#instead of in your inbox or your texts

[redflannelsheets]

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[ghost-proofbaby]

Twenty-four Hours: hour twenty

OMG OMG OMG

The ring, motherfucking ring. Oh my god that whole scene was perfection.

Then him admitting he pushed her away, made her hate him.

Then her saying he was worth it. Oh my God I’m screaming.

oh i can't believe this gem of a reaction has been hidden amongst all the taylor swift-ness that is my inbox right now!!!

i'm so glad you enjoyed it!!! <3

just because i'm being chaotic tonight, i offer a spoiler for hour 21 beneath the cut to say thank you for always reading and always being so damn sweet shhhhh 🤫🤫

-A TEXT THREAD BETWEEN EDDIE AND READER-

YOU: why were the almond croissants almost sold out? 

EDDIE: Excuse me?

YOU: because everyone went NUTS over them.

EDDIE: Is that supposed to be a joke? 

YOU: ‘supposed to be’. excuse me, it was definitely a joke. and a very good one, at that. 

EDDIE: Debatable.

YOU: what did the customer say when they looked at the croissant?

EDDIE: I don't know, what? 

YOU: what a BREADtaking sight.

YOU: i heard that. don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t funny. 

EDDIE: I’m not laughing because they’re funny. I’m laughing because they’re BAD. 

YOU: bet you wouldn’t say that to my face. 

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ million dollar man ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x girlfriend!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! this story takes place in an alternate ending for squid game where sang-woo wins instead of gi-hun! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ it had been over two weeks since you last heard from cho sang-woo. no calls, no texts, not even the smallest acknowledgment of your existence. the silence weighed on you, growing heavier with every passing day. sang-woo, your long-term boyfriend, the man you had imagined spending the rest of your life with, had seemingly vanished without explanation.

˚ ༘♡ he was everything you had dreamed of, handsome, intelligent, educated. in your eyes, he was near perfect. you had moved to south korea a year and a half ago. the two of you met only a month after your arrival in seoul. you were standing at a convenience store counter, struggling to buy an iced coffee before work. the cashier’s words blurred into a language barrier you couldn’t break through, leaving you flustered and embarrassed.

˚ ༘♡ then there he was. cho sang-woo, with his neatly pressed suit and square-rimmed glasses, stepping in to translate with a calm assurance that immediately put you at ease. he went further and insisted on paying for your coffee, brushing off your protests with a polite smile. “you can pay me back with your number,” he had said, his tone light but his warm gaze unwavering. you gave it to him without hesitation, your heart racing as he walked away with a casual, confident stride that lingered in your mind for days.

˚ ༘♡ what followed was akin to a fantasy. your first few dates were sweet and unassuming, dinners at cozy restaurants, walks through bustling markets, late-night phone calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning. before long, it became more than casual. he wasn’t simply a charming man in a suit, he was someone you trusted, someone you leaned on. yet, as your relationship deepened, so did the flaws.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo treated you well in many ways. he insisted on paying for meals, even when you protested. he offered to help with rent when he noticed you were stressed about expenses. his job at joy investments afforded him a lifestyle of financial stability, one that he willingly extended to you. however, beneath his polished exterior, there was an undeniable distance.

˚ ༘♡ it started small, little things that nagged at you but seemed too insignificant to bring up. his phone was always locked, the screen flashing dark whenever you glanced at it. he would leave suddenly, without warning, offering only vague explanations that never quite satisfied your curiosity. “work,” he would say, brushing off your questions as though they were irrelevant. and no matter how many times you pressed him for the truth, he never admitted anything.

˚ ༘♡ those moments of secrecy chipped away at your trust, leaving an uneasy ache in your chest. you told yourself it was nothing, that you were overthinking. but the fights that erupted when you brought it up told a different story. his calm facade would crack, and he would grow defensive, his words sharp and cutting. “don’t you trust me?” he had asked more than once, the accusation in his tone a slap in the face.

˚ ༘♡ despite the arguments, despite the unanswered questions, you loved him. you loved the way he smoothed a hand down your back when you were upset, the way his voice softened when he called you by name. you loved the rare instances of vulnerability he let slip, the heartfelt glimpses of the man beneath the polished exterior. you loved him enough to forgive, enough to overlook the secrets that cast shadows over your relationship.

˚ ༘♡ as you sat alone in your apartment, staring at your phone with an empty inbox mocking your worry. two weeks of silence was unbearable. the man you loved, the one who had promised to protect you, had left you with nothing but questions and a ache where his presence used to be.

˚ ༘♡ the doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet of your apartment as though it were a sharp blade. it wasn’t merely unusual, it was unsettling. who would come at this hour? you glanced at the clock on the wall, its glowing numbers reminding you that it was well past midnight. your stomach churned uneasily as you stood up, your fatigue from a long shift at the café clinging to you.

˚ ༘♡ working from sunrise to sunset every day had worn you thin, but you had refused sang-woo’s offers to help you financially. he had already done so much, given so generously, and the thought of taking more was crossing a line you couldn’t bring yourself to breach. it would be an abuse of his kindness.

˚ ༘♡ the hallway was dark as you approached the door, your bare feet silent on the cool floor. you hesitated before unlocking it, your hand hovering over the latch. “hello?” you called out cautiously as you cracked it open, peering into the dimly lit corridor.

˚ ༘♡ before you could register what was happening, a hard shove sent the door crashing into you, knocking you backward. you stumbled, barely managing to catch yourself against the wall. your heart leapt into your throat as the figure who had forced their way inside quickly shut the door behind them.

˚ ༘♡ your confusion turned to disbelief as the light from your apartment fell on their face. it was sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ his chest heaved with each labored breath, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the collar, his dress pants scuffed and slightly torn. his glasses, the ones you always teased him about for making him look too serious, were nowhere to be seen. instead, his face bore the evidence of recent hardships, bruises, faint scars, and scabbed-over cuts that marred his formerly pristine appearance. even his hands, the ones you’d grown so used to seeing holding a pen or a glass of wine, were scratched and battered.

˚ ༘♡ he looked like he had aged years in the short time he had been gone.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you stammered, your voice unsteady with equal parts confusion and fear, “what the hell are you doing? it’s the middle of the night, and… why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

˚ ༘♡ he opened his mouth as if to respond, but the words didn’t come immediately. instead, he leaned against the door, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him. “i…” he started, his voice hoarse and raw, but he seemed unable to finish.

˚ ༘♡ without warning, he crossed the room in a single stride and pulled you into a tight embrace. his arms wrapped around you with a desperation that felt almost suffocating, his head burying into the crook of your neck as he clung to you.

˚ ༘♡ you stood unmoving, the shock of his sudden appearance warring with the affection of his touch. part of you was relieved beyond words to have him back, while another part was angry. angry at his disappearance, at the unanswered calls and texts, at the fear and doubt he had left you to wrestle with.

˚ ༘♡ “i missed you,” he murmured against your shoulder, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

˚ ༘♡ his words tugged at your heart, but they weren’t enough to quell the storm of questions brewing inside you. “sang-woo,” you said, your voice softer now but still laced with frustration, “what’s going on? where have you been? what happened to you?”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t answer right away, his grip tightening, as though the very act of holding onto you could keep him grounded. his breath was unstable, his chest rising and falling against yours in a way that betrayed the turmoil beneath his silence. the room felt oppressively quiet.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo!” you exclaimed, your voice sharp, desperate for clarity. the sound seemed to jolt him, his body stiffening before he reluctantly pulled back.

˚ ༘♡ his hands were shaking as he reached into his pocket, the movement clumsy and hurried. when he withdrew, he thrust a thick stack of cash into your arms, one hundred million won, neatly bound and unnervingly out of place in your modest apartment. the weight of the money startled you, as you stared at the crisp bills in disbelief.

˚ ༘♡ “listen to me,” he said, his voice shaking but steadfast. “after this, after i take care of everything, i’ll buy us a beautiful home. somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. hold onto this for now.”

˚ ༘♡ you blinked at him, your mind struggling to process the sudden shift, the money heavy in your grasp. “sang-woo,” you said, your tone rising with vexation and confusion, “where did you get this money?”

˚ ༘♡ he didn’t answer, his eyes avoiding yours, and that only fueled your frustration. “tell me!” you demanded. “where have you been? do you have any idea what I’ve been through? i thought you left me for another woman or fled the country!”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched, his expression fading as guilt flashed across his face, but he said nothing.

˚ ༘♡ you pressed further, your voice strained with a mix of hurt and fury. “i talked to your mother. she said you haven’t called her in ages! i went to your work. they haven’t seen you in weeks! your friends? same thing. no one knows where you’ve been!” your hands tightened around the cash, your knuckles white as your chest heaved with the distress of your tone. “how could you do this to me? how could you leave without a word, without an explanation?”

˚ ༘♡ his silence hurt more than any words could have. he looked at you, his expression a painful mix of regret and something darker, something you couldn’t place. his lips parted as if to speak, but he hesitated, the words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you whispered, your voice trembling as tears began to sting your eyes. “please. i need to understand.”

˚ ༘♡ “i’ll tell you everything soon, i promise, sweetheart,” sang-woo murmured, his voice unsteady, as if it pained him to speak. his hand, calloused and trembling, reached out to rest gently on your cheek, his touch delicate. your heart ached as you met his gaze, those dark, exhausted eyes glistening with unshed tears. it was a look so raw, so unfamiliar.

˚ ༘♡ “you have to trust me,” he said, his tone soft but pleading. “you have to listen to me. i’ve already given you what you need to cover your expenses.” his hand lingered against your cheek for a monthly moment before falling away, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. “i have urgent legal and business matters to deal with, but once they’re resolved… we’ll have the life we’ve dreamed of. everything we’ve talked about.”

˚ ༘♡ his lips brushed against your forehead, the kiss light but filled with a quiet desperation that made your chest tighten. “nothing could ever keep me from you,” he breathed, the words barely audible. “promise me you’ll do as i ask.”

˚ ༘♡ everything about this felt wrong, the way he avoided your questions, the haunting exhaustion in his voice, the bruises that lined his hands and face. you wanted answers. you wanted to demand he tell you everything right then and there, but the way he looked at you, so broken, so unlike the composed sang-woo you knew, kept you from saying anymore.

˚ ༘♡ uncertainty clouded your mind, nonetheless you nodded, your voice hardly above a whisper. “i promise.”

˚ ༘♡ his shoulders sagged slightly at your answer, the tension in his body loosening, though not entirely disappearing. “good,” he said softly, almost to himself. he was still nervous, his eyes darting toward the door as though expecting someone to burst through at any moment.

˚ ༘♡ “i have to go,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. “but i’ll come back. i swear, okay?”

˚ ༘♡ “okay,” you replied, unsure but unwilling to push him further.

˚ ༘♡ he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting, tender kiss that left you yearning for answers. then, without another word, he turned and left the apartment, closing the door behind him.

˚ ༘♡ you stood there, the silence of his absence pressing down on you, dread engulfed your thoughts. your mind churned with questions, with doubts, but one thing was certain, you were relieved, no matter how strange the circumstances of his return, to have seen sang-woo again. the agonizing ache in your chest told you that his departure had left you with far more questions than answers.

a/n: my first sang-woo fanfiction!! is it controversial for me to say i love his character and he’s my favorite one in squid game? please let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 19: June 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Pascale)

Pascale: Arthur, darling, don’t forget to pack your jacket for Montreal. It’s still chilly in the evenings.

Charles: It’s Canada, not the North Pole.

Arthur: I HAVE a jacket. You think I’m five?

Pascale: You never pack socks. I am allowed to worry.

Charles: Speaking of packing, who stole my hoodie?

Arthur: You left it at my place. 

Charles: Anyone want to do dinner after the race weekend? I think I’m staying a few extra days.

Arthur: Yes! Let’s do something simple. Pizza night?

Lorenzo: I’m in.

Arthur: I’m not paying.

Charles: No one asked you to.

Pascale: Isabelle, do you still have that panna cotta recipe from Mémé?

***

If her family noticed she was avoiding them, Belle didn’t care.

She wasn’t answering texts. She wasn’t returning calls. She wasn’t engaging in their attempts to “check in.” Because checking in should’ve meant something before they forgot her birthday. Before she had to celebrate Charles’ win while pretending that it didn’t sting that not a single one of them had thought of her.

So she ignored them.

Instead, she focused on work, throwing herself into her projects with meticulous precision. Deadlines were met early, site visits were scheduled without hesitation, and her inbox was clear before lunch. 

And when she wasn’t working, she was at the stables.

Her horse—her horse—was the one thing she allowed herself to fully indulge in. She spent hours at the barn, grooming Fleur, talking to her like she could understand every word. In some ways, Belle thought he did. Fleur huffed at her when she was tense, nudged at her pockets when she forgot treats, stood steady beneath her hands when she just needed a moment to breathe.

She could feel the foal kick against her hands when she brushed her, nudging her like he or she was already telling Belle, Hey, I am here!. 

The quiet routine of it soothed her. Mornings spent at the barn, afternoons dedicated to architecture plans, evenings curled up with Max.

Belle had always been the one to reach out first. The one who swallowed her pride, who made the first move, who convinced herself that things didn’t hurt as much as they did. She had spent years pretending that being forgotten, being an afterthought, didn’t matter.

She wasn’t pretending anymore.

Max was watching her, concern evident in the way he leaned against the counter, arms crossed but not in frustration—just waiting. Because he knew she wasn’t okay. And Belle hated that she couldn’t just brush it off, hated that the words I’m fine stuck in her throat like splinters.

So she said nothing.

“Belle.” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

She let out a humorless laugh, setting her bag down with more force than necessary. “I’ve spent my whole life being easy to ignore. Why should it be any different now?”

Max frowned. “That’s not—”

“They forgot my birthday, Max.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, sharp and raw. “All of them. My brothers. My mother. They were so busy celebrating Charles that not a single one of them thought about me. Not for a second.”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“I was standing right there,” she continued, voice shaking. “Smiling, hugging them, celebrating with them—and not one of them realized.”

Max’s jaw tensed. He had realized. He had held her that night, had felt the way she trembled when the weight of it all became too much.

“I kept thinking—this is it. This is the moment one of them is going to remember. But they never did.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “And now they’re texting me like nothing happened, like I’m just supposed to let it go because that’s what I always do.”

Max stepped closer, reaching for her hand. “You don’t have to let it go.”

Her fingers curled around his, gripping tight. “I don’t know how to talk to them without feeling like I’m screaming into a void.”

He squeezed her hand, grounding her. “Then don’t talk to them. Not until you’re ready. Not until you want to.”

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Charlotte: Okay. We never actually solved the Isabelle dating mystery.

Alexandra: Because it’s unsolvable. She’s a vault. I think even Charles doesn’t know.

Charlotte: Especially Charles doesn’t know. That man wouldn’t notice if she got married in front of him unless she handed him the bouquet and told him to hold it.

Alexandra: He’d probably ask why she was dressed up and where the catering came from.

Charlotte: Anyway. New tactic. We include everyone. Even the cursed options.

Alexandra: This is going to end in slander.

Charlotte: And that’s why we’re friends.

Charlotte: Charles – her brother. Illegal. Next.

Alexandra: Carlos – Has a girlfriend. Also I feel like he treats her like he treats his baby sister. 

Charlotte: Lando – is single. But is also too loud and too twitchy…

Alexandra: Put him on the list of possibilities regardless. 

Alexandra: Oscar – too sweet. He’d ask for permission to hold her hand. Also has a girlfriend. And Belle and Lily are friends. That would go against every girlcode. 

Charlotte: George – Carmen would kill her. 

Alexandra: Lewis – strong contender. They’re both calm. They like dogs. She could thrive in that quiet glam lifestyle.

Charlotte: And he has major “treat her like a queen in private, say nothing in public” energy. She’d eat that UP.

Charlotte: Okay. Now. Are you ready?

Alexandra: Oh no.

Charlotte: Fernando.

Alexandra: CHARLOTTE.

Charlotte: Think about it. Dominant. Mysterious. Daddy issues magnet. She likes men who speak softly but could ruin you.

Alexandra: And he would call her “bella” and offer her an espresso without saying a word. That’s dangerous.

