping your empty wine glass as though it might anchor you somehow, your gaze fixed firmly on the dying embers.

You didn’t have to look to know Theo was still there. You could feel his presence, sharp and unavoidable, just a few feet away.

“Guess it’s just us now.” he said, his voice low and even.

You glanced at him, unable to help yourself. He was lounging in his chair, as calm and composed as ever, but there was something in his expression—a flicker of tension that made your chest heave.

“Seems that way.” you replied quietly, your voice carrying a faint edge.

The silence that followed was thick, charged with everything that had been left unsaid between you. The fire burned lower, the orange glow dimming as the night stretched on, and still neither of you moved. You hated this—hated the way he could make you feel so unsteady, so raw, with just his presence. Hated the way your chest ached every time you looked at him, a painful reminder of all the things you’d tried and failed to forget.

But most of all, you hated the way some part of you was glad it was just the two of you now.You sneaked another glance at Theo, only to see him pull a cigarette from his pocket. The motion was unhurried, almost lethargic, as he tapped it against the carton before placing it between his lips.

The faint flicker of his lighter caught your eye, the soft glow illuminating his face for a moment as he lit the cigarette with practised ease. He took a slow drag, the ember flaring bright against the darkness, and exhaled a stream of smoke that curled lazily into the air.

You couldn’t help but watch him. The way his long fingers held the cigarette, the slight tilt of his head as he blew out the smoke—it was captivating in a way you hadn’t expected, your breath catching before you forced yourself to look away.

“Are you going to tell me off for it again?”

His voice broke the silence, low and laced with a faint hint of amusement. You glanced back at him, only to find his eyes on you now, sharp and curious, as if he’d been waiting for your reaction.

You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at your lips as you leaned back in your chair. “No.” you said simply.

He raised a brow at that, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smirk. “Really? No lecture about how it’s a disgusting habit? Or how I’m going to ruin my lungs?”

You met his gaze, your expression unreadable. “I’m not exactly in a position to judge anymore.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your own cigarette and lighter, ignoring the way his smirk faltered slightly. You lit it with a soft click, inhaling deeply before exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

Theo’s eyes widened slightly, the surprise flickering across his face before it quickly vanished, replaced by something more guarded. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers.

“When did that start?” Theo asked, his voice softer now, though still tinged with curiosity.

You shrugged, taking another slow drag of your cigarette. The smoke curled upwards from your lips as you exhaled, your eyes fixed on the glowing embers of the fire. “A short while after we broke up.” you admitted, your tone calm but distant, as if the words didn’t bother you as much as they did.

His brow furrowed slightly at your response, and for the first time that night, the carefully guarded mask he always wore seemed to slip just a fraction. He didn’t respond immediately, instead taking another drag from his own cigarette, his gaze flickering to the fire before returning to you.

“Didn’t think I’d be such a bad influence.” he said finally, his tone dry but lacking the usual sharp edge.

You gave a faint, humourless chuckle. “You weren’t.” you replied simply, tapping the ash from your cigarette. “It wasn’t about you. Not entirely.”

Theo tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Not entirely?” he echoed, his voice low, almost cautious.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair as you stared up at the night sky. The stars were faint, their light muted by the glow of the fire and the lingering smoke that hung in the air. “It was… everything.” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “The breakup. The mess it left me in. The way it felt like nothing else worked to fill the silence.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the dying fire crackling between you. You didn’t look at Theo, didn’t want to see the expression on his face. It was hard enough to admit it, to give voice to the hollow ache you’d carried for far too long.

“That’s why you do it?” He asked finally, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Because it reminds you of me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, sharp and unrelenting. You turned to look at him then, your breath catching at the way his gaze locked onto yours, unflinching and raw in a way that left you feeling exposed.

“It’s not that simple.” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone softer but still insistent.

You shook your head, turning away again. “No. It’s not.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he studied you in silence. “So why keep doing it?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you took another drag of your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling it slowly. When you finally spoke, your voice was steady but felt foreign, as though you were speaking about someone else entirely.

“Because sometimes, it’s the only thing that feels real.” you said quietly. “The burn. The taste. The way it makes everything else fade for a little while.”

Theo didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Y/N.”

The words hung in the air between you, raw and unguarded, cutting through the smoke and silence like a blade. You turned to look at him then, your heart clenching painfully at the way his usual composure seemed to crumble, just slightly, around the edges. For the first time in what felt like forever, Theo looked vulnerable.

“I know.” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “We were both at fault.”

The admission felt heavy on your tongue, but it was true. You’d spent so much time blaming him for the pain, for the fallout, that you’d almost forgotten the ways you had contributed to the mess. The silence, the assumptions, the stubbornness that kept you from reaching out when it mattered most. The stillness that followed was worse than any argument you two had ever had before. Theo looked away first, his gaze falling to the fire as he took another drag from his cigarette. The ember glowed brightly in the dim light, casting a fleeting warmth across his sharp features. And still, neither of you moved to leave.

A burst of laughter carried across the night air, high and distant. You turned instinctively toward the mansion, catching the faint echo of Astoria’s giggles. The soft hum of voices followed, muffled by the grand walls of Malfoy Manor but still audible enough to remind you of what was happening inside. You could picture it vividly and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy twist in your chest. Not at them, not specifically. It wasn’t Astoria or Daphne or Pansy you envied. It was the ease. The simplicity of their happiness. The way they could exist without the weight of the past dragging them down, without the constant reminder of what could have been. And here you were, sulking around the fire with your ex, smoke curling between you like a barrier you didn’t know how to cross. Your attention shifted back to Theo, drawn by the subtle movement of him standing. He stubbed out his cigarette against the armrest of his chair before stepping forward, using his foot to scatter the embers of the fire. The dying glow of the flames cast shadows across his face, emphasising the lines of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice breaking the quiet.

He didn’t look at you, his focus on the fire as he pressed the embers into the dirt. “Putting it out.” he said simply, his tone neutral.

“Because it’s late.” he replied, finally glancing your way. His gaze lingered for a moment, unreadable, before he added, “Why? Would you rather sit out here sulking all night?”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking toward the softly lit windows of the mansion in the distance. The distant giggles and murmurs carried faintly on the breeze, a reminder of exactly what was happening inside.

“Do you really want to go back right now?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended.

Theo raised a brow, clearly catching the hint in your voice. “Yeah, why not?” he said, though there was a trace of amusement in his tone. His smirk widened slightly as he tilted his head, studying you. “Unless…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air before his eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you jealous, Y/N?”

Your head whipped around, your mouth opening to protest immediately. “Jealous? Of course not.” you snapped, though the heat rushing to your cheeks betrayed you. “Why would I be jealous of… of that?”

Theo chuckled softly, his deep laugh low and knowing as he straightened. “Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.” you insisted, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him, though it only seemed to amuse him further.

He took a step closer, the smirk still tugging at his lips. “You’ve got a terrible poker face, you know.”

You sighed heavily, the fight draining out of you as you glanced back toward the mansion. “Fine.” you muttered, reluctantly. “Maybe I am. Just… a little.”

He didn’t tease you this time. Instead, his expression softened, the humour in his eyes giving way to something more understanding.

“Come on.” he said, nudging you lightly with his hand. “We’re going for a walk then.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden suggestion. “What?”

Theo gestured toward the shadowed path that led deeper into the Malfoy gardens. “You’re not going back in there, not like this. And I’m not about to sit around while you mope about whatever nonsense is running through your head.”

“I’m not moping.” you argued half-heartedly, but he was already walking away, his long strides carrying him toward the path.

“You coming or not?” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to look back.

You hesitated for only a moment before sighing and following after him.You walked beside Theo, your hands slipping into the deep pockets of your oversized hoodie as the cool night air wrapped around you. The quiet crunch of gravel beneath your feet filled the silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not yet. Theo glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips, breaking the stillness.

You frowned, your head turning to him with suspicion. “What are you laughing at now?” you grumbled, your voice carrying more irritation than you felt.

He didn’t respond immediately, his smirk growing as he nodded toward you. “That hoodie.” he said, amusement lacing his tone.

You blinked, looking down at yourself, confused. “What about it?”

“That’s mine.” he said simply, the smugness in his voice unmistakable.

You froze mid-step, the realisation hitting you like a gust of wind. Your heart sank as you recognized the worn fabric, the familiar scent of him that still lingered faintly in the material. You cursed yourself internally for not even thinking about it when you’d grabbed it earlier.

“Shit.” you muttered under your breath, your cheeks heating.

Theo’s chuckle deepened as he stopped and turned to face you fully, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers. “Didn’t think you were so sentimental, Y/N.” he teased, though there was a softness in his tone that you couldn’t quite place.

You glared at him, tugging the hoodie closer around you defensively. “I didn’t even realise, okay? I just… grabbed it.”

He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you did.”

You sighed heavily, your gaze dropping to the ground. The memory of when he’d given you the hoodie tugged at the edges of your mind, unbidden but vivid. It had been almost two years ago, during a late night in the common room after everyone else had gone to bed. You’d been complaining about how cold it was, wrapping yourself in a blanket that didn’t do much to help.

Without a word, Theo had pulled off his hoodie and tossed it to you, muttering something about how you were “hopeless.” You’d teased him at the time, but you hadn’t given it back. And he hadn’t asked for it, either.