Charlotte: She’d pretend to be annoyed by the attention and then buy a silk robe for his apartment.

Charlotte: I’m just saying. He has retired situationship energy. She’d never admit it, but she'd love it.

Alexandra: Lance Stroll -No.

Charlotte: Why not?

Alexandra: She’d get whiplash from how inconsistent his energy is. One day he’s moody spa dad, the next day he’s a TikTok e-boy in tactical fleece.

Charlotte: She’d spend half her life trying to figure out if he’s okay and the other half hiding his outfits.

Alexandra: Agreed. Logan Sargeant…Honestly I don’t think she ever even talked three words with him? 

Charlotte: Can’t see it either.  Alex Albon - also has a girlfriend. Isabelle doesn’t poach. She’s got morals.

Charlotte: Max Verstappen- …I mean it’s Max Verstappen. Power couple. Silent and intense. They’d communicate via eyebrow raises and telepathy.

Alexandra: Too risky. She would never do that. Also, Charles would die. Like actually. His soul would leave his body. And doesn’t he also have a girlfriend?

Charlotte: But isn’t Isabelle weirdly close with his sister?!

Alexandra: I think that’s only because they understand how it feels to have a brother in F1, right?

Charlotte: Sergio Pérez - too married. 

Charlotte: Daniel Ricciardo -  Too loud. Too chaotic. Too… Daniel.

Alexandra:  Agreed. 

Alexandra: Yuki Tsunoda– she’s too introverted for that kind of chaos. She’d cry trying to keep up with his snack schedule.

Alexandra: Zhou Guanyu – also a real option. They’re both elegant, soft-spoken, and I’ve seen her actually laugh at something he said. A real laugh.

Charlotte: That’s practically a proposal in Isabelle language.

Alexandra: And he’s calm enough not to flinch when she’s in her “I will disappear to the mountains with a book” era.

Charlotte: I want this one to be real. I could live with Zhou as my unofficial brother-in-law.

Charlotte: Valtteri Bottas -  He has a mullet and a calendar of his own butt. It’s not happening.

Charlotte: Nico Hülkenberg – too tall, too German. Married. 

Charlotte: Kevin Magnussen– Also married. 

Alexandra: Pierre Gasly – Charles would actually kill him. And Kika would fight Belle for even trying to flirt with him. 

Charlotte: Esteban – Also has a girlfriend, no way. 

Alexandra: Okay. Final contenders:

Zhou

Lewis

Lando

Fernando “surprise daddy issues” Alonso

Charlotte: Do you think she’d go that rogue?

Alexandra: Honestly? Apparently she once dated a sculptor in university who thought emotions were “bourgeois illusions,” so… yes.

Charlotte: God, she would be Alonso’s beautiful mystery woman.

Alexandra: She’d show up to a race weekend in his Aston Martin hoodie and say it was a gift from a friend and never elaborate.

Charlotte: And Charles would just go, “I didn’t know you liked green.”

***

“I got married.”

Simone blinked once. “That’s a strong opener.”

Belle smiled faintly. “Surprise.”

Simone leaned forward just a little, resting her notebook on her lap. “Want to walk me through that one?”

Belle exhaled, tilting her head back against the cushion. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

“It wasn’t planned,” she said. “Well, not by me. I mean, Max proposed. And we’d talked about getting married, eventually. But then after everything with my birthday and the race and… all of it, I just didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Simone nodded, quiet and listening.

Belle picked at the label on the water bottle. “So we got married at city hall. The next day. Just our closest people. No announcement. No drama. No press. Just… us.”

“And how did that feel?” Simone asked gently.

“Like peace,” Belle said. “Like a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I didn’t feel invisible. Not for one second.”

Simone smiled softly. “That sounds like something worth holding onto.”

“It was,” Belle said. Then, after a pause, “It is.”

She sat in the quiet for a while, her gaze drifting to the window. A breeze moved the curtain like an exhale.

“But it came right after…” She hesitated. “They forgot my birthday. All of them. Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. I was in the garage all day, and not one person remembered.”

Simone’s expression didn’t change, but Belle could feel her listening more intently.

“I didn’t want to be upset about it. It was Charles’ race—his first win in Monaco. I didn’t want to make it about me. But I stood there, in Ferrari red, and I felt like I didn’t exist.”

Her voice stayed even, but there was a rawness beneath it. “Carlos remembered. He asked me if he should tell them. I said no. Because if you have to remind people you exist, what’s the point?”

Simone waited a beat before responding. “That’s a very old wound, Belle.”

Belle looked down. “Yeah.”

“And how do you feel about marrying Max right after that?”

Belle gave a soft huff of breath. “Grateful. He reminded me I mattered. That I was seen. And it wasn’t because I asked for it. He just… knew.”

Simone nodded, watching her closely.

Belle was quiet for a beat. Then she blinked, shook her head a little, and murmured, “Sorry. I feel weird. Lightheaded.”

Simone straightened slightly. “How long have you felt like that?”

“I don’t know.” Belle pressed the water bottle to her cheek. “Since yesterday? Maybe the day before. Just a little dizzy. I figured it was stress or adrenaline. But it’s not going away.”

Simone raised a brow. “Are you eating? Sleeping?”

Belle nodded. “Yeah. Not perfectly, but enough. I had an iron deficiency a few years ago. Anemia. Maybe it’s that again.”

“I think it would be a good idea to get it checked,” Simone said gently. “Sooner rather than later.”

Belle nodded slowly. “I will. I promise.”

Simone smiled. “Good. You don’t need to power through everything, Belle. Not alone.”

Belle looked down at her hands.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she said softly. “That’s the part I forget.”

And for once, saying it out loud didn’t feel like tempting fate.

It felt like the truth.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Carlos: it’s been A WEEK ONE. WHOLE. WEEK.

George: You’re kidding.

George: I thought for sure someone would realise by now??

Oscar: They haven’t. Max said she hasn’t heard a single thing from any of them.

Daniel: I’m starting to believe they genuinely think Belle sprang fully formed into existence.

Lando: like Athena but in heels and with perfect emotional regulation

Carlos: I’m losing my mind. HIS OWN SISTER??? he FORGOT??

Alex: That’s actually unbelievable. I’m offended on her behalf.

Daniel: What do you MEAN the entire Leclerc family has just… ghosted her birthday like it never happened???

Carlos: No text. No call. No retroactive Instagram story with a cupcake emoji. NOTHING.

Sebastian: I can feel my blood pressure rising.

Nico R.: I am this close to sending Pascale an anonymous calendar.

Sebastian: Have they ever remembered without her prompting?

Oscar: Nope. Historically, Isabelle Leclerc was the family reminder system.

George: So now that she’s gone radio silent…

Lando: They’re just drifting through life like brainless goldfish.

David: The woman literally held that family together with calendar invites and emotionally intelligent sighs.

Fernando: They have lost their lighthouse. They are adrift in darkness.

Nico R.: Honestly, it’s kind of poetic.

Carlos: no. it’s INFURIATING. i saw her that day. she was STANDING THERE. in the garage. in red. 

Carlos: And she told me not to say anything. Said she “didn’t want a pity cupcake.” I think about that sentence every night before I sleep. 😠

Daniel: My blood pressure rises every time I remember this.

Oscar: She’s being so graceful about it and I hate that for her.

Sebastian: She deserves better. I hope Max gives her the world.

Lando: He gave her a horse and a wedding. He did okay.

Lewis: I think we need a plan. A coordinated operation.

Oscar: Operation: Make Charles Realise He’s a Disaster?

Alex: That might take longer than we have.

George: Can we start a countdown clock?

Alex: How long do we wait before Charles realises?

George: End of the season. Final race. Then we riot.

Fernando: Or we leave clues like a scavenger hunt. See how long it takes him to get to: “YOU FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY.”

Lewis: And when they finally do remember?

Oscar: Too late. She already married the only man who actually treats her like she matters.

Carlos: damn right she did.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had been through a lot with Max Verstappen—championship battles, rain-soaked qualifying sessions, angry radio rants, and more tire compound debates than he cared to remember—but nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

The meeting was already running five minutes behind schedule, which—by Red Bull standards—meant it was practically a full-blown rebellion. Christian was flipping through his notes with a sense of purpose usually reserved for press briefings and budget cap discussions. Helmut was sipping black coffee like it owed him money. Checo was leaning back in his chair; and poor Gemma from PR was already clutching her notepad like it was a life raft.

GP sat with his tablet open, notes prepped. 

Max was… Max. Legs kicked out under the table, hoodie on, the faintest hint of smugness clinging to him like tire rubber after a street race.

They made it through power unit updates and marketing commitments before Christian asked, “Anything else we should know before we head to Canada?”

Max sipped his coffee. “Yeah, actually. I got married.”

Silence.

Utter, complete, stunned silence.

Gemma dropped her pen. Christian choked on his coffee. Checo looked like he’d just been told the sky was blue—zero reaction. Helmut blinked so slowly GP briefly considered calling a medic.

GP didn’t flinch.

Because, of course, he already knew.

Christian blinked. “You… what?”

Max nodded. “Married. Last week.”

“To whom?” Christian asked slowly, voice rising like a man realizing he’s stepped into a minefield.

“Isabelle Leclerc,” Max added, like he was announcing a new cat.

Gemma made a noise that GP could only describe as deeply managerial despair.

The room exploded.

“CHARLES’ SISTER?!” Christian yelped, almost standing.

Helmut Marko didn’t speak. He just turned his head, very slowly, and stared at Max like he was an alien.“You’re telling me… you married Charles Leclerc’s sister?”

Max nodded like they were discussing tire strategy. “Mhm.”

Gemma actually put her head down on the table.

“To clarify,” GP said calmly, “he’s not joking.”

“YOU knew?” Christian turned to him, utterly betrayed.

“I’m his race engineer,” GP replied, deadpan. “He tells me everything. Whether I like it or not. And I was the best man.”

Gemma made a small, distressed noise and began frantically flipping through her calendar. “Do we—do we have photos? An announcement plan? A press strategy?! Oh my God, do they even know in Maranello?”

“No,” Max said calmly. “We haven’t told anyone outside a few people. We like our privacy.”

GP didn’t even flinch.

Checo raised a hand. “I knew.”

Christian whirled. “You also knew and didn’t tell me?”

Checo shrugged. “I like my life. Also Belle looked beautiful in white.”

Helmut still hadn’t blinked. “And Charles?”

Max smiled, utterly unbothered. “He has no idea.”

Christian looked like he was about to combust. “You MARRIED Isabelle Leclerc, and Charles doesn’t know?!”

GP finally looked up. “You should’ve seen the garage in Monaco. She was invisible to them all weekend.”

That shut the room up.

Gemma put her head in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Max said, far too cheerfully. “We’re going to post something soon. We just wanted it to be ours first.”

Christian sat back down like his soul had left his body.

Helmut finally spoke, voice low. “Just make sure we beat Ferrari in Canada.”

“Obviously,” Max said.

“I’m adding a press briefing to the schedule,” Gemma muttered, already reaching for her iPad. “And a PR damage control plan. And possibly a defibrillator for when Charles finds out.”

“I’ll bring snacks,” Checo offered.

Christian slumped back in his chair. “Next time, just send a memo.”

GP simply took another sip of his coffee and updated his notes:

Action Items:

Tire compounds

Charles may attempt murder – suggest more security in hospitality

Of all the chaos they’d weathered over the years, this might’ve been the most entertaining.

And somehow, exactly what he expected from Max.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur: Mum just sent me this video of a duck in a raincoat.

Charles: I love that duck.

Lorenzo: Wait send it here.

Charles: He’s precious. His name is Biscotte.

Lorenzo: I’d die for Biscotte.

Arthur: We should get a duck.

Lorenzo: We cannot get a duck.

Charles: You sound just like Isabelle.

Arthur: Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her in like, weeks.

Lorenzo: She’s probably fine. You know how she is. Independent.

Charles: Yeah. Classic Isabelle.

***

The examination room was cool, almost too quiet, and Belle’s fingers twisted together in her lap as the doctor tapped something into the computer.

It had started as a check-up. Just routine. She hadn’t even told Max she was going—he had left for Canada, and she didn’t want him worrying over what she was sure was just her old anemia flaring up again.

The dizziness had crept up slowly—barely-there lightheaded spells, then the bone-deep fatigue, the occasional shortness of breath that made her pause halfway through brushing her hair. All things she’d felt before, years ago, when the iron levels had dropped low enough to make walking up a flight of stairs feel like climbing Everest.

She wasn’t worried about the dizzy spells. Not really.

She chalked them up to everything else: exhaustion, stress, not enough proper meals, the emotional fallout of a birthday that had quietly broken something inside her, and—most likely—a return of her old anemia. That had always been the explanation before.

Until the doctor, a middle-aged woman with a kind voice and gentle hands, glanced at her latest blood test results and hummed quietly to herself.

Belle shifted in her seat. “Is it bad?”

“No, not bad,” the doctor said, clicking through a few more pages. “Your iron is a little low again, but there’s something else. These hormone levels…” She looked up with a smile. “Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?”

Belle blinked. “A what?”

The doctor laughed softly. “I’m guessing that’s a no.”

“I came in because I thought I needed more iron.”

“You might,” the doctor said gently. “But these levels are more consistent with someone in the early second trimester. I’d like to do a quick ultrasound, just to check.”

Belle was still frozen when the nurse came in and helped her onto the examination bed. Still blinking in disbelief when the gel hit her skin. And completely silent when the screen next to her flickered to life with soft static… and then, suddenly, a tiny form.

And a heartbeat.

A heartbeat.

The doctor smiled again, reassuring and calm. “Well,” she said, adjusting the probe slightly, “there’s your explanation.”

Belle stared at the screen. The curve of a head. The flicker of movement. A little person, whole and real and—God—already so much bigger than she would’ve thought.

“You’re measuring right around twelve weeks,” the doctor continued. “Healthy heartbeat. Everything looks very good.”

Belle’s hand drifted hovered just above her own stomach like she was trying to connect the dots between what she was seeing and what her body had kept quiet for nearly three months.

“I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “I had no idea.”

“It happens,” the doctor said, kind. “Especially when the signs are subtle or easily mistaken. You’ve been under a lot of stress?”

Belle let out a hollow laugh. “You could say that.”

“Well,” the doctor said, pulling off the gloves, “Congratulations, Mrs. Verstappen.”

Belle just stared at the screen, the tiniest flicker of a heartbeat echoing through the room like a secret being whispered for the first time.

Twelve weeks.

Twelve weeks of carrying a life she hadn’t even known was there.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So she did neither.

She just pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

Twelve weeks.

Her heart was still racing, her brain still catching up—but even through the shock, something bloomed warm and steady in her chest.

A heartbeat. 

A beginning.

A family.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Can you come over tonight?

Emilie: Of course. Do I need wine, sugar, firewood, or to hide a body?

Belle: Just you. Maybe chocolate. But mostly you.

Emilie: 👀 I’m bringing brownies and a hug and zero questions until you’re ready.

Belle: Thank you. I just… yeah. I need you.

Emilie: On my way as soon as I finish work. And I swear I won’t interrogate you (until at least the second brownie).

Belle: Fair.

***

Belle sat on the couch, knees drawn up beneath her, a soft throw blanket pooled in her lap despite the mild spring air drifting in from the open window. Her fingers twisted the corner of the fabric absently. Across from her, Emilie sat cross-legged, a steaming mug of rooibos tea cradled in both hands, watching her with quiet concern.

Belle didn’t look up.

Didn’t breathe in a different way.

Didn’t preface it with a sigh or a story.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

The words hung in the air, crisp and absolute, like the crack of thunder before the rain.

Emilie blinked. “I—wait. What?”

Belle raised her eyes, slow and steady. “Twelve weeks.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Twelve weeks?!” Emilie nearly dropped her mug. “Belle! How—?”

“I thought it was anemia again,” Belle said, voice steady, almost clinical in its explanation. “I’ve been tired. Dizzy. It’s happened before. I booked a check-up just to be cautious, and then…” Her breath hitched. “The doctor said it was normal in pregnancy. And then there was… an ultrasound.”

Emilie’s face softened, mouth falling open slightly. “Oh.”