Now, standing here in the dark with him staring at you, that memory felt closer than it should.

“You want it back?” you asked finally, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Theo shook his head, the smirk fading into something softer as he glanced down at the hoodie. “Keep it.” he said, his voice low. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, but you quickly pushed the feeling away, rolling your eyes for good measure. “Whatever.” you muttered, shoving your hands deeper into the pockets as you started walking again.

Theo followed after you, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Can’t believe you’ve been wearing it this whole time.” he said, his tone lighter now, teasing but not unkind. “Didn’t think you were the type to hold on to old things.”

“I’m not.” you shot back, refusing to meet his gaze. “I just didn’t feel like wasting money on a new one.”

“Right.” he drawled, clearly not buying your excuse.

The crunch of gravel underfoot filled the silence between you as the two of you walked deeper into the gardens. You could feel Theo’s presence beside you, steady and familiar, but your thoughts were far away, tangled in memories you didn’t want to revisit.

“You gonna tell me about Dennis, or do I have to guess?”

His voice wasow and appeared casual but carried enough weight to make your shoulders tense.

You stopped mid-step, glancing at him with narrowed eyes. “What about Dennis?” you asked, your tone defensive.

Theo shrugged, his hands still stuffed into his pockets. “I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you two aren’t together anymore?” His brow arched slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not exactly subtle back there when you told everyone.”

You rolled your eyes and kept walking, your hands tightening in the pockets of his hoodie. “There’s nothing to tell.” you said flatly.

“Come on, Y/N.” he pressed, his tone softer now, less teasing. “You were with the guy for months. What happened?”

You hesitated, your steps slowing as you debated how much to say. The breakup was still fresh, the wound not quite healed, but there was something about the way Theo asked—genuine, even if his curiosity was layered with his usual smugness—that made you feel like he wouldn’t let it go.

“He ended it.” you admitted finally, your voice quiet but even.

Theo’s brows furrowed slightly as he glanced at you. “Why?”

You let out a soft, humourless laugh, shaking your head as you stared ahead at the shadowed path. “Because he figured out what I was too afraid to admit. That I wasn’t over…” You trailed off, your stomach twisting as the words caught in your throat.

There was a long pause, the kind that stretched uncomfortably but wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Theo didn’t say anything right away, and when you finally glanced at him, his expression was unreadable.

“Me.” he said quietly, almost like a statement rather than a question.

You bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze dropping to the ground as your stomach churned with a mix of frustration and something you couldn’t name. “Don’t flatter yourself, Theodore.” you muttered, though there was no real bite to your words.

He let out a soft chuckle, but it lacked his usual confidence. “I wasn’t trying to.” he said, his voice low.

Silence fell between you two once again. Theo stopped walking, and when you realised he wasn’t beside you anymore, you turned to face him. His eyes were dark, focused on you in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Did you love him?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You hesitated, the question catching you off guard. The answer rose in your chest before you could stop it, but it wasn’t one you wanted to give. Finally, you shook your head, exhaling softly. “No.” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t.”

Theo’s expression softened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded. “That’s what I thought.” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You rolled your eyes, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” he said lightly, though his tone carried a sternness you couldn’t ignore. “Just… I always knew you couldn’t fake it.”

His words lingered in the air between you as his gaze held yours. You hated how easily he could read you, how his words had a way of hitting exactly where they weren’t supposed to.

“Dennis is a good guy.” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “He didn’t deserve to be with someone who was only half there.”

Theo tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading into something more serious. “Maybe he didn’t. But that’s not on you, Y/N.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to the ground as your hands tightened into fists in the pockets of his hoodie. For once, Theo didn’t push. Instead, he stepped closer, his shoulder brushing yours lightly as he started walking again.

“Come on.” he said, his voice softer now. “Let’s keep moving.”

You followed him without a word, the quiet night wrapping around you both as you walked side by side.

You hesitated for a moment before breaking the silence, your voice careful but laced with curiosity. “What about you?”

Theo glanced at you, one brow arching slightly. “What about me?”

“Have you been in a relationship?” you asked, your tone as casual as you could manage. You kept your eyes ahead, pretending you weren’t entirely invested in his answer.

For a moment, Theo didn’t respond, his silence louder than any words.

You pressed on, a faint smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I mean, I’ve seen you around plenty of girls. But none of them ever seemed to stick. Why is that?”

He let out a soft laugh, though it was more defensive than amused. “You’ve been paying attention, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “We are in the same friend group, I see it without needing to look.”

Theo’s steps slowed slightly, his gaze falling to the ground as he ran a hand through his hair. For once, he seemed caught off guard, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.

“Maybe I just haven’t found the right person.” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

You glanced at him, frowning slightly at the shift in his tone. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” you teased lightly, though the look on his face made your chest tighten.

Theo sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he kept walking. “It’s not that simple.” he muttered.

You tilted your head, watching him closely. “Why not?”

He stopped then, turning to face you fully, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost… vulnerable. His usual mask of confidence and indifference had cracked, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something raw beneath the surface.

“Because.” he started, his voice low and hesitant, “nobody else…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he looked away, his gaze fixed on a distant point in the darkness.

“Nobody else what?” you asked softly, your heart pounding as you took a step closer.

Theo exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Nobody else could replace you.” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words hit you like a tidal wave, stealing the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, your heart hammering in your chest as you tried to process what he’d just said.

Theo’s gaze flicked back to you then, his expression guarded but his eyes betraying the depth of his emotions. “Happy now?” he asked lightly, though his voice lacked its usual edge. “That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “Theo…”

He held up a hand, cutting you off. “Don’t…” he said, his tone firmer now. “I didn’t say it so you’d feel sorry for me.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

Theo let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he started walking again. “Forget I said anything.”

But you couldn’t forget. Theo’s movements were different now. No longer slow and lazy, no longer calculated and confident. His hands shook slightly as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, the lighter flaring unsteadily in the dark. The sharp glow lit up his face for a moment, and for the first time that night, he looked completely exposed. Vulnerable. He didn’t say anything as he took a deep drag, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched around the cigarette—it was obvious he was trying to hold himself together. But he wasn’t. Not really.Without a word, Theo pushed ahead of you, his strides long and purposeful, the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame. He didn’t look back, his shoulders stiff as though bracing himself against something unseen.

You bit your lip, your heart racing as you stared after him. His words still echoed in your mind, raw and unfiltered, unravelling something deep within you.

Nobody else could replace you. You didn’t know how to feel. Guilty? Relieved? Angry? Everything tangled together in a mess of emotions you couldn’t name, couldn’t tame. All you knew was that you couldn’t let him walk away like this.

With a shaky breath, you hurried after him, your footsteps crunching against the gravel. “Theo, wait.” you called, but he didn’t stop.

His shoulders tensed further at the sound of your voice, his hand lifting the cigarette to his mouth for another sharp inhale. The smoke curled around him, a barrier he was trying to erect between you, but you weren’t about to let it stand.

“Damn it, Theodore!” you snapped, reaching for him.

Your fingers caught his arm, and he stopped abruptly, turning to face you with a look that made your breath catch in your throat. His cigarette hung loosely between his lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. His eyes were wide, burning with a mix of anger and pain, and something else—something that made your heart flutter. For all his sharp edges, Theo had always been able to hide behind his smirk, his sarcasm, his infuriating charm. But now, all of that was gone, stripped away to reveal the raw truth beneath. He looked… lost.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I’ve been trying to forget. I’ve been trying to move on. But every fucking time, it’s you. It’s always you.”

The words struck you like a blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond. All you knew was the weight of his gaze, the raw vulnerability in his voice, and the ache in your chest that had been growing since the day you lost him. Your gaze dropped to the cigarette in his mouth, the bitter smell of smoke filling the small space between you. Without thinking, you reached up, plucking it from his lips and tossing it to the ground. His eyes widened in surprise, but you didn’t stop.Standing on your tiptoes, you closed the distance between you, your hands grabbing the front of his shirt as your lips crashed into his. It was intense, all-consuming, every ounce of anger, pain, and longing pouring into the kiss. For a moment, Theo didn’t move, frozen in shock. But then his hands found your waist, gripping you tightly as he kissed you back, his movements desperate, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. The world seemed to blur around you, the night fading into nothing as you pressed yourself against him. His lips were warm, familiar, and the way he kissed you—it was like he was trying to say all the things he hadn’t been able to put into words.

I still love you.

The thought crashed over you like a wave, and you tightened your grip on his shirt, pulling him closer. Your heart pounded in your chest, the ache in your soul finally easing as the walls between you crumbled. Theo’s hands slid up your back, one of them tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, his breath mingling with yours. He kissed you like he was afraid to stop, like he was afraid this moment would slip away if he let go. When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other as the silence wrapped around you again.

“I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

“Shut up.” he growled lowly, his voice rough and desperate, sending a shiver down your spine. Before you could react, his lips crashed onto yours again, fiercer this time, more demanding.

Your body melted into his, the intensity of the kiss igniting a fire deep within you. His hand tightened in your hair, the other gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was everything. Every argument, every hurt, every word you’d left unsaid. Every moment you’d spent trying to forget him, only to fail. It all came rushing back, raw and unrelenting, as if your souls were trying to bridge the chasm you’d created between you.

You didn’t even realise your hands were moving until they slid down his chest, resting on his lower stomach. Theo’s abdomen flexed under your touch, muscles coiling tight as he groaned into the kiss. The sound vibrated through you, making your knees weaken. You clung to him, nails digging into his skin as he pinned you hard against the cold stone wall of the Malfoy manor garden. Your bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle, curves moulding perfectly as the heat of your bodies merged into one. You felt the thick ridge of his growing erection pressing insistently against your belly, and a needy whimper escaped your throat. Theo broke the kiss, panting harshly as he stared down at you with wild, desperate eyes.

“Tell me you want this.” Theo demanded, his voice ragged and trembling with barely restrained emotion. His hands gripped your waist firmly, grounding you, as though afraid you might slip away before he could hear the answer. “Tell me you’re mine.”

The words weren’t just a demand; they were a plea. His eyes, dark and burning, searched yours with an intensity that left you breathless. Vulnerability hung in the air between you, raw and unguarded, cutting through the desperation like a blade. But you didn’t hesitate.

Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt as you surged forward, wrapping your legs around his waist in one swift motion as you jumped up. He caught you instinctively, his arms tightening around you with a strength that made your heart race. Instead of answering with words, you crushed your lips into his, the kiss fevered and consuming. It was the only answer your brain could come up with, the only way you could convey the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. His response was immediate. His hands slid to the curve of your hips, gripping you tightly as he pulled you impossibly close. He kissed you like it was the last thing he would ever do, like the world might fall apart if he let go. The heat between you was electric, your body pressing against his as his lips moved against yours with a hunger that made your head spin. Every ounce of tension, every unresolved feeling, every unspoken word came pouring out in the way his hands roamed your body, the way his breath mingled with yours.

You gasped softly as his teeth grazed your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips moved to your jawline, then to the sensitive skin just below your ear, his voice a low growl as he murmured, “Say it.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers threading into his hair as your heart pounded in your chest. “Theo…”

“Say it.” he demanded again, his voice rough and desperate, his hands tightening their hold on you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes locking with his. The raw intensity in his gaze made your knees weak, even as his arms kept you steady.

“I want this.” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “I want you. I am yours.”

Theo's eyes flashed with triumph and relief, his grip on your bare thighs.“Mine.“ He breathed, the single syllable a vow, a declaration, a promise. His hands roamed your body with renewed urgency, caressing, claiming, branding you as his own.Every brush of his fingers ignited something within you, a fire that had been dormant for far too long.

“You have no idea how much I've needed to hear you say that.” he muttered, his voice rough and unsteady as he buried his face in the curve of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

His lips found your collarbone, trailing fiery kisses along the sensitive line as his fingers slipped under the hem of your light summer dress, hidden beneath the oversized hoodie. The fabric bunched beneath his touch as he slid his hands higher, his thumbs brushing against the bare skin of your ass with an aching tenderness that contrasted the raw hunger in his movements.

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling into his hair as you tilted your head back, giving him more access. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word felt like a balm to the wounds you’d both been carrying.

“Theo…” you whispered, his name a plea, a prayer, a surrender.“Not here…”

“You’re right” he breathed his heart pounding with every syllable.

Theodor’s eyes never left yours, their fervour unrelenting as he began moving, his strides purposeful and hurried. The gravel crunched beneath his boots as he carried you through the shadowed garden, the cool night air brushing against your skin where his hands weren’t already burning their way into you.

You barely registered the shift in scenery, too consumed by the heat of his touch, the dizzying press of his body against yours. But when the faint glow of lights from Malfoy manor appeared ahead, reality intruded just enough for you to pull back slightly, your breath coming in gasps.

“What’s your plan?” you whispered, your voice shaky, though not from hesitation.

“To my room here.” he muttered, his voice low and ragged. “I’m not in the mood for the others finding us like this.”

The thought of being caught sent a thrill through you, though you knew he was right. You tightened your arms around his neck, leaning into him as he navigated the winding garden paths. His movements were quick, almost frantic, yet he carried you as though you weighed nothing, his grip on you secure and unwavering.

The glow of the manor grew brighter as he approached, the grand building towering above you like a silent witness to what was unfolding. You couldn’t stop yourself from studying Theo’s face as he walked, the tension in his jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration. He looked so different from the Theo you’d known in the past—hardened, raw, but still achingly familiar.

The two of you slipped inside through a side entrance, the cool marble of the manor floor muffling his hurried footsteps. The distant echoes of laughter and conversation from the others reached your ears faintly, but Theo paid them no mind, his focus entirely on you.

His lips found your neck as he ascended the stairs, the faint scrape of his teeth against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. You clung to him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt once again as he carried you through the hallways with a confidence born from familiarity.

When he finally pushed open the door to his guest room, the soft click of the lock echoed in the quiet space. The moment the door closed, he set you down gently, his hands lingering on your waist as if reluctant to let go.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence charged with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. The faint light from the window cast shadows across Theodore’s face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the vulnerability in his eyes that he no longer tried to hide.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you met his gaze. “Theodore Nott, I haven’t slept with another man since we broke up. Of course I am sure.” you said, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart.

A shaky breath escaped him, and then his lips were on yours again, the kiss deeper, more deliberate this time. His hands slid down your back, pulling you flush against him as the tension between you snapped like a tightly drawn string. In the quiet sanctuary of his room, with only the faint moonlight as witness, you allowed yourself to fall completely, surrendering to the moment and to him.

“You haven’t slept with Dennis?” Theo grumbled as he pushed you back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours, his eyes roaming your figure.

You only managed to shake your head as your fingers quickly worked on unzipping your hoodie.

“Good.” Theo growled approvingly, watching intently as you shed your clothes. His own garments joined hers on the floor in a rush of movement, leaving you both bare and wanting. He loomed over you, his muscular frame casting a shadow across your skin, his heavy arousal jutting proudly from between his thighs.

Theodore leaned down, capturing your lips in a gentle, exploratory kiss. His tongue swept across your mouth, tasting your sweetness, while his hands began to roam your body once more. They traced the curves of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, before sliding down to cup her hips. Gripping you gently, he rolled his pelvis in a slow, teasing circle, grinding his length against your core. You moaned into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched into him. Breaking the kiss, Theo trailed his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender flesh. Every touch of Theo’s hands felt achingly familiar, yet somehow entirely different. There was a softness to his movements, a deliberateness that hadn’t been there before, as though he was rediscovering you with a reverence that made your heart ache. The way his fingers trailed against your skin, the quiet intensity in his gaze—it was all so electrifying, so much more than you’d remembered. It was as if the time apart had sharpened everything, making each shared moment feel more vivid, more real, more right than it ever had before. Reaching down, Theo guided himself to your entrance, the swollen head of his cock parting your slick folds. With a low groan, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful yet calculated stroke. You moaned out, your back arching off the mattress as you adjusted to his size. Theo stilled, giving you a moment to acclimate, his face a mask of concentration and tenderness.

“Are you okay, amore?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, cutting through the charged silence like a soothing balm.

The nickname made your cheeks flush, warmth spreading across your face in a way that caught you completely off guard. You’d heard him call you that a million times before, the word slipping so easily from his lips in the past. But now, it felt entirely new. It wasn’t just a word anymore; it was a promise, a reassurance, a reminder of everything that had been and everything that still lingered between you. Theo smiled at your reaction, pleased by the blush staining your cheeks.

“I'm better than okay.” You managed to breathe out, your body shivering as his hands glided over your sides to settle on your hips once more.

“So beautiful…” Theodore groaned softly, punctuating his words with a slow, deliberate thrust, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back into your warmth.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure rippled through you like lightning. Leaning down, Theo captured your lips in another deep, sensual kiss, his hips finding a steady rhythm. As he explored the wet heat of your mouth, his fingers found your nipples once more, rolling and tugging gently until they hardened against his palms. Breaking the kiss, he gazed into your eyes, his own darkened with desire.

“Tell me what feels good, amore.” he urged, his voice a husky whisper, thick with both longing and vulnerability. “Guide me.”

The words sent a shiver through you, not because of their intensity, but because of the way he said them—so raw, so open, as though he was offering every piece of himself in that moment. His gaze held yours, unrelenting yet tender, and you could feel his sincerity settle over you like a blanket. It wasn’t just a plea; it was an invitation, a chance to bridge the distance that had once separated you, to rewrite the way your story had ended. Your heart swelled at the raw emotion in his words, your own vulnerability mirroring his. You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until your foreheads touched.

“Touch me.” you whispered breathlessly, your breath mingling with his.You guided his hand lower, to where your bodies were joined, urging him to experiment, to explore the sensitive places only he knew. As his fingers danced over your clit, you bucked your hips against him, a low moan escaping your lips.

“That's it, don’t stop… please.” you panted, your hips rocking in time with his. Theo obliged your pleas, his touch growing more confident, more insistent, driven by your pleas and the desperate need burning within him.

Theodore’s touch was like lightning, electrifying and all-consuming, igniting a fire under your skin that you hadn’t known could burn so brightly. Every brush of his fingers, every deliberate movement sent waves of pure ecstasy coursing through you, leaving you breathless and weightless all at once. It wasn’t just the sensation—it was the way he made you feel cherished, like every part of you mattered in a way that was almost overwhelming.

Theo's fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit, each stroke combined with his harsh thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. He watched you closely, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin, your parted lips, your wild hair splayed across the pillow.