“I saw everything,” Belle whispered. “There was a heartbeat. Just… fluttering away. A baby.” She paused. “My baby. Ours.”

Gently, Emilie placed her mug on the coffee table and reached over, her hand brushing over Belle’s in quiet support.

“Have you told Max?”

Belle shook her head. “He’s in Canada. I couldn’t tell him over the phone. Not this. It’s too… big.”

Emilie nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s not a FaceTime conversation.”

“He’ll be back in a few days,” Belle murmured. “I keep thinking I’ll feel ready by then.”

“And do you?”

“No.” A pause. Then: “Yes. A little.” She smiled faintly. “We talked about it, before. Not in any serious planning way. Just… someday. After everything settled. But we weren’t trying.” Her hand drifted unconsciously to rest over her stomach. “I think part of me always hoped it would happen anyway.”

Emilie’s thumb moved gently over Belle’s hand. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Belle nodded. “And now it’s here. And I don’t know if I’m terrified or just… in awe.”

“You’re both,” Emilie said softly. “And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be.”

“I just needed someone else to know,” Belle admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Before him. Just… someone who could sit with me in this and not panic.”

Emilie’s smile was wobbly, but warm. “I’m doing my very best not to burst into tears or scream into a pillow, so you’re welcome.”

Belle laughed—a soft, wet sound—and wiped at her eyes. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re going to be a great mum, Belle.” Emilie’s voice didn’t waver. “And Max… Max is going to be ridiculous about it. Protective. Soft. Maybe a little panicked. But happy.”

Belle leaned into her, resting her head on Emilie’s shoulder. “I hope so.”

“He loves you,” Emilie said. “He’ll love this, too. It’s you. It’s his. That man would rebuild the planet if you asked.”

Belle closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

She wasn’t alone.

She never had been.

And when Max came home, she’d tell him.

The rest?

They’d figure it out together.

***

Instagram Post: @/f1hq

Comments: 

@/f1girlie: imagine marrying max and not telling the world. 

@/paddocktea: red bull pr team needs a drink and a nap IMMEDIATELY

@/f1lore: sooooo is this the soft launch or the chaos launch??

@/weheartgp: somewhere GP is just sipping his tea like he’s known for months. because he HAS.

***

Nico Hülkenberg was halfway through his second espresso when he spotted Kevin Magnussen exiting the Haas hospitality with his usual determined stride and a very distracted-looking PR intern trailing behind him.

Nico grinned.

“Hey, by the way,” he said cheerfully. “Did you know Max is one of us now?”

Kevin paused, raising an eyebrow. “Us?”

Nico tilted his head innocently. “The married ones. He got hitched.”

Kevin blinked. “Wait—Max Verstappen is married?”

“Yep,” Nico said, popping the “p” with far too much glee. “Secret wedding in Monaco. City hall. Small guest list. Lando dropped the photos like a grenade on the group chat. I’m still emotionally recovering.”

Kevin stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about matrimony, Kevin.” Nico leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like they were conspiring in a back alley. “It gets better. Wanna guess who he married?”

Kevin gave him a look. “Some model I’ve never heard of?”

Nico beamed. “Charles Leclerc’s little sister.”

Kevin actually stopped walking. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Nico said. “Apparently she’s been dating Max in total secrecy for over a year. Nobody knew. Not even Charles. Especially not Charles.”

Kevin blinked. “So Charles doesn’t know his colleague is now his brother-in-law?”

“Correct,” Nico said, clearly delighted.

Kevin ran a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

Nico sipped his espresso. “Welcome to Canada. The drama is international.”

Kevin exhaled. “I need a drink.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Nico said, already walking again. “The next group chat explosion is just hours away. I can feel it.”

And with that, they disappeared into the paddock chaos—two dads, too much gossip, and a rapidly approaching press session neither of them were emotionally prepared for.

***

Press Conference Transcript – Canadian GP

 Participants: Max Verstappen (Red Bull), Lewis Hamilton (Mercedes), Nico Hülkenberg (Haas), Lance Stroll (Aston Martin), Pierre Gasly (Alpine), Oscar Piastri (McLaren) Moderator: Tom Clarkson

Tom Clarkson: Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for being here. Let's get started. First question comes from Emily Zhang at The Race.

Emily: Hi everyone. This question is for Max—there’s been a lot of buzz this week because people spotted you wearing a ring. Are congratulations in order?

(Max looks up calmly, shifts slightly in his seat. Oscar stares straight ahead like he’s seen this movie before. Lewis bites back a smirk. Nico Hülkenberg snorts into his water bottle.)

Max: Uh… yeah. I got married.

(Pause. Lance blinks. Pierre visibly chokes on air.)

Pierre: You what?

Lance: Wait, seriously? Like, married married?

Max: Married married.

Lewis: (grinning) About time someone noticed.

Tom: Okay, wow—so this is breaking news?

Oscar: Not for all of us.

Tom: Right. Okay, so… Max, who’s the lucky person?

(Max raises an eyebrow and doesn’t answer. Lewis covers a laugh with a cough.)

Nico: I mean, should I tell them? I feel like I should tell them.

Pierre: Wait, wait—you knew too?!

Oscar: I was at the wedding.

(Lance audibly gasps.)

Pierre: Oh my God. What is happening.

Max: I just like to keep my private life private. That’s all.

Tom: Okay, okay, I have to ask—do you plan to make a formal announcement?

Max: Eventually. Maybe. Depends how nosey you all get.

Lewis: Don’t look at me. I kept the secret. Like a vault.

Nico: I, on the other hand, told Kevin Magnussen immediately. Because this is cultural.

Tom: …Cultural?

Nico: We, the Married Drivers™, must stick together.

Max: I didn’t realize this came with a club membership.

Nico: There’s a newsletter. You’ll love it.

Pierre: Wait wait wait—who did you even marry??

Max: Next question?

(The whole room erupts into chaos.)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1teaaccount: MAX VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID "YEAH I GOT MARRIED" IN THE MOST CASUAL WAY POSSIBLE. DURING A PRESS CONFERENCE. OSCAR WAS AT THE WEDDING. PIERRE IS HAVING A LIVE MELTDOWN. I NEED A MINUTE. 🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️

@/f1files: Max Verstappen casually breaking the internet mid-press conference and then saying “Next question” like it’s someone else’s problem is the most Verstappen thing I’ve ever seen.

@/chaosinthepits: Lewis Hamilton being smug. Nico Hülkenberg declaring a Married Drivers™ club. Oscar sipping his coffee like this is season 6 of a show he binged in one night. And Max? Max is just sitting there like he didn’t cause a media earthquake. Peak F1.

@/ferns_and_flags: me: trying to work max verstappen: married married also me: clears my schedule to investigate who tf the mystery spouse is

@/leclercsbiceps: pierre gasly's descent into madness upon hearing "i was at the wedding" from oscar deserves an emmy this is theatrical cinema #f1 #canadiangp

@/tifosipanic: Not Lance Stroll gasping like someone just spoiled the end of Titanic 😭😭😭 I love this sport.

@/formulawtf1: max: "I got married." lewis: grinning like a proud older cousin nico: "there’s a newsletter." oscar: "not for all of us." pierre: actively combusting this press conference has more plot twists than Drive to Survive #F1

@/wagsanonymous: me at 3am putting together a suspect board of all women max verstappen has ever spoken to in the past five years 🧵🧵🧵

@/journaldupitlane: MAX VERSTAPPEN IS MARRIED AND WE DON’T KNOW TO WHO F1 TWITTER IS ON FIRE I REPEAT 🔥🔥🔥

@/slowpitstop: “Max: Married married” “Pierre: WHO” “Max: Next question?” AND THEN HE JUST MOVES ON?? sir this is not a soft launch this is a strategic war tactic

@/oscarstanclub: Oscar Piastri has officially become the F1 Gossip Bestie™ he KNEW. he ATTENDED. he’s just sipping tea and watching chaos unfold like a pro

@/beyondthegrid: dear @F1 release the wedding photos. or the drivers' group chat logs. ideally both. sincerely, everyone

@/vettelismyco-pilot:

Lewis Hamilton saying “I kept the secret like a vault” with a grin should be illegal. I’ve never trusted a man more.

@/estebanoconstan: Pierre: “Who did you even marry?” Max: “Next question.” ME: screaming, crying, throwing the entire WDC leaderboard.

@/wheelsequalfeelings:  Okay but what if Mrs. Verstappen is Isabelle Leclerc. Just hear me out.

Private ✅

Gorgeous ✅

Speaks French✅

Likes Horses ✅ Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

@/gridgossipgirl:  Theories so far on who Max Verstappen married:

Isabelle Leclerc

A secret childhood friend who lives off the grid

A Red Bull engineer who’s been hiding in plain sight

That girl he looked at for 0.5 seconds in Austria 2023

Himself, for tax reasons

@/piastrivision: Oscar “I was at the wedding” Piastri refusing to elaborate is the most powerful move I’ve seen this year.

He knows. He’s watching the chaos. He’s THRIVING.

@/gridwivesanonymous: Okay but Max wearing a wedding ring, dropping “I got married,” and then pulling a Next question? is a level of chaos we were not prepared for.

It’s giving: she’s untouchable. 

@/itsyasminmf: My favorite part is Max being so calm. Like, “yeah I’m married.” No further explanation. No photos. No name. No vibe check.

Who is she??

Where did she come from??

Does she know the power she holds??

***

Charles Leclerc had been weirded out since he arrived in Montreal.

It wasn’t anything obvious—no one was throwing punches or shouting across the paddock—but there was a definite chill in the air. People were polite, yes. Just… distant.

Carlos barely nodded at him that morning in the garage. Alex made a joke during the drivers’ briefing, but his eyes hadn’t flicked toward Charles once. Even Lewis had given him a smile that felt more strained than usual.

And Daniel? Daniel Ricciardo, who normally greeted everyone like a long-lost relative, had given him a thumbs-up from a distance and then walked off like he had somewhere better to be.

It made Charles feel like he’d walked into a conversation halfway through and everyone had forgotten to tell him the plot.

“You’ve noticed it too, right?” he asked Pierre later, in the Alpine hospitality.

Pierre looked up from his espresso. “The weird vibes?”

“Yes! Everyone’s being so—so strange.”

Pierre squinted. “Maybe they’re just grumpy. Travel hangover or something.”

“Carlos barely spoke to me,” Charles said. “Carlos. He gave me a nod.”

Pierre raised a brow. “Okay, yeah. That’s definitely weird. Did you say something dumb in a press conference again?”

“I—non! I have no idea. Everyone’s being all secretive. Like I missed a group chat.”

Pierre leaned back in his chair. “You think it’s about you?”

Charles gave him a look.

Pierre nodded. “Okay, fair.”

There was a pause, the sound of engines in the background, mechanics shouting somewhere beyond the fence.

“Oh, also,” Pierre added, like an afterthought, “did you hear Max got married?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Pierre sipped his coffee. “Yeah. Quietly. No media. I think only a few drivers were invited. No one knows who the girl is, though.”

Charles frowned. “Max? Married?”

“Mhm.”

“And no one knows who to?”

Pierre shrugged. “Some say it’s someone he met through racing. Others think it’s someone from his childhood? I don’t know. It’s weird how no one’s said anything.”

Charles rubbed his temple. “Why is everyone suddenly getting married and giving me the cold shoulder at the same time?”

Pierre grinned. “Maybe it’s karma. Did you forget someone’s birthday or something?”

Charles scoffed. “No!”

***

Esteban Ocon had absolutely no intention of eavesdropping.

In his defense, Charles and Pierre weren’t exactly whispering. They were sitting two tables over in the Alpine hospitality area, sipping espresso like it was a wine tasting, and talking with that animated, slightly too-loud energy that came from a mix of jet lag and general Ferrari drama. Esteban was halfway through a protein bar and minding his own business when Charles’ voice shot up in pitch like he’d just been electrocuted.

“Max? Married?”

Esteban blinked.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to tilt his head slightly, but something in Pierre’s very casual, very smug, “Yeah. Quietly. No media. No one knows who the girl is though,” caught his attention.

Max Verstappen. Married.

And apparently to someone so top-secret that even Pierre Gasly didn’t have a name? That was either the most carefully managed PR move in Formula 1 history—or something else entirely.

Esteban took another bite of his bar and stored the information in the mental folder marked “Paddock Chaos,” which was currently bursting at the seams.

Later, in the Aston Martin hospitality—peaceful, air-conditioned, and full of cucumber water—Esteban leaned toward Lance Stroll and casually said, “So, apparently Max Verstappen got married. I overheard Charles and Pierre talking. Charles looked like he’d swallowed a wasp.”

Lance paused mid-scroll through his phone. “I heard,” he whispered, sounding like he had seen an alien. “Max admitted it in the press conference. No one knows to whom.”

There was a long pause.

Then a voice behind them: “Yes, we do.”

Esteban turned—and immediately felt like he was twelve again and caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Fernando Alonso stood there, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like he’d been waiting his entire career for this moment.

“You do?” Esteban asked, cautiously.

Fernando just nodded. “Max married Isabelle Leclerc.”

The silence was immediate. Lance’s mouth fell open. Esteban blinked like someone had slapped him.

“Isabelle?” Lance said, voice almost cracking. “Charles’ sister Isabelle?”

“Mm,” Fernando said, looking entirely too satisfied. “The quiet one. The one who brings Charles coffee and vanishes into walls.”

Esteban just stared. “Does Charles know?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Do you think we’d be having this conversation if he did?”

“Oh my god,” Lance muttered.

Esteban could feel the chaos building like a weather system. “Wait—so Max married Charles’ sister, and no one told Charles?”

Fernando smirked. “Let’s just say… the Canada GP is going to be memorable.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Esteban and Lance to sit there in stunned silence as the paddock spun on without them.

Esteban blinked. “I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop this hard today.”

***

Zhou Guanyu had seen a lot in Formula 1.

 Petty rivalries. Heated debriefs. Drivers throwing silent tantrums in hospitality. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the strange, simmering weirdness between Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz on the Thursday of the Canadian Grand Prix.

He’d noticed it in the paddock first.

 Carlos, standing stiff near the Ferrari motorhome, arms crossed, chewing through a conversation with his engineer like it personally offended him. Charles, twenty feet away, pretending to be very absorbed in his phone, except his jaw was tight and his responses to the press were… terse.

Too terse.

 Even for Charles.

Zhou didn’t consider himself nosy. But he was a driver, and therefore professionally attuned to weird vibes.

So when he found himself beside Oscar Piastri and Logan Sargeant near the McLaren espresso bar a few hours later, he didn’t waste time.

“Okay,” Zhou said, keeping his voice low. “What the hell is going on between Charles and Carlos?”

Oscar glanced up from his coffee. Logan nearly choked on his protein bar.

“What?” Oscar asked, too casually.

“They’re being weird,” Zhou said. “Weirder than usual. Did they fight? Did Charles forget Carlos’ birthday? Did someone dent the other’s scooter?”

Oscar sighed and looked over both shoulders. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

Zhou raised an eyebrow. “So you know something.”

Oscar hesitated. “It’s… not public.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Logan added helpfully.

Oscar gave him a look. Then, under his breath, he said:  “Charles forgot Belle’s birthday.”

Zhou blinked. “What?”

Oscar lowered his voice even more. “Like. Fully. Forgot. The whole family did. On race day. In Monaco.”

Zhou stared. “He forgot his sister’s birthday… at his home race?”

Oscar nodded grimly. “She was in the garage. Literally standing there in Ferrari red. And they didn’t say a word. Carlos was the only one who remembered. And he didn’t even say anything until after the race because Belle told him not to.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait—then why’s Carlos mad now?”

Oscar shrugged. “Because it’s been over a week and they still haven’t remembered. Not one of them.”

Logan muttered, “That explains the ice vibes.”

Zhou dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, but… why do you know all of this?”

Oscar coughed into his coffee. “I… may be in a group chat.”

Logan stared. “A group chat?

Zhou’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of group chat?”

“A support group for emotionally traumatized drivers who’ve witnessed Belle’s family be completely unaware that she exists,” Oscar deadpanned. “It’s also basically an emotional early-warning system for when Charles is about to get throttled.”