“You feel so good.” he breathed, his own arousal throbbing inside you in time with your quickening heartbeat. “I want to see you lose control, Y/N.” As if to prove his point, he increased the pressure, rubbing firm circles around your sensitive nub, his thrusts becoming harsher, deeper, needier. Your back arched off the bed, a high-pitched whine tearing from your throat as the tension coiled tighter and tighter inside you.

“Don't stop, Theo.” you begged, your voice a ragged whisper.

A tidal wave of pleasure bubbled inside you, building with an intensity that was almost too much to contain. Every moment, every touch, sent it climbing higher, threatening to overflow and consume you completely. It was overwhelming in the best way—like you were teetering on the edge of something profound, a rush of warmth and light ready to break free. Your heart raced, your breath hitched, and you couldn’t help but surrender to the sheer bliss of it all, letting it wash over you like a sunrise breaking through the darkness. For Theo, the pleasure wasn’t just in the moment—it was in you. Every expression of pleasure, every soft sound you made under him, every way you moved drew him in deeper, until he was utterly consumed. It bubbled inside him like a fire threatening to escape, an immense, overwhelming rush that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in so long. The way you looked at him, the trust in your eyes as he made love to you, made it all the more intense. His chest tightened, his breath catching as the sensation surged, flooding him with a kind of bliss he never thought he deserved but couldn’t bear to let go of. With a growl of primal satisfaction, Theo slammed into you one final time, grinding his pelvis against yours as he reached his peak. The sensation of his release triggered your own climax, your body seizing up as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. You cried out his name,not caring who would hear, your voice hoarse with ecstasy, as you clung to him desperately, your nails raking down his back. Theo collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving against yours, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

For a long while, you lay entwined, your hearts pounding in perfect sync, the rhythm of your breathing gradually steadying as the world around you faded into stillness. The only sound was the soft, shared cadence of your breaths, filling the quiet room with a soothing, unspoken connection. It was as though the world beyond these walls had ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, perfect moment.

Finally, Theo lifted his head, his captivating blue eyes locking onto yours with a look so full of tenderness, that made you fall for him once again. There was no smirk, no guarded expression—just pure, unfiltered emotion, the kind that made you feel as though he was seeing straight through to the deepest parts of you. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight, hesitant even, as though he feared you might vanish if he held on too tightly.

“I missed you… I missed this.” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, as though the words themselves were sacred.

His gaze searched yours, desperate, almost pleading, as though he needed to know you felt the same. His words struck something deep within you, breaking open the dam you hadn’t even realised you’d built. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, grounding him as much as yourself.

“I missed you too.” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “More than I ever let myself admit.”

Theo closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling a shaky breath as though your words had lifted some unbearable weight from his chest. When he opened them again, the intensity in his gaze made your heart stutter.Slowly, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, the closeness bringing a sense of calm that felt unshakable.