Zhou stared at them. “You people need hobbies.”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “We have one. It’s watching Max Verstappen become the most unproblematic romantic lead of 2025.”

Zhou blinked. “Wait. Max is dating Belle?”

Oscar grimaced. “No, he married her.”

“Oh no,” Zhou muttered. “Oh, no.”

And just like that, Zhou understood:

 Something deeply unhinged was happening under the surface of the paddock—and he had officially fallen headfirst into the softest, most dramatic subplot of the season.

Logan looked like he’d just been hit by a rogue space hopper. “That’s… that’s insane.”

“Everyone else knows,” Oscar added. “Lewis. Checo. Even Fernando.”

Logan buried his face in his hands. “No wonder Carlos looks like he wants to strangle someone.”

Zhou leaned back, stunned. “So Charles forgot his sister’s birthday and has no idea she’s married to Max Verstappen?”

Oscar sipped his coffee. “Correct.”

“Jesus,” Logan muttered. “This is like… F1: The Soap Opera.”

***

Oliver Bearman wasn’t technically supposed to be paying attention to the drama.

He was here as a reserve. A professional. Focused. Ready.

But also? He was eighteen, observant, and currently watching what felt like a Cold War being waged in broad daylight between two of the most recognizable drivers on the grid.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz were not speaking.

Oh, they technically were. There were nods. Professional exchanges. Brief, clipped updates in front of the engineers. But no banter. No inside jokes. No calm debriefs over espresso machines.

It was like someone had taken a blowtorch to their famously chill teammate chemistry and then just… walked away.

Oliver couldn’t stop watching it unfold.

And he also couldn’t stop talking about it. 

Kimi Antonelli was his newest victim, while they were both in hospitality rinking whatever disgusting protein shakes their trainer thought they should down. 

“Hey,” Oliver whispered, “Have you seen this?”

Kimi blinked. “Seen what?”

Oliver gestured subtly. “Them. Carlos and Charles. They haven’t smiled at each other once today. That’s not normal.”

Kimi squinted, as if only now registering the frosty atmosphere. “Maybe Carlos is angry that Lewis took his seat?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. They’d be more dramatic if it was about contracts. This is personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Maybe Charles forgot Carlos’ birthday?”

“Carlos’s birthday was in September.”

“Maybe it’s delayed rage.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “No. This is fresher. I’ve been watching. This started in Monaco.”

“You studied it?” Kimi said, raising an eyebrow.

“I observed it,” Oliver corrected, because he was a responsible adult and definitely not gossiping like a paddock housewife.

Kimi tilted his head. “Okay, so what’s your theory?”

Oliver took a deep breath, eyes darting toward where Charles was pretending to read a telemetry report while Carlos muttered something to an engineer without so much as glancing in his direction.

“Alright,” Oliver said. “Theory one: Charles borrowed something from Carlos and never gave it back. Like… his espresso machine.”

“Espresso theft is serious,” Kimi acknowledged.

“Right?” Oliver nodded. “Or maybe—maybe Charles spoiled the ending of Drive to Survive before Carlos got to watch it.”

“That’s unforgivable.”

“Exactly. Or—and this is my strongest theory so far—Charles forgot something important.”

“Like what?”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “A birthday. An anniversary. A godchild’s christening. Something personal.”

Kimi shrugged. “Or maybe Carlos just found out Charles uses oat milk.”

“Now that would cause a meltdown.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the two Ferrari drivers pass each other like ships in the night—professional, poised, and ice cold.

Finally, Kimi said, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Oliver turned to him, intrigued. “What?”

“That one time in karting when I called my teammate’s sister hot and he didn’t speak to me for two weeks.”

Oliver froze. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Kimi.”

“What?”

“WHAT IF THAT’S IT?” Oliver hissed. “What if this is about a sister?”

Kimi blinked. “Wait… Charles has a sister, right?”

Oliver nodded slowly, his eyes wide. “Isabelle.”

They stared at each other, the full conspiracy blooming in their minds.

“Oh my God,” Oliver whispered. “What if Carlos has a crush on Belle? And Charles just found out.”

“Or worse—what if someone else does, and Charles blamed Carlos?!”

“Holy shit.”

They stared back out at the garage where Charles and Carlos now stood side by side, not speaking, not looking at each other, arms crossed in near-perfect symmetry.

“This is better than a Netflix doc,” Oliver muttered.

Kimi popped his gum. “Think we’ll ever find out what actually happened?”

Oliver shook his head. “Nope. But I’m gonna keep guessing until I die.”

***

Belle pushed open the door to the boutique, the delicate chime above it greeting her like an old friend. The shop was quiet, tucked into a sun-drenched corner of the Rue Grimaldi, all pastel walls and honeyed wood. The kind of place that didn’t advertise but always had exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her bag, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap.

This was supposed to be simple.

 A gift for Victoria.

Victoria’s baby girl was due any day now. And Belle had promised herself she’d find something special. Something lovely and thoughtful, because of course Victoria’s daughter would be surrounded by love, but Belle wanted her to have a gift that came from her aunt—not just from "Max’s wife."

She found a dress first—a pale pink with hand-stitched flowers at the collar. Classic. Sweet. Then a matching blanket, soft as clouds, and hat with the same hand-stitched flowers. 

She set it gently in her basket together with a and a plush teddy bear so soft it felt like clouds in her palm.

Belle wandered slowly through the narrow aisles of the baby boutique, her fingers trailing over soft fabrics and pastel cotton. The shelves were filled with impossibly tiny clothes and lullaby-colored blankets, everything arranged just so, with little signs in looping handwriting that read “organic muslin” and “hand-knit in Provence.”

She wasn’t in a rush. She never was in here.

A shelf of plush toys caught her eyes:  Stacked in a neat row: lambs, bears, bunnies…

And one lion.

It wasn’t particularly large, or fancy. Just soft and golden, with a slightly crooked smile and a fuzzy mane. There was something in its face—warmth, maybe. Bravery. A kind of quiet fierceness.

Belle stepped closer, hand reaching out before she even realized what she was doing.

Her fingers curled around the lion’s little paw, and something inside her chest ached.

She hadn’t meant to buy anything for herself today. Or rather—for the tiny secret she was carrying. The one Max didn’t know about yet.

Belle pressed her palm against the curve of her stomach, still small, still subtle, hidden beneath a loose linen blouse. She wasn’t showing yet—not really—but she felt it now that she knew. The flutter of exhaustion that settled in her bones, the faint nausea in the morning, the warmth that bloomed behind her ribs when she thought about what was coming.

Max was still in Canada. Still flying around corners at 300 km/h like gravity didn’t apply to him. And this… this wasn’t news she wanted to deliver over FaceTime, with a lagging signal and the sound of tire guns in the background. She wanted to watch his face when she told him. Wanted to see the softness break across it. The quiet awe. The love.

Twelve weeks.

 She hadn’t told him. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she did. 

Desperately. Properly. Face to face.

She’d imagined it already. A hundred times. Max, sitting across from her, some ordinary evening in Monaco. A quiet smile, a hand on her belly, eyes gone wide and soft. Maybe he wouldn’t say much at first. Maybe he’d just hold her. Maybe he’d cry.

He’d be terrified. He’d be overjoyed. He’d be Max.

The lion toy was still in her hand.

Belle looked down at it and smiled. “You’ll be ours,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “You’ll keep the little one safe.”

She added it to the pile at the register without a word. The shop assistant didn’t ask—just wrapped the plush in soft tissue and placed it in a separate bag.

Two bags.

She left the boutique with two bags.

One for a niece Max already loved.

And one for a child he didn’t even know existed yet.

But he would.

Soon.

When the moment was right.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: You really said “I got married” like you were ordering lunch.

Max: Was it too casual?

Belle: You caused a paddock-wide meltdown in under 10 seconds. Pierre choked on air. Lance gasped.

Max: Oscar didn’t blink.

Belle: Oscar’s soul left his body at the wedding, he hasn’t blinked since.

Max: Lewis was proud of me. Nico welcomed me to the Married Men Club™. Apparently there’s a newsletter.

Belle: What’s in the newsletter?

Max: Tips on DIY crib assembly and how to hide sim rig receipts, probably. 

Belle: I should’ve seen that coming.

Belle: You handled it well.

Max: Thanks. I miss you.

Belle: I miss you too. But I did something today. Thought of you.

Max: Hmm?

Belle: Went shopping. Picked up a gift for Victoria’s little one.

Max: You didn’t have to do that, Schatje. 

Belle: I wanted to. It’s a little dress and a swaddle. Very soft. Very pink.She’s going to look like a marshmallow.

Max: She’s going to love it. Vic and the baby.

Max:Few more days and I’m home.

Belle: Bring yourself. And a trophy.

Max: Bringing all of it. And coming home to you.

Belle: We’ll be here waiting ❤️

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

Carlos: it’s been 12 DAYS.

Carlos: AND CHARLES STILL HASN’T REALISED. 

Lewis: I’m genuinely losing my mind. 

George: At this point it’s not forgetfulness. It’s performance art. 

Daniel: Has anyone told him yet?? 

Carlos: NO. SHE SAID NOT TO. 

Alex: we made a pact. 

Oscar: I made a pact. and i’m regretting it. 

Nico H: update: i told Kevin. 

Carlos: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT 

Nico H: Seemed fair. 

Lando: ...fair tbh. 

Daniel: ADD HIM 

Nico Hulkenberg has added Kevin Magnussen to the chat.

Kevin: what the fuck did I just walk into 

George: emotional support group 

Alex: for max & belle truthers 

Lewis: and leclerc accountability 

Kevin: cool cool. carry on

Oscar: ...i may have also told Zhou and Logan. 

Lando: YOU WHAT.

Oscar: They were there. They asked. I panicked.

Daniel: OH MY GOD 

Oscar Piastri has added Zhou Guanyu to the chat

Oscar Piastri has added Logan Sergeant to the chat

Zhou: hi. very honoured to be here. 

Lando: legend.

Logan: I’ve made popcorn. This is better than any paddock drama I’ve ever seen.

Fernando: I also may have mentioned it to Esteban and Lance.

Checo: So we’ve just abandoned secrecy entirely. Dios mío. 

Fernando Alonso has added Esteban Ocon to the chat. 

Fernando Alonso has added Lance Stroll to the chat

Esteban: hello chaos

Lance: why are there this many people here 

Carlos: because Belle deserves a small country’s worth of defenders

George: we are the UN now 

Sebastian: united in silent rage

Lewis: should we… start a betting pool? 

Oscar: on when charles remembers?? 

Carlos: yes. i’m taking “not before summer break” 

Nico R: i’m taking “not until their first baby is born” 

David: CHARLES IS GOING TO FIND OUT FROM TWITTER 

Lando: it’s what he deserves. 

Mark: belle’s not saying anything. max isn’t saying anything. and none of us are allowed to say anything. 

Zhou: so we just watch. 

Daniel: and judge. silently. supportively.

Kevin: this is better than Drive to Survive

Lance: you people are terrifying 

Esteban: and yet i feel comforted

George: long live the chaos

Lewis: I am going to tell Valtteri. 

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Valtteri Bottas

Lewis: Valtteri. You up?

Valtteri: I’m in a ice tub with a beer, so yes.

Lewis: You’re gonna want to sit down for this. …Or float. I guess.

Valtteri: Alright, hit me.

Lewis: Max Verstappen got married.

Valtteri: I know. 

Lewis: To Charles Leclerc’s sister.

Valtteri: Isabelle?

Lewis: Yep. Belle.

Valtteri: does Charles know

Lewis: No.

Valtteri: oh my god. oh my GOD

Lewis: He forgot her birthday. The whole family did. She was in the garage. No one said a word.

Valtteri: i need to be in this group chat immediately

Lewis: I got you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

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

 Lewis Hamilton has added Valtteri Bottas to the chat.

Valtteri: hello i have arrived this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me

Carlos: Welcome. We suffer here.

George: We scream in lowercase.

Daniel: You missed the “Oscar accidentally told Zhou and Logan” arc.

Oscar: IT WASN’T AN ARC IT WAS A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

Valtteri: do i get to place a bet

Checo: Please. The pool is open.

Valtteri: i’m taking “charles finds out from a post-race interview when someone asks how he feels about being a brother-in-law to max verstappen”

Lando: OH THAT’S A GOOD ONE

Kevin: I’m taking “Belle shows up to Silverstone with a baby bump and he still doesn’t get it.”

Valtteri: this is the best chat i’ve ever been in

***

Fred Vasseur was many things—an engineer by trade, a strategist by necessity, and a reluctant babysitter of million-dollar egos by circumstance. But above all, he prided himself on reading people.

That was why the current state of the Ferrari garage was driving him mad.

The tension was unmistakable.

Carlos was stalking around with that sharp, clipped energy he usually reserved for backmarkers who didn’t move out of the way. He wasn’t being unprofessional—no, that would’ve been easier to handle. He was being polite. Controlled. Cordial. The worst kind of angry.

And Charles?

Charles seemed... confused. Like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but suspected the crime was high treason. He greeted Carlos like nothing had happened, and in return got a nod that could freeze the Tiber.

Fred watched it all from the corner of the garage with the growing sense that he was trapped in the middle of a drama he hadn’t been invited to.

Eventually, he'd had enough.

He cornered Carlos near the espresso machine, away from the engineers and the endless telemetry screens.

“Carlos,” he said, voice low and sharp, “is there something I need to know about?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even look surprised. He just stared into his tiny paper cup like it had personally betrayed him.

“Because if this is about strategy or some setup disagreement—”

“It’s not,” Carlos interrupted.

Fred blinked. “Then what is it?”

Carlos exhaled through his nose. “It’s Charles.”

Fred folded his arms. “Yes. I noticed.”

“He forgot her birthday,” Carlos said, eyes tight. “Not just him. The whole family. But him especially. She was in the garage. Right there. And he didn’t say a single word.”

Fred blinked. “Whose?”

Carlos looked up, jaw clenched. “His sister’s. Belle.”

Fred stilled. “She was in the Monaco garage. Quiet, like always. Wearing red. Not one of us said a word. And Charles—her own brother—walked past her like she was invisible.”

Fred’s throat tightened. “It’s been two weeks.”

Carlos nodded. “And he still hasn’t said anything. Still hasn’t realized.”

Fred sat slowly in the chair across from him, face unreadable.

He liked Isabelle. Always had. She’d been around for years—gracious, observant, unfailingly kind. She never asked for anything. Never wanted attention. And yet she had always been there.

Fred remembered when she was a teenager, sitting quietly at the back of the motorhome with a sketchbook in one hand and race notes in the other. How she brought pastries to the engineers during triple headers. How she remembered everyone's birthdays.

And no one—not one of them—had remembered hers.

Not even Charles.

“She deserved better,” Fred muttered.

Carlos hesitated. “She has better now.”

Fred looked up. “What do you mean?”

Carlos went still. And then—realizing too late—he winced. “Oh. That wasn’t supposed to—"

Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Carlos.”

“She’s with Max,” Carlos said, resigned. “They’ve been together for over a year. No one knew. It was private. But now? They got married. After Monaco.”

Fred blinked. “Max Verstappen.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah.”

Fred stared at him.

Carlos winced. “...And Charles has no idea.”

***

Ten minutes after Carlos had dropped the truth on him like a live grenade, Frédéric Vasseur was walking—no, storming—across the paddock with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for breaking up fistfights or walking into meetings with Ferrari’s board.

The anger in him wasn’t loud. It was cold. Controlled. A heavy thing sitting low in his chest.

He didn’t bother knocking. Just swept through the entrance to the Red Bull hospitality like he owned it. No one stopped him.

Of course they didn’t. Everyone knew better when a man looked like that.

Christian Horner glanced up from his table, mid-sip of some expensive-looking sparkling water. The look that bloomed across his face wasn’t surprise. It was familiarity. Expectation. Like he’d been waiting for this confrontation.

“Fred,” Christian said, all false calm and executive charm. “Everything alright?”

Fred didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. Didn’t play the game.

His voice was low and razor-sharp.

“Why has your golden boy married my golden boy’s sister?”

There was the smallest flicker in Christian’s eyes—like a spark caught in glass. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips curling into that infuriating little smirk he always wore when things went exactly as planned.

“Ah,” Christian said lightly. “So it’s out.”

Fred’s jaw tensed. His hands clenched at his sides, itching for something to hold onto—control, maybe. Or the version of this reality where someone, anyone, had thought to tell him what was coming.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Christian raised an eyebrow.

“Because it wasn’t our secret to share,” he said simply. “Max and Isabelle wanted privacy. You know how Max is—he keeps what’s important close. And Isabelle?” He paused. “She didn’t want the attention. Didn’t want the headlines. Didn’t want to be part of the circus.”

Fred opened his mouth to argue—then closed it. Because he knew that about her. Always had.

Isabelle Leclerc had never courted the spotlight. Not like Charles, with his fanbase and flashes of brilliance. Not like Arthur, clinging to the family legacy. She was the quiet one. The one who stayed in the background. The one who did the work, remembered people’s birthdays, brought homemade pastries into the garage because “the people deserve it.”

And they’d forgotten her.

All of them.

His shoulders sagged.

“I always liked her,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “She is smart. Steady. She helps with setups in hospitality  sometimes. Not even on payroll. She didn’t need credit. She just… cares.”

Christian’s smirk softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Fred looked at him, his expression somewhere between fury and shame.

“She stood in the Monaco garage,” Fred said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Wearing Ferrari red. On her birthday. And no one said a word. Not Charles. Not the team. Not even me.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. He felt old. Tired.

“Charles has no idea,” he added. “No idea what he missed. What he keeps missing. He’s going to find out the wrong way—through gossip, or a headline, or worse—and he’s going to implode.”

Christian didn’t argue. Just watched him, cool and quiet.

“And when he does,” he said finally, “I hope he understands something.”

Fred looked up. “What?”

Christian’s voice was steady. Not smug now. Just… resolved.

“It’s not Max he should be angry with.  It’s everyone else who made her feel like she didn’t matter.” A pause. “Including him.”

The words landed like bricks.

Fred stood there for a long time, letting the weight of it all settle on his shoulders.

The truth was this: Isabelle Leclerc had given them grace, patience, loyalty. She’d loved this team, and this team had forgotten her.

And Max? Max Verstappen, of all people, had seen her. Held her close. Protected what mattered to her. Not for the cameras. Not for the brand. But because he chose her.

Finally, Fred exhaled. It wasn’t anger in his chest anymore. It was grief. It was guilt.

“We failed her,” he murmured.

Christian nodded once. “You did.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, and said—almost gently:

“Look,” he said, “you and I have dealt with our fair share of driver drama. But this? This isn’t about racing. This is about someone who was ignored by the very people she’s always stood up for. And Max… say what you want about him, but he saw her. Chose her. Cherishes her.”

Fred said nothing. He didn’t have to. The truth was sitting in his gut like a stone.

Christian smiled again—wider now, but not cruel.

“We take care of our own, Fred.”

And somehow, that—that—was the final blow.

***

Interview Transcript – Post Canadian GP 

Karun Chandhok: Charles, congratulations again on your Monaco GP win! That must have been an incredible moment for you.

Charles: grinning Yes, thank you! It was a very special race for me. Winning at home, in front of my family and the fans, was an unbelievable feeling.

Karun: And it happened on your sister Isabelle’s birthday too, right? That must have made the celebrations even more special!

Charles: smiling automatically Yes, it was— pauses —wait.

Karun: laughs lightly A birthday and a race win on the same day, that’s pretty memorable!

Charles: eyes darting to the side, like he's mentally calculating ...That was— his expression suddenly shifts, his smile faltering

Karun: noticing Charles?

Charles: blinking rapidly No way.

Karun: chuckles, confused

Charles: quietly, more to himself We forgot.

Karun: hesitates

Charles: more urgently We forgot her birthday.

Karun: awkwardly I mean, I’m sure—

Charles: shaking his head, visibly spiraling No, no, no. We were all celebrating, but not her. Not for her. We didn’t say anything.

Karun: off-camera crew shifting nervously

Charles: running a hand down his face Oh my god.

Karun: Um—

Charles: turning toward someone off-camera Do you have my phone? I need to— shaking his head, exhaling sharply I need to fix this.

***

[goldfades]

once i fix me, he's gonna miss me | joe burrow⁹ (part two)

part one!!! | here are the people who commented for a part two on part one @rd14

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.9k (oops... sorry)

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had spent months apart, each of you learning to live without the other.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and lots of angst!!! joe finding a new gf, hoe joe 🤗🤗🤗 BUT A HAPPY ENDINGGGG!!! YIPEEEE!!!

Seven months.

It didn’t sound like a long time, not really. Less than a year. Barely two seasons. Just over half of what used to be a full calendar with him—training camps, game days, off-seasons that blurred together with vacations and quiet mornings in bed.

But in reality, it had been everything.

Seven months since you had packed up the life you built and left Cincinnati behind. Seven months of unlearning the habits of loving Joe Burrow, of waking up without him, of forcing yourself to stop expecting a text that never came. Seven months of figuring out who you were outside of being his.

And now, just when you had finally settled into this new version of yourself, life was pulling you back.

Back to Cincinnati. Back to the city that still had pieces of you scattered all over it. Back to him.

It wasn’t about Joe.

You had spent months proving that to yourself, and you weren’t about to start unraveling now. This was about you.

About the job offer that had landed in your inbox three weeks ago, the kind of offer people in sports media fought years for—an on-air analyst role with The Ringer, covering the NFL, sitting at the same table as some of the most respected voices in the industry.

It was the dream. Your dream.

And you weren’t about to say no just because it happened to be in the same city where the ghost of your old life still lingered.

So, for the first time in months, you packed your bags for yourself. Not for a man. Not for a relationship.

For you.

But still, as you stared at your suitcases lined up by the door, heart pounding just a little harder than you wanted to admit, one thought lingered in the back of your mind:

What happens when he sees you again?

--

Joe spent the summer in places that never felt like home.

Hotel rooms, penthouses, beach houses that weren’t his—always someone else’s space, someone else’s idea of a good time. The kind of places that smelled like overpriced perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

And for a while, that was the point.

His teammates told him this was what life was supposed to be like.

“You’re 27, bro. You should be living.” “You’re Joe fucking Burrow. Act like it.” “Man, you wasted all your good years locked down.”

That last one made his stomach twist. Because it didn’t feel wasted.

But he didn’t say that.

Instead, he let them drag him to Miami, to Vegas, to private clubs where the rules didn’t apply to men like them. He let women press into him, let them murmur in his ear, let them take his hand and lead him places he wasn’t sure he wanted to go.

Because that was the goal, wasn’t it?

To fill the silence. To drown out the memories. To stop thinking about you.

So, he drank.

Not recklessly—never sloppily—but just enough to take the edge off. Enough to let the vodka burn its way through his chest and dull the parts of him that still felt too raw.

He spent the nights doing what everyone told him he should—wrapped up in women he barely knew, letting them touch him, letting them call him baby in a voice that never sounded quite right.

Sometimes, in the blur of it all, he almost let himself believe he was having fun.

But then morning would come. And he’d wake up in a bed that wasn’t his own, sheets tangled, a warm body beside him that felt wrong.

She would still be asleep, breathing slow and even, and Joe would stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of something he couldn’t name pressing down on his ribs. It was always the same.

He’d lie there, his head still heavy from the night before, and tell himself this was good for him.

This was healthy. He was moving on. He was living. He was making up for lost time.

But then she would shift beside him, mumble something sleepily, and for a split second, he would forget where he was. For a split second, his body would expect you.

His arm would twitch, muscle memory almost pulling him toward you—except it wasn’t you.

It never was. And in that moment, when the reality of it came crashing down, Joe had never felt more hollow.

So he would slip out of bed. Pull on his clothes. Leave before she woke up, before she could reach for him, before she could make him feel even emptier than he already did.

Then, like clockwork, his phone would light up with a text from one of the guys.

Round two tonight? Another night, another city, let’s run it. Burrow, we’re not letting you sit this one out.

And every time, he would hesitate. Every time, he would think about saying no. But then he’d think about what saying no meant.

Silence. Loneliness.

A bed that really felt empty. And worst of all—thoughts of you.

So instead, he would type out the same thing he always did. I’m in.

And just like that, another night would begin. Another night of pretending. Another night of trying to convince himself that this was good for him.

That this was better than thinking about the one person who used to make him feel whole.

And the beginning of the season was always theirs.

It had been for years.

It was the one time of year where the entire world faded into the background—where it was just the two of them, preparing for battle in the way only they knew how. Training camp, preseason, the long, grueling days where his body ached and his mind buzzed with too much information—none of it ever felt as heavy when you were there.

Because you had made it easier. You always knew what he needed before he even had to ask.

You knew how to blend his smoothies just right—protein-packed but never too thick, not too sweet, not too chalky, just enough banana to hide the bitterness of the greens he hated but needed. You knew how many calories he needed to maintain weight, which meals gave him the best energy, when he needed something light and when he needed something hearty. You knew when he was too sore to get off the couch, and you’d already have an ice pack in one hand and a heating pad in the other.

You knew him. And now, you were gone.

Preseason was hell. Not just because of the training, not just because every muscle in his body burned by the time he got home, not just because he was still trying to prove he was fully back from the injury—but because this was the first time he was doing it without you.

For the past seven years, the start of the season had always meant you.

It meant waking up to you shaking him gently, telling him his morning shake was ready, pressing a soft kiss to his temple before he even opened his eyes. It meant coming home to meals that were already planned, already balanced, already exactly what his body needed to recover. It meant you running through the nutrition plan with him, tweaking it when necessary, doing the math so he didn’t have to think about it.

It meant structure. It meant routine. It meant you making sure he was okay, even when he was too stubborn to admit when he wasn’t.

Now, none of it was there. And he felt it more than ever.

--

The moment he walked into his house after practice, exhaustion hit him like a brick wall. His body was done—his legs sore, his back aching, his head pounding. All he wanted was to throw his bag down, take a shower, eat, and crash.

But instead, he just stood there. Because for the first time, he realized how much there was to do.

You weren’t there to remind him to drink his recovery shake. You weren’t there to make sure the fridge was stocked with what he needed. You weren’t there to have a meal ready so he didn’t have to think about it.

And fuck, he had never thought about it. Not once. Because you had always done it.

Joe sighed, rolling his shoulders, heading into the kitchen. The fridge door swung open with an empty, lifeless hum, and his stomach sank at the sight.

Nothing was prepped.

There were random ingredients, sure. Leftover takeout. Some eggs, maybe. A couple of protein bars shoved in the back. But nothing was ready. Nothing was measured, planned, easy.

And that’s when it really hit him.

You weren’t just gone. You had been holding his life together.

He shut the fridge, pressing his hands against the counter, breathing heavily through his nose. His head felt too full and too empty at the same time.

For years, he had been able to come home, sit down, and just be.

Now? Now he had to do everything himself.

Now, he had to think about what to eat, had to plan it, had to cook it. He had to wash the dishes after instead of finding them already cleaned. He had to remind himself to stretch properly, to ice his ankle, to foam roll before bed.

And it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it.

It was just that he had never had to before.

Because you had done it all. Because you had loved him enough to do it all. And he—

Joe exhaled sharply, shaking his head like that could make the thoughts disappear. Like it could make the guilt settle.

But it didn’t. It never did.

So he grabbed a protein bar, ate it standing up, and stared at the empty kitchen like it was mocking him. Like it was reminding him of everything he lost.

--

The morning you left Columbus, the sky was overcast, the air thick with the kind of lingering summer heat that stuck to your skin. It felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself knew this wasn’t an easy goodbye.

Your best friend stood by the trunk of your car, arms crossed, shifting her weight like she was trying not to say something sentimental that would make you both cry.

"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

No. Not even a little.

But you nodded anyway, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. You were sure—about the job, about the opportunity, about the fact that moving back to Cincinnati was the next step for you.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified.

Because Cincinnati wasn’t just another city. It wasn’t just a place on the map.

It was his city.

It was where you had built a life with Joe, where every street held memories, where every turn would remind you of something you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You took a deep breath, reaching down to scratch behind Larry’s ears as she sat in her carrier, blinking up at you with wide, judgmental eyes. “Guess it’s just us now, huh?”

Your best friend let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, if she could talk, she’d probably tell you this is a terrible idea.”

“She doesn’t need to talk. She’s been staring at me like I ruined her life since I put her in there.”

“Because you did ruin her life. She was thriving here.”

You sighed dramatically, crouching to peer into the crate. “I get it, Larry. You’re a city girl now. But you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her tail. You took that as reluctant acceptance.

Your best friend leaned in, her voice dropping. “For real, though. If it gets to be too much—if you get there and you feel like you can’t do it, like it’s swallowing you whole—you call me.”

You looked at her, something tight forming in your throat.

You had spent the last seven months healing in this apartment, in this city, with her. She had seen the worst of you—the nights you couldn’t sleep, the mornings you barely got out of bed, the moments when you swore you would never go back to Cincinnati, to that life, to the person you used to be.

But here you were.

And you weren’t sure if you were proving yourself right or setting yourself up to fail.

“Promise me,” she pressed.

You swallowed hard and nodded. “I promise.”

She exhaled, reaching forward to wrap you in a tight hug. “Go be great.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, held on a little longer than necessary, and then let go.

It was time.

--

The first hour of the drive was quiet.

Larry had settled into the passenger seat, eyes half-lidded in irritation but otherwise calm, curled up on the blanket you had thrown there. The GPS said you had just over an hour to go, and the closer you got, the more your heart pounded.

It was happening.

You were actually doing this.

You were going back.

You were going back to Cincinnati, to a city that used to feel like home, but no longer did.

Going back to the restaurants you used to love, the streets you used to walk, the stadium that still felt like an extension of Joe himself.

Going back to a version of yourself you had spent seven months trying to bury.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter.

This was a mistake.

Maybe you should turn around. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe you had done all this work just to unravel the second you saw him again—because you would see him again. That was inevitable.

You sucked in a breath, reaching for your phone, scrolling through your playlists with one hand until your thumb hovered over a title that made you pause.

"I Can Do It With a Broken Heart."

You hesitated.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit play.

The first beat kicked in, and the song filled the car, the steady rhythm drowning out the anxious thoughts spiraling in your head.

“I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday every day.”

You huffed out something that was half a laugh, half a scoff.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

You turned up the volume, tapping your fingers against the wheel as the song pulsed through the speakers.

You weren’t going to let this break you.

You weren’t going to let the fear win.

This was your life.

Not Joe’s.

Not the life you built for him.

Not the future you thought you had.

This was your fresh start.

So you sang along, let the music wash over you, let the lyrics be a reminder that you had already survived the worst part.

Now, you just had to keep going.

The first week passed in a haze.

It was the kind of week where you moved on autopilot, where you unpacked boxes without really thinking about it, where you got up early, dressed professionally, walked into work like you belonged there—even when people looked at you like you were some kind of open secret.

You knew what they were thinking.

Knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear.

That’s Joe Burrow’s ex. Didn’t she used to be at every Bengals event? Wonder if she got the job because of him…

You ignored it.

You ignored the careful glances, the way some of your co-workers hesitated before talking to you, like they weren’t sure whether to bring him up or pretend they didn’t know anything.

You weren’t Joe Burrow’s ex.

You were you.

And you belonged here.

You knew that.

So you held your head high, settled into the studio, studied film, took notes, prepared for your first on-air segment like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into your work, into the statistics, into the plays, into the debates about teams and formations and Super Bowl contenders.

And it helped.

For a little while.

But then you went home.

And that was when the silence hit you like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t Columbus, where your best friend was always there to fill the quiet. Where you could crash on the couch and vent about your day. Where you could talk about Joe without every conversation feeling like a weight pressing down on your chest.

This was alone.

For the first time since the breakup, you were truly alone.

And God, it was loud.

The absence of Joe wasn’t just in the city itself—it was in the routine, in the things you used to do without even realizing they were because of him.

Like how you still woke up too early, your body trained to match his schedule, expecting to hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, making coffee before heading to the facility.

Except now, the kitchen was silent.