“I’m not letting you go again.” he murmured, the words a vow, raw and unyielding. “Not this time. Not ever.”

~~~

The soft golden light of morning spilled through the curtains, casting long, gentle streaks across the room. The quiet hum of the world waking up outside was barely audible, muffled by the stillness that lingered within these walls. You stirred slowly, the comforting warmth wrapped around you relaxing you before you even opened your eyes. It took a moment for the memories of the previous night to settle, but when they did, your heart fluttered with a mix of emotions—love, relief, and something that felt a lot like hope.

Beside you, Theo was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. You turned your head slightly, your gaze falling on him. His face was relaxed, his features softer in sleep, free from the guarded scowl he so often wore. You watched him for a moment, taking in the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rested lightly on the bed between you, as if even in sleep, he didn’t want to be far from you.

It was strange—comforting, even—how natural this felt, as though the rift that had once separated you was a distant memory, something you both had decided, consciously or not, to leave in the past.For the first time in what felt like forever, the ache in your chest was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth that spread through you like the sunlight outside. You let out a soft sigh, the sound barely breaking the stillness, and closed your eyes again, savouring the moment for just a little while longer.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, careful not to wake Theo as you turned to look at him properly. You traced the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the faint shadow of stubble there, the soft curve of his lips. His lashes were long, darker than you’d remembered, and they brushed lightly against his skin. Leaning in slowly, you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, your lips barely brushing his skin. He stirred slightly, a soft humm escaping him as he began waking up.

“Sleep a little longer.” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as though afraid to disturb the fragile tranquillity of the moment.

Carefully, you slipped out of bed, doing your best to keep your movements quiet. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you tiptoed across the room, gathering your scattered belongings and slipping into the oversized hoodie you had worn last night.

The manor was quiet as you made your way back to your own guest room, the only sounds around you being the faint creaks of the wooden floorboards and the distant chirping of birds outside. Your heart raced with every step, half expecting someone to catch you in the hallway, though it seemed most of the house was still asleep.

When you finally reached your room, you let out a shaky breath, leaning against the door for a moment to steady yourself. The memories of the night before rushed back in vivid detail, and you felt your cheeks flush as you hurriedly changed into fresh clothes.

By the time you made your way to the dining room for breakfast, the warm scent of coffee and pastries filled the air. The table was only partially occupied—Astoria and Draco sat close, whispering and smiling, while Blaise and Daphne were still nursing cups of tea, their expressions relaxed but tired.

You slid into a chair quietly, keeping your movements casual as you poured yourself some coffee. You could feel their gazes on you, especially Astoria’s, her sharp eyes studying you with a hint of curiosity.

“Morning.” Blaise said, his voice smooth but tinged with amusement. “You’re up early.”

You shrugged, keeping your tone light. “Couldn’t sleep.” you lied, reaching for a slice of toast. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

Astoria raised a delicate brow, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” she repeated, her tone light but teasing.

You avoided her gaze, focusing on spreading jam over your toast. “Something like that.” you said, hoping the flush in your cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

Draco smirked from his seat beside Astoria but said nothing, his gaze flickering briefly toward the doorway as though expecting someone else to join the table. You forced yourself to act as if nothing had happened, though the events of last night lingered in your mind, a secret you weren’t ready to share. As you sipped your hot coffee, you couldn’t help but wonder how long Theo would sleep—and how long you could keep this new shift between you hidden.

The quiet hum of breakfast was interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, followed by Pansy’s unmistakable voice cutting through the air.

“Well, well.” she drawled, her tone teasing as she swept into the room with Mattheo trailing lazily behind her. “Looks like some of us managed to survive the night without too much trouble.”

Mattheo yawned loudly, ruffling his already messy hair as he flopped into a chair with all the grace of a toppled tower. “Speak for yourself.” he muttered, reaching immediately for the coffee. “I’m still half-dead.”

Pansy rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, sliding into the seat beside him with her usual flair. Her sharp gaze scanned the table, pausing briefly on you before moving on. You kept your expression neutral, biting into your toast to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Where’s Theo?” Mattheo mumbled, his voice muffled by the mug he was now sipping from.

Draco’s smirk deepened, his gaze flicking to you for the briefest moment before returning to his plate. “Probably still asleep.” he said casually, though the slight edge of amusement in his tone didn’t go unnoticed.

Astoria hid a smile behind her teacup, while Daphne exchanged a knowing glance with Blaise. Blaise leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening as he lazily stirred his tea.

“Or recovering.” Blaise added, his tone light but unmistakably suggestive. “You know Theo—he likes to keep himself busy at night.”

You nearly choked on your coffee, the cup clinking awkwardly against the edge of your plate as you set it down a little too quickly. Your cheeks flushed a deep red, and you kept your eyes firmly on the table, refusing to look at anyone.

Astoria let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Really, Blaise?” she chided gently, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

“Just saying…” Blaise said with an exaggerated shrug, his gaze darting briefly to you before turning back to his tea.

Before you could recover, Mattheo yawned loudly once again, ruffling his messy hair as he leaned back in his chair. “Don’t blame the guy.” he drawled, his lips curling into a teasing grin. “Theo works hard when he’s… motivated.”

Pansy snorted, her sharp eyes darting between you and the others. “Motivated, huh?” she said, her tone dripping with mock innocence. Her gaze settled on you, her brow arching slightly. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Y/N?”

Your head shot up, your wide eyes meeting hers as your face burned hotter. “Of course not.” you stammered, but the unconvincing tone of your voice only seemed to amuse them more.

Draco chuckled, his smirk widening as he gestured with his fork. “Relax, Y/N.” he said smoothly. “They’re just teasing.”

Pansy leaned her chin on her hand, her smile sly. “Are we?” she mused, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

You groaned inwardly, picking up your coffee mug again in a vain attempt to hide behind it. Their teasing was almost unbearable, but even as you tried to brush it off, you couldn’t help but think of Theo and the events of the night before.

As if on cue, the door creaked open, and the unmistakable sound of Theo’s footsteps filled the room. He appeared in the doorway, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes heavy with sleep. His shirt was rumpled, and the faintest shadow of stubble clung to his jaw, making him look far more casual than usual.

You froze, your stomach flipping as his gaze swept across the table before landing on you. But unlike you, Theo looked entirely unbothered, even amused, by the attention.Without hesitation, he strode over to you, his hands moving to rest on your shoulders as he leaned down, pressing lazy, sleep-warmed kisses along your neck. The brush of his lips sent a shiver racing through you, and your cheeks flushed once again as the entire table fell into stunned silence.

“Didn’t see you in bed this morning.” he murmured, his voice husky and teasing, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Missed waking up next to you.”

Your face burned hotter than the sun, and you heard the faint sound of stifled giggles around the table. You didn’t dare look up, knowing you’d find Pansy’s smirk and Draco’s raised brow.

Blaise, of course, couldn’t resist. “Well, well, Theo. Didn’t know you were such a romantic.” he quipped, his grin practically oozing mischief.

Theo straightened, his hands sliding off your shoulders as he fixed Blaise with a pointed look. “And I didn’t know you were so interested in my love life.” he retorted smoothly, his tone light but carrying a subtle edge that made Blaise hold his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fair enough.” Blaise said, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair.

Theo moved to pour himself a cup of coffee, taking a slow sip before glancing back at you. “Come on.” he said casually, tilting his head toward the door. “Join me for a cigarette. It’s too early to deal with this lot.”

The invitation was so nonchalant, so unapologetic, that you could only nod silently, sliding out of your chair as the others exchanged amused glances.

Pansy’s voice followed you as you headed for the door. “Don’t take too long, lovebirds!”

You ignored her, keeping your head down as you followed Theo out into the garden, your cheeks still burning. The cool morning air brushed against your skin, soothing the heat in your face, and for the first time that morning, you found yourself smiling faintly despite the chaos inside.

Theo led you to a quiet corner of the garden, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a practised flick of his lighter. You did the same, the faint orange glow of the cigarettes matching the warmth of the rising sun.

He leaned back against the stone wall, his gaze fixed on you with a sleepy fondness that made your heart skip a beat. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he leaned in to kiss you. It was slow, unhurried, and achingly tender, his lips lingering on yours as if savouring every second.

The peaceful silence was broken by faint voices drifting from the direction of the house. You could just make out Astoria’s unmistakable tone, laced with triumph.

“Told you they’d end up back together.” she said smugly.

“Oh, shut up.” Daphne groaned. “I’ll get you your galleons after breakfast.”

Theo pulled back slightly, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “They’re such goons.” His voice was soft and teasing, the words accompanied by the faintest smirk.

You laughed quietly, your forehead pressing against his as you shook your head. “They really are.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, wrapped in the quiet morning air, the world around you fading into the background. Whatever came next, whatever teasing or chaos awaited inside, it didn’t matter. Right now, it was just the two of you, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

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tronform · 4 months ago

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urdreamydoodles · 1 month ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You are extremely physically affectionate towards your lover

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter Parker was not used to this. The easy touches, the warmth of your hand against his, the way you leaned into him as if gravity itself was pulling you closer. He had spent so much of his life keeping a careful distance, making sure the people he loved never got too close—because close meant vulnerable, and vulnerable meant loss. But you? You never seemed to care about the dangers or the excuses. You curled into his side when he sat on the couch, laced your fingers through his when you walked together, kissed him just because you felt like it. And Peter—awkward, hesitant Peter—was utterly helpless against you.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you pressed your face into the crook of his neck while he worked on his web-shooters, he short-circuited so hard he nearly ruined the entire mechanism. "Uh—babe? Not that I’m complaining, but—is this a thing? Are we doing this now? Oh, we are doing this now. Okay. Cool. No problem. Just—uh, gimme a sec to process." But you never waited for permission. You just kept touching him—soft, constant, reassuring—until eventually, he stopped questioning it and started needing it.

- The first time he realized just how much he needed it was after a particularly brutal night. A fight that left his body aching and his mind even worse. He barely made it through the window before you were there, wrapping yourself around him like you knew. And suddenly, everything that had been clawing at him—the guilt, the exhaustion, the loneliness—dissolved. He didn’t say a word. He just held you tighter, buried his face in your hair, and breathed.

- Now, Peter craves it like oxygen. He reaches for you before he even realizes it—pulling you against him in his sleep, hooking an arm around your waist as he scrolls through his phone, nudging his nose against yours just because he can. The world is cruel, unpredictable, dangerous—but your touch? Your warmth? That is something Peter Parker will never take for granted.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony Stark was a man who built walls. Not the kind that crumbled easily under the weight of kind words and patient gestures—no, his were reinforced, designed to keep people out. He had spent years perfecting the art of distance, of making sure no one got too close. But you? You were different. You didn’t knock on the door, waiting for permission—you climbed right over the walls, landed in his space, and stayed. With your hands, your lips, your unwavering need to touch him, to hold him, to remind him that he was not alone.