Like how you caught yourself walking toward the fridge with the muscle memory of preparing his post-practice meal—only to stop halfway when you remembered he wasn’t coming home.

Like how you reached for your phone when the Bengals played their first preseason game, fingers hovering over Joe’s contact, because for years, your first instinct was to text him after every game.

But there was nothing to say.

And maybe the worst part?

You weren’t just missing Joe.

You were missing the you that existed when you were with him.

The version of yourself that felt certain—who knew her place in the world, who belonged somewhere, who mattered to someone.

You had spent months finding yourself again, carving out your own identity, telling yourself that you didn’t need him to be whole.

But now, back in Cincinnati, back in the place where he existed so loudly—

You weren’t sure if you believed it anymore.

So you curled up on the couch, pulling Larry onto your lap, listening to the faint echoes of the city outside your window, and let the loneliness settle in.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t loud.

It was just… empty.

And that, somehow, was worse.

--

The first game of the season was electric.

The stadium roared with life, packed with thousands of fans wearing his jersey, screaming his name, riding the high of the first Sunday of football like it was a holiday. The air was thick with anticipation, the adrenaline thrumming in his veins like a drug, the kind of high that made everything else fade into the background.

It was the kind of game where Joe felt alive.

Where every snap, every pass, every perfectly executed play made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Where he could silence the doubts, the guilt, the quiet gnawing ache that had followed him around since the summer.

By the time the final whistle blew, and the Bengals secured their first win of the season, he was buzzing.

His teammates clapped him on the back, Ja’Marr pulling him in with a grin, shouting something in his ear that was lost in the deafening noise of the stadium.

Joe was smiling. Laughing. Letting the moment consume him, letting it drown out everything else.

And then, out of instinct—out of years of routine—he turned to the stands.

He looked for you.

Because that’s what he always did.

After every win, his eyes found you first. No matter how crazy the stadium was, no matter how many cameras were flashing, no matter how loud the world got—he always, always found you.

You, standing there in the family section, wearing his jersey, waiting for him with that soft, knowing smile. You, with your hands cupped around your mouth, cheering louder than anyone else. You, who had been there since before all of this, since before the world knew his name, since before he was anything more than a college quarterback with big dreams.

You, who always made the wins feel real.

But tonight?

You weren’t there.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs.

The stands blurred, the celebration around him suddenly too loud, too suffocating.

Because of course you weren’t there.

You hadn’t been there for months.

And still, somehow, some way, he had forgotten.

For the first time in seven months, he had let himself exist in a space where you were still his. Where you were still waiting for him, still there at the end of it all, still his person.

But you weren’t.

You were gone.

And in your place, in the section where you used to stand, where you used to belong—

Was Katie.

His girlfriend.

She was standing there, blonde hair perfect, wearing a Bengals hoodie that was probably brand new, clapping politely as she smiled down at him.

Nice. Sweet. Pretty.

Not you.

His stomach twisted.

Because Katie wasn’t bad. She wasn’t anything, really. Just another part of the life he had built in your absence. Something easy, something light, something that should have made him feel better but didn’t.

Because she didn’t know him.

Not really.

Not like you did.

She didn’t know what to say to him after a loss. Didn’t know how he liked his breakfast in the mornings. Didn’t know the exact way he liked his shoulder massaged when the soreness became unbearable.

Didn’t know him like you did.

And for the first time since convincing himself this was what moving on looked like, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

His hands clenched into fists.

The celebration around him felt like static, like background noise in a life he wasn’t sure belonged to him anymore.

Because winning used to mean everything.

But tonight, standing in the middle of the field, looking up at the stands and seeing her instead of you—

He had never felt more hollow.

--

For the first couple of months back in Cincinnati, you told yourself you were thriving.

You said it like a mantra, like if you repeated it enough times, it would become real. You made new friends—real friends, not people who only saw you as Joe Burrow’s ex, not WAGs who looked at you with thinly veiled pity, not reporters who were too polite to ask what really happened.

They were normal. Kind. Fun. The kind of girls who made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, who invited you to wine nights and didn’t bring up Joe once. With them, you could pretend that Cincinnati wasn’t laced with ghosts of your old life. You could breathe.

You picked up new hobbies.

You took a pilates class, went to farmer’s markets on Sundays, tried baking even though you burned half the things you made. You started running again—not because Joe had told you once that he liked how focused you looked when you ran, but because you liked the way it made you feel.

You tried to redefine football as yours.

Not Joe’s.

Yours.

You threw yourself into your job, memorized rosters, studied plays, made sure you knew everything about the game so that when you sat in that studio, behind that microphone, no one could say you got this job because of him.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, you really did feel like you were thriving.

But then, one afternoon, it all came crashing down.

—

It was a normal day at work. Normal segment. Normal conversation.

Until it wasn’t.

You were on air, talking through some Week 4 analysis, debating quarterback performances with your co-host, when he said it.

Casual. Offhand. Like it wasn’t about to shatter you completely.

"Well, I guess we can trust your take on Joe Burrow—you did have a front-row seat for a long time."

The words landed like a gut punch.

Your stomach clenched, a prickle of heat rising at the back of your neck.

You forced a laugh. A quick, easy, I'm completely unbothered laugh.

"Guess so," you said, brushing it off, moving on like it was nothing.

But inside, you were shaking.

Your hands under the desk. Your breath. Your entire body.

You spent the rest of the segment in autopilot, nodding at the right moments, forcing yourself to focus on the words, on the script, on anything but the feeling of your past creeping into a space that was supposed to be yours.

And the second the cameras cut, you were gone.

You barely made it to your car before it hit you.

The unraveling.

You collapsed into the driver’s seat, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight they ached, and then—

You broke.

It wasn’t quiet.

It wasn’t controlled.

It was months of holding it together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending you had rebuilt yourself from the ground up—only to realize you had been balancing on a fault line the entire time.

The sobs came fast, chest-heaving, breathless.

You had spent so long trying to reclaim Cincinnati, trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just a remnant of Joe Burrow’s life—that you could exist here, in this city, in this job, as your own person.

But the truth was, he was everywhere.

And right now, in this moment, you weren’t sure if you were anything without him.

Because Joe was the only person who had ever truly known you.

He knew the way your nose scrunched when you concentrated, the way you got irrationally angry when you lost at board games, the way you never finished a drink, always leaving the last sip untouched.

He knew your moods before you did.

He knew how you got quiet when you were sad, how you hated crying in front of people, how you avoided confrontation until you couldn’t anymore—until it bubbled over in sharp words and slammed doors.

He knew things about you that you didn’t even know about yourself.

Like how you sometimes clenched your jaw in your sleep when you were anxious. Like how you had a habit of counting your steps when you walked, not even realizing it.

Like how, right now, you would be breaking down in your car, gripping the steering wheel, feeling completely and utterly lost—and the only person who could make it better was him.

But he wasn’t here.

And that was the worst part of all.

--

December used to be your favorite month.

The lights, the music, the warmth of it all. The way the whole world seemed to slow down, wrapped in twinkling lights and the soft hum of Christmas songs playing in the background.

But mostly, December meant him. It meant Joe.

His birthday, tucked right in the start of the holiday season, had always been something sacred to you. It was your thing—the one time of year where you could spoil him without him complaining, where you could go all out, where you could make sure he felt as loved as he made you feel every other day of the year.

You had never held back.

You would spend months planning—picking out the perfect gifts, arranging surprise dinners, making sure every little detail was right. One year, you got him that limited-edition Rolex he had been eyeing but never pulled the trigger on. Another year, you rented out a private cabin in the mountains for just the two of you, knowing he needed to escape the chaos of football for a few days.

Last year—God, last year—you had thrown him a surprise party with all of his friends and family. He had kissed you at the end of the night, hands cupping your face, murmuring against your lips, How do you always know exactly what I want?

Because you knew him. Because you had loved him.

And now, here you were.

A year later. A year without him.

And December didn’t feel magical anymore.

You tried. You really tried.

You put up the tree in your apartment, even though it was smaller than the one you used to decorate with him. You bought yourself Christmas candles, filled your space with the smell of cinnamon and pine, played holiday music when you cooked.

But it all felt wrong.

Because December had always been his month, too. It wasn’t just the holiday season—it was the anniversary of the last time you had ever been his.

The breakup had happened right after his birthday.

It had been cold, the city wrapped in the kind of sharp, biting winter that made everything feel harsher. And in a way, it had been fitting—because that night, when Joe had walked out, when the door had shut behind him, the warmth had left your life, too.

And now, a full year later, it was still gone.

His birthday came and went. You didn’t text him. Didn’t even let yourself think about what he might be doing, whether he was happy, whether he even thought about you at all.

But your body knew.

You woke up that morning feeling it like a weight in your chest, like something pressing down on your ribs. You didn’t check your phone, didn’t open Instagram, didn’t give yourself the chance to see what the world was saying about him.

Because it wasn’t your place anymore. Because you weren’t the person celebrating with him.

Because no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times you told yourself that you were okay, December would always be the cruelest reminder that you weren’t.

That you had once been his world. And now, you were nothing.

You spent Christmas with your best friend, and it should have been nice. It was nice. Warm. Cozy. The kind of Christmas you had always loved.

But it wasn’t his family.

It wasn’t his mom, who had always pulled you into a hug the second you walked through the door. It wasn’t his dad, who would slip you a knowing smile when Joe snuck a hand around your waist at dinner. It wasn’t his brothers, teasing you like you were already part of the family.

And it wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Joe, pulling you against him on the couch, wrapping you in one of his hoodies, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. It wasn’t his voice murmuring, Merry Christmas, baby, in the quiet, sleepy warmth of the morning.

It wasn’t your life. Not anymore.

So, you smiled. You opened presents. You drank hot chocolate and laughed at dumb Christmas movies and let yourself pretend that this was enough.

But when you got home that night, alone in your apartment, staring at your Christmas tree that suddenly felt too big, you let the truth sink in.

December without him was unbearable. And you weren’t sure if it would ever get easier.

--

You had almost convinced yourself that you were fine.

Almost.

The past year had been a cycle—of loss, of healing, of learning how to be you again. But tonight? Tonight, you felt like you had finally gotten there.

You had put effort into your outfit, just because you wanted to. You weren’t dressing for anyone but yourself, weren’t trying to impress Joe or prove something to anyone. You had slipped into a sleek, fitted black dress, let your new friends style your hair in soft waves, even wore that deep red lipstick that had always made you feel untouchable.

And when you stepped out of your car in front of the restaurant, that new Chanel bag resting effortlessly on your shoulder, you felt good.

Not just okay. Good. Like yourself.

Or at least, the version of you that wasn’t still haunted by him.

--

Joe had seen you first.

And it hit him like a fucking freight train.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing you—it was how he saw you. It was the way you walked into the restaurant, laughing at something one of your coworkers had said, your smile easy, effortless, real. It was the way you carried yourself, exuding that same quiet confidence that had once made him fall for you in the first place.

And God, you looked good. Not just good. Stunning.

Like you had stepped right out of a dream, wearing that black dress like it had been made for you, your hair falling in perfect waves, that red lipstick making his mouth go dry.

For a second, Joe forgot how to breathe. Because this was the first time he had seen you in a year. And somehow, you looked okay.

Without him.

The nausea hit immediately.

Because the last time he had seen you—really seen you—you had been crying. You had been begging him to fight for you, to stay, to want you enough to make it work. And now, a year later, you weren’t the woman who had walked away from him, heartbroken and lost.

You were this. Whole. Beautiful. Radiant.

Like he had never even existed in your world.

You didn’t see Joe right away.

Your coworkers were leading the way to your table, your heels clicking against the polished floors, your heart light in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. You were okay. You were doing this. You were thriving.

Until your stomach dropped. Because suddenly, you felt it.

That indescribable feeling—the one that came when someone was watching you. And when you turned your head, your breath caught in your throat.

Because he was there.

Joe.

Sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant, not alone. You blinked. Your heart lurched. Your ears started ringing. He had a girlfriend.

You didn’t even know he had moved on.

And yet, here he was, sitting across from some blonde—long hair, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made your stomach twist in a way you hated.

Because Joe wasn’t supposed to move on.

Not when you were still here. Not when you had spent the past year rebuilding yourself just to survive the loss of him. And now, in a single second, everything inside you cracked.

You felt sick.

Not because you wanted him back. But because, for the first time, you were faced with the reality that he had built a life that no longer included you.

That the man you had once known better than anyone—the man you had loved with everything you had—was now sitting across from another woman.

That you weren’t his anymore.

Joe watched the realization hit you.

Watched the way your face fell, your eyes widening slightly, your body stiffening like you had just been punched in the stomach. And suddenly, he hated himself.

Because you looked like you—strong, composed, pulled together—but in that brief second, he saw it. That crack in the armor. That hurt.

And fuck, fuck, he wanted to fix it.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t moved on.

Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

Yeah, Katie was nice. Yeah, she looked good on his arm. But she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he needed after a bad game, didn’t know the songs that made him think of home, didn’t know that he couldn’t sleep with the TV on because the noise made his brain race.

She wasn’t you.

And as much as he had tried to convince himself that this was right—that you were the past, that this was his future—he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Because seeing you here, standing across the room, looking like this, feeling like this, made him realize something.

He didn’t want this life without you. And for the first time in a year, Joe felt something worse than heartbreak.

He felt regret. And Joe could feel Katie watching him.

She had been talking—something about how the steak wasn’t as good as the place she went to in LA—but he hadn’t heard a word. His eyes were locked on you.

On the way your body tensed, on the flicker of hurt that flashed across your face before you smoothed it over like it was nothing. On the way your fingers twitched at your side like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Like you wanted to run. And fuck, he hated that.

Hated that he was the reason you looked like that. Hated that even after a year, he could still hurt you just by existing. Then he felt it.

Katie’s hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep, nails digging in slightly as she pressed herself closer. She knew.

Of course she knew.

He hadn’t talked about you much—at least, not in detail—but she wasn’t stupid. She knew you had been important. That you had been in his life for longer than most people had even known his name.

And now, here you were. The ghost she had probably been waiting to meet.

"Joe," she said, sweet but pointed, her voice breaking through his haze. "You okay?"

Her fingers squeezed his arm. He barely resisted the urge to shake her off. He was so close to losing it.

He could feel his patience hanging on by a thread, could feel the way his body was coiled tight, his chest aching with something he didn’t want to feel.

Because it was his late birthday dinner. His friends were here. He was supposed to be happy. But all he could think about was you. And how you were standing there, looking like that, looking like everything he had ever wanted and everything he had already lost.

He pulled his arm from Katie’s grip as casually as he could, pretending to adjust his watch.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he muttered.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because every second that passed, the more wrong this felt. The more suffocating the entire situation became.

The dinner had already been irritating—his friends were drunk, the restaurant was too loud, and Katie had spent half the night making passive comments about how he never posted her, about how she just wanted to feel special.

And now, this? Now, you were here?

It was like some kind of cruel joke.

Joe felt like the room was closing in on him.

The sounds of the restaurant—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the faint hum of music in the background—blurred into nothing, white noise against the sharp, singular reality of you.

Standing there. Looking like that. And worse—looking like you didn’t need him anymore.

That realization settled deep, lodged somewhere between his ribs, pressing down like a weight he couldn’t shake.

His fingers twitched in his lap. His knee bounced once before he forced it to stop. He was trying, really fucking trying, to play it cool, to keep his face neutral, to ignore the way his body had tensed the second he saw you walk in.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to see you like this—unexpectedly, in a crowded restaurant, after a year of living separate lives. He had told himself that when it happened, it wouldn’t matter. That by the time he saw you again, he’d be fine. That whatever you two had been, whatever had been left unsaid, whatever this was, it wouldn’t affect him anymore.

But he had been wrong.

Because seeing you now—standing there in that black dress, your hair falling over your shoulders in that soft, effortless way he used to push his fingers through when you were tired, your lips painted that deep shade of red that had always driven him insane—he felt like his entire body was betraying him.

His stomach clenched. His throat went dry.

Because for a split second, before his brain caught up, before reality sunk its teeth into him, he had expected you to walk toward him.

Like you always had. Like you were supposed to. Like this was still your moment, your ritual, your life together.