- At first, it was… jarring. Tony was used to attention, yes, but not this kind. Not the kind that wasn’t expecting something in return. The first time you hugged him—just because—you felt the way his body went rigid, the way his hands hovered awkwardly before settling on your back. "Wow. This is… new. Okay. Hugs. We’re hugging. Cool, cool, cool. No existential crisis here." But you never relented. You pressed into his side when he worked late, kissed the back of his neck when he got lost in his own head, traced absentminded patterns into his palm during meetings. And Tony? He found himself melting into it before he even realized what was happening.

- The real turning point came one night when he woke up gasping, his chest tight, his mind drowning in memories that refused to stay buried. He didn’t even have to reach for you—you were already there, pulling him close, pressing soft kisses against his shoulder, grounding him with your touch. "I’m here," you murmured against his skin, and Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, survivor—broke. He clung to you like a lifeline, burying himself in your warmth, letting himself be held in a way he had never allowed before.

- Now, he seeks it out. He’ll act like he doesn’t, make some snarky remark about "needy girlfriends", but the second you stop touching him? He’s pulling you back in, draping himself over you like the most dramatic man alive. "Hey, where do you think you’re going? My affection quota isn’t filled yet." And if anyone so much as thinks about commenting on it? He just smirks, pulls you even closer, and says, "Jealous? You should be."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve Rogers was a man out of time, a soldier who had spent most of his life with his fists clenched, his mind trained to endure. He was not accustomed to softness, to indulgence, to the kind of affection that did not come with conditions. And yet—here you were. Always reaching for him, always pressing close, always reminding him that he was yours. You kissed the inside of his wrist like it was sacred, ran your fingers through his hair when he let himself relax, curled against his chest like you belonged there. And the truth was? You did.

- At first, he didn’t know what to do with it. The first time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, he went stiff, his body tensing as if bracing for an attack. But when you simply hummed, resting your head against his back, something in him unraveled. He exhaled—slow, steady—before covering your hands with his. And that was the moment he realized—this was not something to fear. This was something to cherish.

- The first time he sought it out was after a particularly difficult mission. The kind that left blood on his hands and ghosts in his mind. He came home, exhausted, battered, but the moment you reached for him—he melted. He let himself sink into your arms, let himself need you in a way he rarely allowed himself to. And when you whispered, "I’ve got you," he closed his eyes and believed it.

- Now, it’s second nature. He reaches for you without thinking—pulling you into his lap when you’re both reading, brushing his knuckles against your cheek as he passes by, resting his hand on the small of your back whenever you’re near. Affection is not something he was raised to expect, but with you? With you, it is something he will never stop craving.

Thor

- Thor Odinson is a man of grand gestures, of roaring laughter and earth-shaking love. But when it comes to you—his affection is not just thunderous, but constant. He adores the way you reach for him without hesitation, the way your hands find his in quiet moments, the way your touch lingers as if you cannot bear to be apart for too long. And oh, how he thrives under it.

- The first time you showered him in affection, he grinned—wide, bright, eager. "Ah! My love, you are truly as radiant as the stars!" He embraced you effortlessly, lifting you into the air, delighting in the way you laughed against his chest. He was never one for restraint—if you wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him senseless—he would let you. Encourage you. Because there was nothing Thor loved more than being loved.

- But it was the quiet moments that truly undid him. When you curled against him after a battle, your fingers tracing over his scars. When you pressed sleepy kisses to his shoulder before drifting off. When you simply held his face in your hands, looking at him like he was more than just a god, more than just a warrior. Like he was yours. And in those moments, Thor Odinson—Prince of Asgard, champion of realms—felt human.

- Now, he craves it like a force of nature. He pulls you into his lap without warning, presses lingering kisses to your forehead, wraps his arms around you so tightly you can feel the strength in them. If anyone dares to comment, he simply laughs, throwing an arm around you with a smirk. "Jealous, are we? Ah, but who could blame you? My beloved is irresistible!" Because to Thor, your love is not just something he accepts—it is something he reveres.

Loki

- Loki was not accustomed to tenderness. Affection, in his experience, had always been fleeting—given only in exchange for something, laced with expectation, or worse, manipulation. But you? You gave without asking. You touched without hesitation. Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face as if he were something to be studied, not feared. You kissed his knuckles absentmindedly, tangled your fingers in his hair, rested your head against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Loki—cunning, guarded, untouchable—let you.

- At first, he did not know what to do with it. The first time you cupped his face in your hands, he had gone utterly still, his breath caught between his ribs, waiting for the inevitable trick, the hidden knife. But all you did was smile, tracing the delicate skin beneath his eyes as if he were precious. As if he were yours. And something in him—something ancient, something wounded—cracked apart.

- He is not a man who gives easily, but when he does, he gives completely. Now, Loki seeks your touch like a starving thing—leaning into your warmth as you press against his side, pulling you into his lap without a word, letting your hands wander over him as if to prove he is real. He teases, of course—"Darling, do you find me so irresistible that you cannot keep your hands to yourself?"—but his voice is softer than it should be, his hands tightening against yours as if begging you never to stop.

- And if anyone so much as questions it? If they dare to call him weak for the way he melts beneath your hands? He merely smirks, his arm curling around your waist as he whispers, "Ah, but love, what better trick is there than to make the gods themselves fall to their knees?"

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint Barton had spent a lifetime watching his back, expecting the worst. He was not used to gentle hands, to soft embraces that did not come with conditions or an ulterior motive. He had lived his life running—always moving, always fighting, never letting anyone get too close. And then you happened. You, with your touch that lingered like a second heartbeat. You, with your hands that grounded him when the world spun too fast. You, who reached for him not because you needed something, but simply because you wanted him.

- At first, he brushed it off with humor. The first time you reached for him—grabbing his hand absentmindedly, brushing your lips against his temple—he raised a brow, smirking. "Wow, you just can’t help yourself, huh?" But then he noticed the way he relaxed under your touch. The way the tension in his shoulders eased when you pressed a hand against his back. The way his pulse slowed when your fingers traced lazy circles against his skin. And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore—it was necessary.

- He never asks for it outright—he’s too stubborn for that—but you start noticing the way he lingers. The way he moves closer without realizing it. The way his fingers brush against yours just a little too long before he actually grabs your hand. And when you finally call him on it—"Clint, you like this."—he just huffs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, don’t get a big head about it." But his grip on you tightens. Because for all his bravado, he’s never letting this go.

- Now, he doesn’t even try to fight it. He pulls you against him when you’re standing still too long, rests his chin on your shoulder, tugs you into his lap with a grin. If anyone makes a comment, he just shrugs. "What? She’s warm." And if you ever stop touching him? If you deny him affection? He’ll groan dramatically, throwing himself onto the nearest surface. "Babe, please. I’m literally dying. Have some mercy."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha Romanoff was not built for softness. She was trained to endure, to resist, to survive—but not to need. Affection had always been a tool, a weapon to be wielded when necessary, but never something meant for her. So when you came along—when you touched her so easily, so freely—she did not know what to do with it. The first time you hugged her, without hesitation, without purpose, she had simply frozen.

- It wasn’t that she didn’t want it—God, she ached for it—but want was dangerous. Want could be exploited. So she told herself it was nothing, that it didn’t matter. But then it kept happening. You would take her hand absentmindedly, lean into her warmth without hesitation, press a kiss to her shoulder just because you could. And she—cold, untouchable Natasha—let you.

- The first time she reached for you, it was barely noticeable—a hand on your waist, a finger brushing against yours. But once she let herself have it, she couldn’t stop. Now, she seeks it. She won’t ask, won’t say a word, but if you sit beside her without touching her, she will fix it. A hand on your knee. A foot nudging against yours. A quiet, steady reminder that she is here. That you are hers.

- And if anyone so much as mentions it? She raises a brow, her expression unreadable. "What? You think I don’t deserve nice things?" Because Natasha Romanoff may not have been made for love, but with you? With you, she is relearning what it means to have it.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky Barnes was a man starved of warmth. For so long, his body had belonged to everyone but him. He had been touched in violence, in control, in suffering—but never in love. Never in a way that asked for nothing. And then there was you. You, with your gentle hands and your stubborn refusal to let go. You, who traced the lines of his palm as if mapping a constellation, who pressed kisses against the cold metal of his arm as if it were worthy of tenderness. You, who reached for him as if he were not something broken.

- At first, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to take it. The first time you pressed your forehead against his, he nearly pulled away. But then you sighed—soft, content—as if this was normal, as if he was normal. And he… let it happen. Just this once.

- But once was never enough. He started to crave it, to need it. Now, he is the one reaching for you—pulling you closer in the middle of the night, pressing his nose into your hair, grounding himself in you. If you so much as walk by, he is grabbing your wrist, tugging you into his lap, resting his chin against your shoulder. He doesn’t ask for it—he just takes it. Because after years of being denied choice, of being denied himself, this is something he chooses.

- And if anyone dares to comment on how much he clings to you? He just gives them a slow, dangerous smile. "You got a problem with the way I love my girl?" Because Bucky Barnes has lost too much already—he will not lose this. He will not lose you.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew Murdock feels you before you even touch him. Your presence wraps around him like a second skin, the scent of you lingers in the air, the warmth of your body radiates inches away. He hears the tiny shifts in your heartbeat before your fingers even graze his skin, the way it quickens ever so slightly before you reach for him. And he loves it—craves it. He is a man made of contradictions, torn between faith and sin, violence and tenderness. But you? You are the one indulgence he does not seek penance for.

- He drinks in every touch like a dying man. Your fingers threading through his hair, the press of your lips against his jaw, the way you trace patterns over his scars as if rewriting his past with something softer. He does not flinch, does not pull away—no, he leans into it, into you. Because for all the things he has lost, all the things he has chosen to lose, this—you—he will hold onto with both hands.

- He lets you guide him in ways he never allows anyone else. You tilt his chin up before pressing a kiss to his lips, brush your nose against his as if memorizing him in your own way. He revels in it, in the way you seek him, the way your affection comes without hesitation. He doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to reach—because you are always there, grounding him, holding him together when the weight of his double life threatens to break him apart.

- And if anyone ever dares to call it weakness? If they think for one second that loving you makes him soft? He only smirks, tilting his head. “You think I don’t know exactly how lucky I am?” His fingers tighten around yours, thumb brushing against your wrist where your pulse beats steady beneath his touch. “I’d rather be a fool in love than a man without her.”

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank Castle is not a man built for softness. His hands are meant for war, his body carved from violence, his heart a thing long since buried beneath grief and blood. But then there’s you. You, who touch him with something gentle, something that does not demand or take or wound. Your fingers ghost over his scars as if rewriting history, your hands linger on his shoulders as if reminding him that he is still here. Still alive. Still worthy of being touched.

- He does not know what to do with it at first. The first time you reached for him—cupped his face, pressed your lips to his temple—he went rigid. Not out of fear, but out of something worse. Because he had forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten the weight of tenderness, the way affection could seep into a man’s bones and soften him. And Frank Castle does not do soft.

- But then you kept doing it. You never hesitated, never recoiled from him, never asked before reaching for him as if you knew he needed it before he even did. And soon, he began to crave it. Now, his hands find yours before you even offer them. His arm wraps around your waist instinctively, tugging you close, keeping you there. And when he buries his face in your neck after a long night, when his hands grip your hips like a man desperate to hold on, he does not speak—but you know. You know.

- If anyone ever dares to question why the Punisher—a man feared, a man unstoppable—allows himself to melt beneath your hands? He only levels them with a look that could kill. "You think love makes a man weak? Love is the only thing that ever made me fight harder." And then, without hesitation, he pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the world watch.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is a man who takes. He is selfish, greedy, unapologetic in his desires. He is a man who was never given love, who was never taught tenderness. So when you give it to him—freely, without hesitation—it both amuses and terrifies him. You, with your hands always reaching for him. You, with your lips that press against his skin like a promise. You, who touch him not with fear, not with reverence, but with something even more dangerous—affection.

- He lets you do it, of course. Hell, he wants you to do it. He soaks up every touch like an addict chasing his next hit. Your fingers in his hair, your nails scraping down his back, your lips trailing over his scars like a silent claim. He thrives on it, thrives on the way you never shy away, never flinch, never hesitate. It’s a game to him at first—seeing how far he can push you, how much you’re willing to give. But then? Then it becomes something else. Something real.

- He doesn’t like to admit it, but he gets jealous. Not in the way most men do—no, his jealousy is something sharper, something deadly. If someone so much as looks at you too long, if they think they can take what is his, he makes it known that you belong to him. Not with words—words are useless—but with a smirk, a hand curling around your throat just to feel your pulse race beneath his fingers, a kiss so possessive that it leaves bruises.

- And if anyone questions why he allows himself to be loved? Why he lets himself have this? He only grins, something sharp and cruel. “Why wouldn’t I? You ever seen what happens when I want something?” His grip on you tightens, his lips brushing against your ear as he adds, “And trust me, baby—I want you.”

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc Spector does not believe in good things lasting. He has lived too many lives, worn too many faces, bled for too many gods to believe in permanence. He is a man who knows how to fight, how to kill, how to survive—but not how to be loved. And yet, here you are. Always touching him, always pulling him closer, always reminding him that he is yours.

- He doesn’t know how to handle it at first. The first time you brushed your fingers across his jaw, he flinched. Not because he didn’t want it—but because he did. And wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant losing. But you were patient. You never pushed, never demanded—just gave. And little by little, he let you in.

- Now? Now he is desperate for it. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, his hands seek you out before his mind even catches up. If he is spiraling, if the weight of his past is too much, he finds solace in your arms, in the press of your lips against his knuckles, in the way you hold him without needing a reason. You ground him. You keep him whole.

- And if anyone ever thinks that loving you makes him weaker? That your touch somehow softens him? He only chuckles, dark and low. “You think love makes a man weak?” His arm tightens around your waist, his grip steady, unyielding. “No, love makes a man dangerous. Because now? Now I have something worth fighting for.”

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster is a man of reflexes, of calculation, of knowing before it happens. He has memorized a thousand different ways to break a man apart, has studied movement until it is nothing more than muscle memory. And yet, when it comes to you, all of his instincts—his sharp, honed precision—fail him. Because how does one prepare for you? For the way you reach for him without hesitation, for the way your fingers trace the edge of his mask before pushing it away so you can kiss the scarred skin beneath?

- He doesn’t flinch, but he stiffens—not out of rejection, but out of unfamiliarity. He is a man who has lived in the shadows, who has worn a thousand faces but never his own. But you? You do not want his skills, his talents, his ability to mimic the perfect kill. No, you want him, the man beneath the mask, the one no one else has ever bothered to know. And that is something he cannot prepare for.

- At first, he makes it a game—testing you, pushing you, waiting for you to hesitate. But you never do. Your hands are steady, your touch unwavering. You press kisses to his scars as if rewriting the story of how they got there. You run your fingers through his hair like it is something precious, something yours. And slowly, without realizing it, he starts to crave it. Now, if you pull away first, if your touch is missing for even a second too long, he misses it.

- And if anyone so much as questions why Taskmaster—a man feared, a man whose skill is his everything—allows you to touch him so freely? He only smirks beneath his mask, tilting his head. "Because she's the only thing in this world I don’t want to copy—I just want her to be mine.”

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny Storm is made of fire, of heat, of something too wild to be tamed. He burns bright, so bright, and yet—when you touch him—it does not hurt. He does not let it. You press your fingers to his cheek, and the flames simmer beneath your touch. Your lips graze his jaw, and he melts into you, his hands pulling you close, always close, as if the space between you is unbearable.

- He thrives on your affection. It fuels him like oxygen to a fire, makes him burn hotter, makes him alive. If you so much as brush against him in passing, his arm is already wrapping around your waist, tugging you back into him. If you lean against him while watching TV, he is grinning, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. He is insatiable—not because he needs it, but because he wants it. Wants you.

- And oh, he flaunts it. If someone so much as looks at him the wrong way, he is already pulling you onto his lap, already pressing his lips to your shoulder with a smirk. “Yeah, she’s mine. You jealous?” It is playful, teasing—but underneath it, there is something real, something desperate. Because Johnny Storm has always been adored, has always had fans, admirers, women who wanted the Human Torch. But you? You want Johnny, and that is something he will never take for granted.

- And if anyone thinks that love, that you, make him less? That your touch somehow dims his fire? He only laughs, shaking his head. “You kidding? Love doesn’t make me burn out. Love makes me burn brighter.” And with that, he kisses you—claims you—right there in front of the world, because there is nothing about you he will ever hide.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed Richards is a man of science, of logic, of problems waiting to be solved. He is not one for frivolous things, for unnecessary distractions. And yet—you. You, with your hands that reach for him so easily. You, with your lips that press to his temple as he works, with your fingers that thread through his hair when he has been at his desk for too long. You, who has become something he cannot simply explain, cannot analyze, because love—true, deep love—is not something that fits within the confines of logic.

- At first, he does not know what to do with it. He stiffens when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hesitates when you take his hand in yours. But he is a quick learner. Soon, his fingers find yours before you even offer them. Soon, when you rest your head against his shoulder, he leans into you rather than away. And soon, he realizes that your touch is not a distraction—it is a necessity.

- You do not take offense when he loses himself in his work—you understand him, understand that his mind is constantly moving, constantly racing. And because of that, he makes an effort for you. He sets his tools aside when you tug at his sleeve, lets you press your forehead against his, lets you pull him into your world of warmth and touch and feeling. And over time, he begins to crave it, begins to seek it out rather than wait for you to give it.

- And if anyone assumes that the great Mr. Fantastic has no time for something as simple as love? He only adjusts his glasses, his fingers lacing with yours as he responds, "On the contrary, love is the greatest equation of all.” And then, without hesitation, he kisses you—not because it is logical, but because it is right.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm is a man made of stone, of rough edges, of a body that was never meant to be touched. He has spent years pulling away, avoiding the weight of hands that might recoil, of fingers that might fear what he has become. But you? You never hesitate. Your hands find his without hesitation, your fingers trace the lines of his knuckles, your lips press against his jaw as if he is not a man made of stone but of something softer.

- At first, he tells you not to. “You don’t gotta do that, doll.” His voice is gruff, edged with something bitter, something vulnerable. But you only smile, only brush your fingers along his arm like it is the easiest thing in the world. And suddenly, he does not feel like a thing anymore. Suddenly, he is Ben again, just Ben, a man who is still worthy of love, of touch, of you.

- Now? Now, he needs it. Needs the weight of your arms around his waist, needs your hand in his, needs your touch to remind him that he is still here, still whole. And when you kiss him, when you cradle his face in your hands as if he is precious, he swears he could crumble beneath you. Because you see him, not the rock, not the monster, just him.

- And if anyone dares to look at you with pity, to question why you love a man like him? He only chuckles, low and deep, before wrapping his arms around you with something possessive, something sure. “She ain’t with me ‘cause she has to be. She’s with me ‘cause she wants to be.” And as you press another kiss to his lips, he knows—without a doubt—that he is the luckiest man alive.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan Storm is a woman of poise, of quiet strength, of hands that have shielded the ones she loves more times than she can count. She is used to being the protector, the one who stands between the world and those she cares for. But you—you do not let her bear it alone. You reach for her, fingers brushing over hers, and for the first time in too long, she lets herself be held instead of holding the weight of everything else.

- You are a woman of touch, and at first, it surprises her. Not because she does not crave it, but because she has learned to go without. To be soft is a risk, to be vulnerable is a danger—but when you press your lips to her temple, when you pull her into your arms without hesitation, she melts. She had forgotten what it was to be touched without expectation, without urgency. With you, she remembers.

- Your affection is not a distraction—it is an anchor. When she returns from battle, weary from holding up her force fields for too long, you are there, guiding her to rest with a hand at the small of her back. When she loses herself in thought, in planning, in the weight of responsibility, you remind her that she does not have to be invisible to herself. Your touch pulls her back, reminds her that she is not alone.

- And when you reach for her in public, when you lace your fingers through hers in the presence of others, she does not pull away. No, she holds on tighter. Because love is not something to be hidden—not anymore. And when someone asks her if she ever tires of your endless affection, she only smiles, pressing a kiss to your knuckles as she whispers, "Never."

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia Hardy is a woman of thrill, of quick escapes, of stolen jewels and stolen hearts. She has spent her life slipping through fingers, never staying in one place for too long. Love is a game to her, a dance she has always led. And yet—when it is you reaching for her, when it is you pressing kisses to her bare shoulder, when it is you curling against her at night—she does not run.

- You are soft in a way she has never trusted, yet she trusts you with something more valuable than any diamond—her time. Your hands are never idle when you are near her, always tracing patterns along her skin, always pulling her close, always grounding her. And though she will never admit it, she is addicted to it. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you stay when she has spent her life learning how to leave.

- She teases you for it, of course. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?" she purrs, her voice all silk and mischief. But then you press your forehead to hers, then you kiss her like she is precious, and suddenly, she is the one gasping, the one holding onto you. Love has never been something she let herself have, but with you, she realizes she does not have to steal it—it is already hers.

- And if anyone dares to question why the infamous Black Cat allows herself to be caught in your arms so easily, she only laughs, wrapping herself around you like she has never belonged anywhere else. "Oh, sweetheart," she purrs, pressing a kiss to your jaw, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of a mind that once thought itself above something as frivolous as love. He has wielded power beyond comprehension, seen realities beyond this one, and yet you—you and your endless touches, your unwavering affection—are the greatest mystery of all.