And then, just as quickly, he saw it—the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers curled slightly at your sides, the way your lips parted just barely before pressing into a tight line.

The way your hands shook.

No one else would have noticed. But he did.

Because he had spent years learning you, memorizing you, knowing every single tell, every little habit, every reaction before you even knew you were having one.

And that? That fucked him up the most. Because it meant this hurt you, too.

It meant you weren’t indifferent. It meant that even after a full year, he still affected you. And that should have made him feel better.

But it didn’t.

Because the way you had reacted wasn’t the way you used to. There was no fond exasperation, no teasing smirk, no warmth in your expression.

It was shock. Discomfort.

Like you didn’t want to be here. Like he was the thing making you feel sick.

And the worst part? He knew he had no right to be hurt by that. Because he had done this. He was the one who had walked away first. He was the one who had let you go.

And yet, even knowing that, even with the weight of that truth pressing down on him, he still felt something ugly coil in his chest at the thought of you not caring at all.

At the thought of you moving on without him, just as much as he had tried—and failed—to move on without you. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, and then—Katie.

Katie, who was still gripping his arm, nails pressing into his sleeve like a silent claim, like she knew. Like she could feel the shift in his body, the way all of his attention, all of his focus, had zeroed in on you.

And then, as if to confirm it, she pulled herself closer, her chin tilting up, her lips curling into something sweet but firm.

"Joe," she murmured, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hum of the restaurant, "you’re all tense. Relax, baby."

Joe clenched his jaw. Because now? Now, it wasn’t just about you being here. Now, it was about this.

About the fact that he had spent the last year convincing himself that this—Katie, this relationship, this new life—was what he needed. That this was how he moved forward. That this was the best thing for him.

But the second you walked into the room, it had all come crashing down.

And when Katie pressed even closer, her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers curling into his, something in him snapped. Not visibly. Not obviously.

But he felt it.

Because for the first time in months, maybe even the first time since the breakup, he wanted out.

Out of this night. Out of this restaurant. Out of this version of his life where you weren’t in it.

But his friends were here. His teammates. People were watching. So instead, he inhaled sharply through his nose, casually slipping his fingers from Katie’s grip under the guise of adjusting his watch.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Because when he glanced up again, when his eyes found you across the restaurant, he saw the moment you turned to your coworkers and muttered something under your breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Saw the way you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself, before turning on your heel and walking toward your table like he wasn’t even there.

Like he didn’t exist. And that?

That hurt worse than anything.

--

You had spent a year healing.

A year rebuilding yourself, re-learning how to exist outside of him, re-training your mind to stop associating every little thing with Joe Burrow. A year convincing yourself that you were okay, that you were better, that you had made it through the worst of it.

And then, in a single moment, it all shattered.

Because he was here. Not just here—here with her.

You felt it before you even saw him. That undeniable shift in the air, the creeping sensation of familiarity that made your breath catch in your throat. And then, when your eyes finally landed on him—on Joe—it felt like something inside you cracked open, raw and bleeding.

Because he wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. And it wasn’t just that. It was how he looked.

Relaxed. Unbothered. Like the past year hadn’t touched him the way it had ruined you. Like he had moved on so seamlessly, so effortlessly, while you had spent sleepless nights trying to pick up the pieces of yourself that he had left behind.

And maybe the worst part?

He looked happy.

Not the kind of happiness you had memorized—the quiet, real, content kind that came when he let himself breathe around you. Not the kind of happiness that was soft and easy, that came from forehead kisses in the morning and whispered inside jokes.

No, this was performative.

This was the kind of happiness you pretended to have when you were trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you were fine.

And yet, even knowing that, even recognizing that this wasn’t real, it still hit you like a knife between the ribs. Because while you had spent the last year trying to be better, trying to move forward, Joe had spent it trying to erase you.

Like you never existed. Like the seven years you had spent together were just some forgettable chapter in his life, one he could close and move on from without looking back.

And that? That was unbearable.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your palms damp as you curled your fingers into fists under the table. You felt like you were spiraling, like you were seconds away from breaking right here, in the middle of this crowded restaurant, in front of everyone.

No. No, no, no.

You refused. You had spent too long putting yourself back together just to fall apart now. So you inhaled sharply, forcing a small, tight smile as you pushed your chair back.

Your coworkers looked up, brows furrowed.

“You okay?” one of them asked.

You nodded, already reaching for your bag, voice light, too casual. “Yeah, I just—ugh, I think something I ate earlier isn’t sitting right. I’m gonna head out.”

They nodded, accepting the excuse easily, offering quick well wishes as you grabbed your things and turned for the door. And you didn’t look back.

Not once. Not even when you felt the weight of his gaze burning into your back. Not even when every single step felt like it was dragging you further away from the life you had once lived with him.

Not even when, for the first time in a long time, you realized that no matter how much you had tried to heal, there were some wounds that time just couldn’t fix.

Joe watched you leave, and something inside him snapped.

It happened fast. One second, you were there, and the next, you were gone, slipping through the restaurant like you couldn’t get out fast enough. And fuck—fuck, he hated that.

Hated that you looked right at him and then turned away. Hated that you had left, just like that, without even acknowledging him.

Like he was nothing. Like he had never existed in your life, either.

It made his hands twitch, made his jaw tighten, made his stomach coil with something sharp and awful and unbearable.

It made him move.

He barely heard Katie calling his name. Barely registered the way his friends were still laughing, still drinking, still living in a reality where everything was normal.

Because nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal since you had walked out of his life. And for the first time in a year, Joe didn’t fight it.

Didn’t push it down. Didn’t try to convince himself that he was fine. Instead, he stood up, threw some cash on the table, and went after you.

Joe pushed through the restaurant doors just in time to see your taillights disappear into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

And it felt like he was right back there again—standing in the middle of your living room, hands shaking, heart in his throat, watching as you begged him to just say something. Just fight for you. Just be the man you needed him to be.

But he hadn’t. He had let you go. And now, a year later, he had done it all over again.

His chest ached, his ribs felt too tight, his pulse was hammering so loud in his ears that he barely heard Katie calling his name behind him.

But then she touched him—her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice dripping with confusion and irritation.

"Joe, what the hell was that?"

He ripped his arm away so fast that she stumbled back a step.

"Are you serious right now?" His voice was rough, raw, his body vibrating with something he couldn’t contain anymore.

Katie scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, I am serious. You just humiliated me in there! You followed your ex-girlfriend out of a restaurant when I was right there—on your birthday dinner, Joe."

She said it like it mattered. Like any of this fucking mattered. Like this wasn’t the single worst night of his life. Like he cared.

Joe let out a sharp, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face, feeling like he could burst out of his own skin.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," he muttered. "You knew. You always fucking knew."

Her eyes narrowed. "Knew what?"

"That this—us—was nothing." His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. His hands were shaking, his chest felt too fucking tight, and suddenly, everything came out. "You knew I was never over her. You knew you were never—never fucking her."

Katie flinched like he had slapped her. And maybe, in a way, he had.

Because he never said it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged the fact that he had spent the past year trying to force himself to be okay, to be normal, to be the guy who could move on.

But it had always been bullshit. It had always been a lie. Because he had been living in a fucking delusion thinking that he could be with someone who wasn’t you.

And now? Now, he was standing outside a restaurant, watching the only woman he had ever truly loved drive away from him again, and he felt like he was being ripped in half.

Katie’s eyes were burning. She was angry, but worse—she looked humiliated.

"You are such a fucking asshole," she spat. "You let me think—" She cut herself off, shaking her head, biting the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. "You know what? Fuck you, Joe."

He barely reacted. Because nothing she said, nothing she could say, would make him feel worse than he already did.

He was a fucking mess.

A fucking idiot. A fucking coward.

"You need to go," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Katie huffed out a bitter laugh. "Gladly."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the Uber app with shaking fingers, ordered her a ride, and barely looked at her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away.

She scoffed. "Seriously? You’re not even gonna drive me home?"

Joe clenched his jaw, staring down at the pavement. "I can’t."

And that was the truth. Because if he got in his car right now, he knew where he was going.

He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember putting the car in gear, didn’t remember making the turns, didn’t remember how his foot even got on the gas.

One second, he was standing in the cold outside the restaurant, and the next—

He was here.

In front of your apartment complex.

The one he only knew about because of some casual conversation in the locker room, when one of his teammates had mentioned running into you near downtown.

He hadn’t meant to come here. Hadn’t thought about coming here. But his hands were gripping the steering wheel, his breath was uneven, and he was here.

His knuckles were white. His mind was blank. His heart was breaking all over again.

And for the first time in his life, Joe Burrow didn’t know what the fuck to do.

--

Joe stood outside your door, heart hammering against his ribs, hands curled into fists at his sides, and for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he understood.

All of it.

The songs, the poems, the movies that had once felt dramatic, exaggerated, over the top. The grand gestures, the desperate pleas, the kind of heartbreak that knocked a man to his knees.

Because this—this—was the lowest he had ever been.

Worse than losing a game. Worse than getting injured. Worse than anything he had ever experienced. Because he had lost you. And he couldn't live like this anymore.

Couldn’t keep pretending that he was fine, that he had moved on, that he didn’t miss you every single second of every single day. Because the truth was, he did.

He missed everything.

Missed the way your voice sounded in the morning, still laced with sleep, soft and warm and home. Missed the smell of your shampoo when you curled against his chest. Missed your laugh, your stupid little quirks, the way you always knew exactly what he needed before he even said a word.

He missed loving you. And he missed being loved by you.

Because no one—not Katie, not any of the women who had tried to take your place, not a single person in the past year—had ever come close to what you were to him.

And maybe it had taken him too long to realize it. Maybe he had been too fucking stupid, too proud, too scared to fight for you when he should have.

But he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

So before he could talk himself out of it, before the fear could win, before he could convince himself that he had already ruined everything beyond repair—

He knocked.

The sound echoed in the quiet of the night, and for a second, all he could hear was the deafening thud of his own heartbeat.

Then—

The lock clicked, the door creaked open.

And there you were.

Standing in front of him, still in that black dress, your hair a little messier now, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had spent the last hour doing exactly what he had been doing—falling apart.

Joe felt something crack inside him.

Because you looked just as broken as he felt.

And before you could say anything, before you could slam the door in his face, before you could tell him to leave—

He broke.

“I—” His voice cracked, and suddenly, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. It all came out—rushed, jumbled, messy, barely coherent, but real.

“I can’t—fuck, I don’t even know where to start. I—I don’t know how to make this right, I don’t even know if I can, but I have to try because I can’t—” His breath hitched, his hands shaking at his sides, tears burning his eyes as he forced the words out. “I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep waking up without you. I can’t keep pretending that I’m okay when I’m not. When I haven’t been since the second you walked away.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

But Joe couldn’t stop. Because if he did, if he gave himself a second to think, he might break down completely.

So he just kept going.

“I was a fucking idiot,” he choked out. “I—I should have fought for you. I should have been the man you needed. I should have—fuck—I should have never let you think for a second that you weren’t the most important thing in my life. Because you were. You still are.”

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t even try to stop it.

“I miss you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I miss you so much that I don’t know how to—how to breathe without you. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His throat was closing up, his chest heaving, his heart fucking shattering, and all he wanted—all he wanted—was to reach out, to touch you, to hold you, to show you how sorry he was.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Because this was your decision now. So he just stood there, completely open, completely raw, completely yours, and waited.

Waited for you to slam the door in his face. Waited for you to tell him that he was too late. Waited for you to break his heart all over again.

But there it was again—that ache.

That deep, unbearable, all-consuming ache that only Joe Burrow had ever been able to pull from you. That had always been the problem, hadn’t it? That no matter how much he had hurt you, no matter how much you had tried to move on, he was still Joe.

He was still your Joe.

And now, he was standing in front of you, breaking apart at the seams, giving you everything he should have given you a year ago. His eyes were glassy, his breath uneven, his entire body taut like he was waiting for you to destroy him.

And you could have.

You could have slammed the door in his face. You could have walked away, left him out in the cold, given him a taste of his own medicine.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you had never stopped loving him.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before your mind could catch up with your heart, you stepped forward and pulled him in.

The second your arms wrapped around him, Joe broke.

A sharp breath shuddered out of him as he buried his face into your hair, his body sinking against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for so long—like he had been starving for this.

His arms circled you, strong and desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid to let go, like he needed to hold onto you to keep himself standing.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracked and raw. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your face into his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie as your tears finally spilled over.

Because fuck.

This was the first time in a year that you had felt this. The warmth. The safety. The rightness of being in his arms.

You hated how good it still felt. How much you still wanted it.

Joe tightened his grip, his arms pressing you closer, his body trembling slightly as he mumbled more apologies, more I should have fought for you, I should have never let you go, I should have never—

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him.

And for the first time in a year, you really looked at him.

His face was different. A little more tired, a little more worn, his jaw sharper, his cheekbones more defined, but his eyes—his eyes—were still the same. Still that impossible shade of blue, still holding that same intensity, that same Joe-ness that had always made you weak.

And suddenly, that was all you needed.

All the months of heartbreak, all the lonely nights, all the pain—it all blurred for just a moment. Because the only thing that mattered was him.

And then, you let him inside.

Joe looked around, taking in your apartment, the newness of it, the little things that weren’t his, that weren’t yours and his.

And then, finally, you both sat on the couch.

There was no space between you—his thigh pressed against yours, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to speak.

Because if he was here, if he was really going to do this, he needed to hear everything. He needed to understand what he had done.

So you told him. You told him everything.

“You broke me, Joe.” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “You really, really broke me.”

Joe inhaled sharply, like the words physically hurt him.

“I spent months—months—trying to figure out what I did wrong,” you continued, your throat tightening. “Trying to understand why I wasn’t enough for you. Why you couldn’t just try. Why you let me walk away when I was begging you to fight for me.”

Joe’s head dropped into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was uneven, like he was barely holding it together.

You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheek. “I had to learn how to exist without you. And it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Joe let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Your voice cracked, your hands gripping your knees. “Because while I was trying to survive losing you, you were out there—” You hesitated, shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. “You were living. You were drinking, partying, fucking around with people who weren’t me. You had a girlfriend.”

Joe flinched, his jaw tightening. “She was nothing.”

“That’s not the point, Joe.”

His shoulders slumped, defeated. “I know.”

You blinked, breathing through the sharp ache in your chest. “I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I haven’t thought about this moment a million times,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I have. But if you think I’m just gonna let you back in, like none of it ever happened, you’re wrong.”

Joe sat up, nodding, his hands clasped together tightly. “I don’t expect that,” he said, voice low but steady. “I don’t expect anything. But I—” He let out a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Your heart clenched.

Joe turned to face you fully, his knee bumping yours, his expression desperate and real and so fucking raw.

“I never stopped, not for a second,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I could live without you. I thought I could move on, that I could distract myself, that I could convince myself that I made the right choice. But I didn’t.” His hands curled into fists. “I ruined the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.”

Your chest felt like it was being squeezed, your body so tired of carrying all this pain.

Joe swallowed hard. “I will do anything to make this right. Anything.” His eyes were pleading now, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “But you have to tell me how.”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply, your fingers twisting in your lap. And then, finally, you said it.

“You have to try.”

Joe nodded instantly, like there was no hesitation, no doubt, no fear left in him. “I will.”

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m not just gonna let you back in.” You met his gaze, steady despite the storm inside you. “I need you to prove that you mean it. That this isn’t just guilt, or nostalgia, or regret.”

Joe didn’t blink. “I know.”

“I’m serious, Joe. I’m not gonna be your safety net. I’m not just something you can come back to because you’re lonely. I need you to prove that this time, you’re not gonna leave when things get hard.”

Joe shifted forward, his voice so sure, so certain.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time in a year, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—there was still something left to fight for.

The next few weeks felt new.

Not in the way falling in love for the first time does—full of naive excitement, full of the rush of this is forever without ever questioning what forever actually means.

This was different.

This was love with edges, love with history, love that had been broken down to its very foundation and rebuilt with hands that knew how fragile it was.

You and Joe didn’t fall back into old habits, didn’t slip into the comfort of what once was. Because what you had before hadn’t worked, and maybe that was the point.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.