- You do not ask for permission to touch him; you simply do. You brush a hand over his shoulders as he studies ancient texts, you trace the lines of his scars when he is lost in thought. And at first, he stiffens beneath it, unaccustomed to being handled with such care. But you do not stop. You do not pull away. And so, little by little, he begins to lean into it.

- Now, when you curl against him in the quiet moments between battles, he is the one seeking you out, the one pulling you closer, the one pressing a silent kiss to your wrist as if to mark you as his. He will never admit how much he needs it, how much he needs you, but his actions speak louder than his pride. He has faced countless enemies, battled forces beyond mortal comprehension, but losing you? That is the one fate he refuses to allow.

- And when others look at him, the great Sorcerer Supreme, and wonder how someone so untouchable could belong so wholly to you, he only smirks, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders as he murmurs, "Even magic has its weaknesses. She just happens to be mine."

Namor

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a god among men. He has ruled beneath the waves, commanded armies, and stood against the greatest forces this world has ever known. He bows to no one. And yet, when you reach for him, when your fingers trace the sharp lines of his jaw, when your lips press against his skin like he is something sacred—he does not pull away.

- You are unlike anyone he has ever known. Where others fear his power, you cradle it in your hands, unafraid, unshaken. You touch him as if he is not a king, not a god, but a man. And though he will never say it outright, it unravels him. No battle, no war, no enemy has ever undone him the way your fingertips grazing his collarbone does.

- At first, he treats it as a privilege—something you are lucky to have. But then, you stop one day, pulling away just slightly, and it is only then that he realizes—it is he who has been privileged all along. He who needs you. Now, when you touch him, when you press yourself against him, his hands are already reaching, already holding you tighter, as if daring the world to take you from him.

- And if anyone so much as questions why the mighty Namor allows himself to be so utterly devoted to your touch, his response is simple. He lifts his chin, his grip on your waist tightening as he declares, "Because she is mine. And a king does not let go of what is his."

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has spent a lifetime running—from the past, from the fire inside him, from the weight of every sin he has burned to ash. He does not get to have softness, does not get to have something good—or so he has always believed. But you—you and your hands that never hesitate to touch him, to hold him, to pull him back from the flames—you make him question that.

- Your fingers trace the scars along his arms, the burns that never truly fade, and instead of flinching, you press your lips to them. He is not used to being handled like this, like he is something worthy of tenderness. And yet, you do it so effortlessly, so naturally, that he forgets how to breathe every time you do.

- When the Ghost Rider takes hold, when his body is consumed by Hellfire, you do not step away—you reach through it. Your touch grounds him, pulls him from the abyss, reminds him that he is more than a cursed soul wrapped in leather and chains. And though he will never say it aloud, he knows—if there is any salvation left for him, it is you.

- And if anyone dares to question why the Spirit of Vengeance allows himself to be so weak beneath your touch, he only smirks, pulling you into his arms, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Weak? Nah, sweetheart. You’re just the only thing worth holding onto."

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has spent his life being unwanted—by his father, by society, by the world that cast him aside the moment he fell. Venom is a creature that has known nothing but hunger, a parasite by design, a monster in the eyes of humanity. But you—you reach for them both like they are something to be loved, and neither of them knows how to handle it.

- Your hands never hesitate. You stroke Eddie’s jaw when he grits his teeth, your fingers slipping into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Venom, in turn, coils around you, tendrils wrapping over your shoulders, tracing your cheek. "She is ours," the symbiote purrs, delighted, possessive. And Eddie, for once in his life, does not argue.

- Eddie is gruff about it, muttering things like "You’re clingy as hell, you know that?" but his actions betray him. He leans into your touch every damn time, closes his eyes when you kiss his temple, sighs when you pull him into your embrace. Venom is far less subtle, practically preening under your affection, slithering around you, murmuring about how perfect you are, how deliciously devoted you must be to them.

- And when people stare—when they whisper about how strange it is that someone so soft belongs to someone so monstrous—Eddie only smirks, wrapping an arm around you as Venom’s voice hums inside his head. "Let ‘em talk," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They don’t get it. But we do."

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a mind sharpened by strategy, a body honed for battle. He moves through life with precision, with grace, with an unwavering sense of duty. Love, affection—these are things he appreciates, but never allows to distract him. And yet you—you slip through the cracks in his armor with every touch, every embrace, every kiss pressed to the back of his hand when you think no one is watching.

- Your touch is not demanding, nor is it fleeting—it is a constant, an unspoken declaration. And though he does not say it aloud, he finds himself seeking it, needing it. A hand at his shoulder when he is lost in thought. A brush of fingers along his wrist when he is tense. A silent, grounding presence when the weight of Wakanda, of the world, threatens to press too heavily upon him.

- When you curl against him at night, when you lace your fingers through his as he works, when you press your lips to his in a moment of quiet devotion—he knows, without question, that you are not merely his lover. You are his home. And for a man who has spent his life fighting for his people, for his throne, for his legacy—you are the one thing he fights for himself.

- And when others bow in reverence to their king, when they wonder how a ruler so composed allows himself to be touched so freely, he only smiles, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw as he murmurs, "Because even a king is a man. And a man must cherish what is his."

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra Natchios is a weapon, a blade honed to perfection, a shadow in the night that moves without hesitation. She does not need touch, does not crave affection—at least, that is what she has always told herself. But you—you with your hands that never hesitate to reach for her, your lips that press against every scar she has earned—you make her question everything.

- At first, she resists. Your touch is a distraction, a weakness she cannot afford. But then, she notices the way her body relaxes under your fingertips, the way her breath slows when you hold her, the way her mind quiets when you run your fingers through her hair. And suddenly, it is not a weakness—it is a lifeline.

- You touch her like she is not just a weapon, not just a killer, but a woman. And though she does not say it, though she still carries herself like she is untouchable, her actions betray her. She leans into you when no one is looking, she lets you hold her after a fight, she lets you love her without condition. And that—more than any battle, more than any war—is the most terrifying thing she has ever faced.

- And if anyone dares to suggest that the infamous Elektra Natchios has softened under your touch, she only smiles—a sharp, knowing thing. Because she has not softened. No, she has simply found something she is willing to kill for. And that, she thinks as she curls her fingers around yours, is far more dangerous.

Muse

- Muse does not understand softness, not in the way others do. He sees the world in smears of red, in the curve of a scream, in the way the city bleeds its stories onto concrete. He is an artist first, a killer second, and something unnameable in between. Affection is not in his vocabulary—at least, not until you start tracing patterns into his skin, your fingers ghosting over his ribs, your lips pressing against his jaw like a whisper of devotion.

- He does not react at first. He merely watches, blank eyes reflecting nothing but the shapes of your hands as they roam over him. You touch him as if he is something real, something worthy of being held, and it confuses him. But confusion does not stop him from leaning into it. He lets you press against him, lets your warmth seep into the cold spaces inside him, and though he does not speak, he feels—feels the way your touch lingers, the way it changes him.

- Your touch is a contradiction to everything he is, a stark contrast to the violence that drips from his hands. And yet, he craves it. Craves you. He does not say it, does not know how to say it, but he shows it in the way he lets you near when no one else is allowed, in the way he allows your fingers to wipe the wet paint from his face, in the way he follows your warmth like a moth drawn to flame.

- And when people whisper, when they wonder why someone like you chooses someone like him, he only tilts his head, an eerie smile curling at his lips. Because they do not understand—they do not see the art in your touch, the poetry in your fingertips, the masterpiece you paint onto the canvas of his skin. But he does. He always does.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom does not yield. Doom does not bow. Doom does not allow weakness, nor does he tolerate sentimentality. And yet, when your hands rest against his armored chest, when your lips press against the cold steel of his mask, he hesitates. Not out of reluctance—but because you dare to touch him as though he is human, as though he is something beyond the monarch, beyond the mind, beyond the mask.

- At first, he dismisses it. You are simply fascinated, drawn to power as all are. But then, your fingers curl against his bare skin when the armor is removed, when his defenses are lowered, and he feels it. It is not awe, nor is it fear—it is something else, something dangerous. Affection. Devotion. Love. And he does not know what to do with it.

- You do not shrink from him, do not recoil from the scars, from the weight of his name, from the sheer gravity of his presence. Instead, you pull him closer, your warmth pressing into his bones, your touch unraveling the careful control he has spent years perfecting. And Doom, for all his brilliance, for all his power, finds himself undone by something as simple as your hands upon his skin.

- And if anyone dares to question your place at his side, dares to suggest that Doom has been tamed, they do not live long enough to repeat the mistake. Because Doom does not bend—but for you, for your touch, for the impossible gift of your warmth—he allows himself to be held.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter Quill has always been a man of touch. A hand on the shoulder, an arm around the waist, a flirtatious brush of fingers—it is second nature to him. But you—you take it to another level. You reach for him constantly, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him into embraces, pressing kisses to his cheek just because you can. And at first, he thinks, Yeah, okay, this is nice.

- But then he realizes—this isn’t just casual affection. This isn’t just something fun. It’s you—you, who touch him like he is real, like he is worthy, like he is more than just a scrappy thief with a playlist and a knack for getting into trouble. You hold him with intent, with meaning, and it wrecks him.

- There are moments, quiet ones, where he doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t fill the silence with music or sarcasm. He just lets you touch him—lets you brush your fingers over the stubble on his jaw, lets you trace the curve of his lips with your thumb, lets you pull him into your warmth until he forgets where his body ends and yours begins.

- And when the crew teases him, when Rocket smirks and Gamora raises an eyebrow, Peter only grins, pulling you closer with a laugh. "What can I say? I’m a lucky guy." But later, when it’s just the two of you, when your hands are pressed against his chest and your heartbeat matches his, he knows—it’s not luck. It’s you. And he’s not letting go.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has spent a lifetime holding the line—for the galaxy, for his people, for everyone who has ever needed a hero. He is used to the weight of duty, of responsibility, of battle. What he is not used to is someone holding him. But you? You are relentless. You pull him into hugs without warning, lace your fingers through his, press kisses to the scars he’s earned in wars too many to count.

- He resists at first—not because he doesn’t want it, but because he doesn’t know how to accept it. He’s always been the soldier, the protector, the last man standing. But you refuse to let him carry it alone. You reach for him when his shoulders are tense, press your forehead against his when the weight of the universe sits too heavy on his spine. And slowly, slowly, he learns to lean into it.

- Your touch is an anchor, a reminder that he is more than Nova Prime, more than a warrior bound to the stars. You bring him back—to the moment, to you. And when he finally, finally allows himself to wrap his arms around you in return, to pull you into his chest and just breathe, he realizes—he has been waiting for this his entire life.

- And when the stars call him away, when duty demands he leave once more, he does so with the feeling of your hands still lingering on his skin, with the memory of your warmth wrapped around his soul. And no matter how far he flies, no matter how deep into the void he goes—he knows. He will always come back. Because he is not just Richard Rider, not just Nova. He is yours.

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