You weren’t together every second of every day. You weren’t just Joe’s girlfriend anymore. And maybe that was exactly what you had needed all along.

Joe never stopped trying.

He took you on real dates again, ones that weren’t just convenient dinners after practice, but ones he planned—a private table at your favorite restaurant, a weekend getaway, tickets to that concert you had mentioned in passing months ago.

He brought you presents—not extravagant, expensive gifts, but things that showed he listened to you. The signed first edition of that book you’d been searching for, the rare vintage jersey you casually mentioned once, the perfume you used to wear back in college but stopped because you thought it was discontinued.

He gave you space when you needed it. And when you talked, he listened.

Really listened.

And that gave you hope. Because this? This was the old Joe.

The one who had loved you before the fame, before the pressure, before the weight of the world had sat heavy on his shoulders. The one who had once promised you the world and had meant every word.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, he would keep that promise.

And Joe had never been happier.

He hadn’t realized what he had until he lost it. Until he spent a year trying to pretend like life without you was still life at all. And now that he had you back, he would never, ever lose you again.

So he did what he should have done the first time.

He showed up for you. For everything.

For your job, which he saw now wasn’t just something you did, but something you loved, something you were good at. He watched every segment, sent you texts after each one, grinned when you debated your co-hosts on-air like you were born for this.

For your hobbies, the ones you had picked up when he wasn’t around—reading late at night, running at sunrise, perfecting your French braiding skills just because you could. He watched you bloom into a version of yourself he hadn’t seen in years.

And he realized—this was you.

The you that had existed before the NFL, before the noise, before the expectations. And fuck, he had missed you.

Not the girlfriend who had once made his life so seamless, so easy, so comfortable.

But you.

The woman who never let anyone take her for granted. The woman who had built a life outside of him. The woman who had once loved him enough to let him go when she realized he wasn’t ready to love her the way she deserved.

Joe had spent years thinking he wanted someone who fit perfectly into his life. But the truth was, he didn’t want a trophy wife.

And you had never wanted to be one.

He wanted this. You, with your own ambitions, your own life, your own dreams.

And now, he had you back. Not because you needed him.

But because you had chosen him.

And he would spend the rest of his life proving that he was worth that choice.

--

Three months had passed, and somehow, this felt normal again.

Not in the way it once had—not in the suffocating, all-consuming way where your life revolved around Joe and his schedule.

This was better.

This was right.

And tonight, for the first time in over a year, you were his date to an NFL event. The NFL Honors, to be exact. The kind of night that used to feel like pressure, like you had to be perfect, like you were a reflection of him rather than your own person.

But not this time.

This time, it was just a date. A night out. A moment to celebrate him and everything he had fought to reclaim this season.

You would have been excited, had it not been for the fact that you were currently doing your makeup in a moving vehicle.

“You’re gonna stab yourself in the eye with that thing,” Joe mused, eyes flicking to you in the passenger seat as you struggled to apply mascara.

“I wouldn’t have to if someone had given me more time to get ready,” you muttered, carefully swiping the wand through your lashes.

Joe scoffed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “Are you kidding me? You literally had hours. I was ready thirty minutes before I even came to get you.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back for another coat. “Yeah, well, some of us have more to do than just put on a suit and fix our precious curls.”

Joe smirked, barely holding back a laugh. “You love my curls.”

You ignored him, reaching for your lip liner, only to fumble and drop it between your seat and the center console.

“Fuck,” you hissed, shifting to try and reach it.

Joe took the opportunity immediately. “Damn, you that excited for tonight?”

You groaned, pressing your head back against the seat in defeat. “Joe, shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he mused, one hand on the wheel, the other casually adjusting his watch, looking way too pleased with himself. “All dressed up, sitting next to me, getting flustered… You sure it’s the event you’re excited for?”

You turned to glare at him, your face already burning, and the second he saw it—that blush—he grinned.

Like he had just won the fucking Super Bowl.

Like making you blush had been his goal all along.

And honestly? Knowing Joe, it probably had been.

“God, you’re so annoying,” you muttered, arms crossed.

Joe reached over and gave your thigh a small squeeze before returning his hand to the wheel, still grinning. “Yeah, but you love it.”

And the worst part?

You did.

You knew he was going to win before they even announced it.

There had been a lot of speculation, sure, but there was no doubt in your mind.

No one had fought harder than Joe. No one had come back from a worse season to prove himself the way he had.

So when they called his name—Joe Burrow, Comeback Player of the Year—you barely heard the crowd over the sound of your own excitement.

You were on your feet in an instant, clapping, beaming, so proud.

And when he turned toward you before heading to the stage, his hand brushing against yours in a silent moment of acknowledgment, your heart clenched in the best way.

This was his moment.

But you were his person.

—

Joe took the stage, adjusting the mic, the gold trophy shining under the lights.

“Uh—wow,” he started, shaking his head slightly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was trying to gather his thoughts.

The crowd laughed, and he let out a small exhale, gripping the trophy a little tighter.

“I’m not gonna stand up here and act like this season was easy,” he admitted, his voice steady but raw, real. “It wasn’t. At all. I went through a lot—personally, professionally, mentally. And honestly? There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back up here again.”

Your chest ached a little at that.

Because you knew.

You knew how much it had taken for him to get here.

Joe’s lips twitched into a small smile. “But I had a lot of people in my corner. My teammates, my coaches, my family. And—” He paused, just for a second, and then his eyes found yours.

“And someone who reminded me what I was fighting for.”

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It wasn’t over the top.

It was just a moment—a split second where it was just you and him in a room full of people.

Joe cleared his throat, shifting his weight, nodding once. “This is for all the people who never stopped believing in me. And to anyone going through something they don’t think they’ll come back from—keep going. You never know what’s waiting for you on the other side.”

The crowd erupted into applause.

Joe gave a small nod, turned, and walked off the stage.

And when he got back to your table, the first thing he did was lean down and press a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring, “Told you I’d make it worth your time.”

And yeah.

He really, really had.

--

The night felt easy.

The way it always had, before everything got complicated. Before the pressure, before the expectations, before you had to fight for something that should have been effortless.

Now, it was effortless.

Joe was next to you, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pot of pasta while he rambled about the upcoming Super Bowl, going on about the defensive schemes and how the media was making too big of a deal about certain matchups.

Larry sat perched on the counter, her tail flicking every now and then, eyes trained on Joe like she actually cared about football, which was something Joe found endlessly amusing. He had already started referring to her as his cat, despite the fact that she had only tolerated him in the beginning.

“She loves me more than you now,” he had said just last week, smirking as Larry curled up next to him on the couch.

And you had just rolled your eyes. "Not a chance."

Now, standing here, making dinner in your quiet apartment, it felt like you had never left each other’s orbit. Like no time had passed at all.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about the past.

You were just here. With him.

You turned toward the fridge, reaching to grab the parmesan, when you felt it.

A tap on your shoulder. Instinctively, you turned back. And everything stopped.

Joe was on one knee.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared down at him, frozen.

His hands were slightly unsteady, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet box. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his lips parted like even he couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

But his eyes—his eyes—were sure. There was no doubt. No hesitation.

Only love.

Joe exhaled sharply, running his free hand over his face before letting out a small, breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he started, shaking his head slightly. “I had this whole plan. I was gonna wait until after the summer, do some big, romantic thing, maybe take you on a trip, make it perfect.” He swallowed hard, looking up at you. “But, uh—yeah. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else.

Joe’s fingers tightened around the ring box. “Because the truth is, I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. I’ve been thinking about this since the second you took me back, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I bought this ring the week we got back together. I didn’t even fucking hesitate. Just walked into the store, told them exactly what I wanted, and bought it right there. Because I knew.”

Your chest ached.

Joe let out a small, nervous laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “I knew the second I lost you that I had made the biggest fucking mistake of my life. I knew that I couldn’t do life without you, that I didn’t want to do life without you. And I know—I know—I have spent the last year proving that to you. But let me prove it for the rest of my life.”

Your vision blurred, tears spilling over as you let out a soft, choked breath.

Joe’s voice wavered slightly, his own eyes looking glassy. “I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we always planned. I don’t want to marry you because it’s what we should do. I want to marry you because I choose you. Every single fucking day. Over and over again. For the rest of my life.”

Your hands were trembling now, your lips parting as you tried to breathe.

Joe swallowed hard, shaking his head. “You are the love of my life. You always have been. And I am done wasting time.” His jaw clenched slightly, his fingers tightening around the box. “So, please, for the love of God, put me out of my misery and say yes.”

A breathless laugh bubbled out of you, your whole body trembling, your face wet with tears.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Joe’s face broke into the biggest, purest smile you had ever seen.

And then you were falling to your knees in front of him, your hands grabbing his face, pulling him in for a kiss that was everything—every promise, every ounce of love, every second of waiting for this moment.

Joe kissed you back instantly, his hands shaking as they wrapped around your waist, pulling you as close as possible, like he could never get enough.

When you finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his thumbs swiping at the tears on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he whispered.

And for the first time in forever, you said it back without hesitation.

“I love you too.”

Joe grinned, slipping the ring onto your finger before he could drop it, and then exhaled dramatically.

“Thank God,” he muttered. “That would’ve been awkward as hell.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

But as Joe pulled you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, Larry watching in the background like she knew exactly what had just happened—

You realized something.

This was exactly how it was meant to be.

[nanaslutt]

welcome to my 2nd smau mlist!! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

౨ৎ feel free to send an ask to my inbox if u have an idea for a smau (no suggestive prompts for under 18 characters) ౨ৎ

jjk smaus

✿ waiting outside the car for their boner to go down

✿ asking them if they can feel ur 😽 twitch when you sit on them

✿ gun to ur head me or —

✿ posting a thirst trap online that only they can see

✿ telling them you’re ready to try oral

✿ accidentally liking a photo of theirs

✿ telling them ur parents wanna meet them

✿ their reactions to you packing their lunch

✿ them being jealous over ur shitty boyfriend

✿ asking them to join you in the shower

✿ leaving them money after a 1 night stand

✿ calling them bro

✿ their reactions to your weird cravings

✿ sending them ur location bcs they’re taking too long to come over

✿ wearing their clothes

✿ asking to workout with them

✿ when you fall asleep in the middle of sex

✿ asking them to be rougher in bed

✿ recreating a sex scene from a book

✿ when you take a nap and they think you’re ignoring them

✿ asking them how often they jerk off

✿ flashing them and running away

✿ asking them to help you pick out an outfit but the last option is a nude

✿ asking to paint their nails

✿ asking if they’ve ever sent ur nudes to anyone

✿ “i need a hug”

✿ telling them “you have a pretty face, you should let me sit on it”

✿ telling them “you could’ve been nicer to me today”

✿ their reactions to ur teenager telling you to shut up

✿ “hey bitch what’s for dinner”

✿ having a wet dream about them

✿ their reaction to you leaving a toothbrush at their house

✿ when they’re sick and whiny

✿ asking them if they would cheat on you to save your life

✿ txting them “i expect my dinner to be ready be the time i get home

✿ slamming the door really hard prank

✿ telling them a guy friend is gonna fix ur pipes/car

✿ catching them fall on the ring camera

✿ telling them you got in a fight and need them to fight their boyfriend

✿ how they act when you’re sick

✿ them jealous over ur new pet

✿ asking them for help when ur tampon string breaks

✿ asking them what the weirdest thing they stuck their dick in is

✿ when you reject their cooking

✿ them obsessed with ur pet

✿ asking them if they’d help you hide a body

✿ going into labor while they’re at work

✿ asking them what size condoms to get

✿ them texting you after you die

✿ asking if they’d suck dick to save their life

✿ putting a dirty note in their lunch

✿ when they fall asleep right after sex

✿ telling them u wanna try deepthroating for the first time

✿ asking them to say ur name while they do pushups

✿ them asking “what did i do to deserve you?”

✿ asking what their rice purity score is

✿ sending them an ultrasound to tell them you’re pregnant

✿ asking them if you can take control in bed

✿ not saying i love you back prank

✿ asking what they want for your anniversary

✿ asking if they know where ur phone is when ur on it

✿ putting them on a sex ban

✿ telling them ur not wearing any panties in public

✿ showing off ur new nails by cupping ur tits

✿ doing their makeup while they sleep

✿ “hey handsome/beautiful, those tits sure look heavy…”

✿ jumping out of a car in the middle of an argument

✿ telling them you’re nervous for your first date

✿ wearing pheromone perfume around them

✿ them watching you though the house cameras

✿ telling them no to sex because you haven’t shaved

✿ “I wish you lasted half as long as it takes you to text me back”

✿ when you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke

✿ the jjk characters as ur sugar daddy/mommy

✿ period madness

✿ asking if they’ve tried their own cum

✿ when you’re their sugar mommy

✿ asking to tie a bow around their bicep

✿ when they check your location and see you’re in another country

✿ when you give a creep their number instead of yours

✿ telling them they have grey hairs

✿ asking them to chase you with a ghost face costume on

✿ asking them if you can take sex slow

✿ asking if they can put you as their emergency contact

✿ seeing them across the room with a hard-on

✿ asking how they feel about you starting an onlyfans

✿ watching you perform

✿ telling them you’re going to bed without panties

✿ sending a video of your baby kicking

✿ go ahead and leave them drawls at the door

✿ asking them to massage your boobs

✿ when they get caught taking pervy pics of you

✿ accidentally messaging them while talking about them

✿ when they finish too quick

✿ surprising them with gifts

✿ doing silly stuff to them in their sleep

✿ asking if they miss you right after they left

✿ asking if they’ve ever gotten off to the thought of you before you were together

✿ asking them to do a matching halloween costume

✿ “hey short king”

[moondustbaby]

Best Friend Rafe Cameron Headcanons

bsf!rafe x bsf!reader headcanons nobody asked for but i’m unwell so here we go 🙃

✿ Reader’s lockscreen is a photo of them when they were kids—Rafe’s got a black eye from a fight he got into for her, and she’s hugging him like he won a medal. He pretends to hate it but uses the same photo as his contact pic for her. It’s the first thing that pops up whenever she calls and he always, always answers.

✿ Rafe won’t admit it, but his entire driving playlist is carefully curated based on her moods. There’s a “she’s sad but won’t say it” playlist, a “we’re not talking about our feelings so here’s some Cigarettes After Sex” mix, and a chaotic “she’s drunk in the passenger seat and singing to me like we’re in a movie” rotation.

✿ They’ve “fake dated” so many times it doesn’t even register as a bit anymore. Rafe will casually wrap his arm around her at a party when a guy stares too long, and she’ll just say, “jealous much?” without realizing he actually is.

✿ Every single one of his passwords is some variation of her name and a number only he understands—she once tried to guess his phone passcode and he looked personally offended like, “You don’t remember the mile marker we broke down at on the way to Bonnaroo? Wow.”

✿ You can always tell when something’s wrong with Rafe by how he touches you—if he’s quiet, he’ll just fiddle with your rings or twist the strings on your hoodie instead of actually saying what’s bothering him. You never call him out on it. You just nudge your hand closer.

✿ Rafe once bought her period products without flinching and included her favorite candy, a heating pad, and a note that just said “u still suck at texting back. feel better tho.” It made her cry so hard she called him sobbing. He thought something was wrong and showed up ten minutes later.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

requests are open, scream in my inbox tell me which one needs a fic 💌 or ask for a part two i have an embarrassing amount of these lmao

♥️ lani

Masterlist

[leeechin]

(ꗃ) cat and mouse [nerd sunghoon] ! ⋆ ›  ◟⊹

after sleeping with the cute quiet dork that sat nearby you and your friend during lunch, you find yourself playing silly games with him, due to a miscommunication. [wc: 2.5k]

CONTENT: college au! sunghoon and jay are big losers in this lol. nerd!sunghoon x fem!reader, 2010s era :p | mdni.

WARNINGS: lots of teasing, handjob, sunghoon is pretty switchy but more dom leaning, unprotected sex (big no), bigdick!hoon, fingering, slight degradation, ass slapping, etc.

lee’s note: this is a continuation of my most popular nerd!hoon fic here ! this can be read as a stand-alone!! gaeul from ive is yn’s bff NOT sunghoons dog LOL.

“you should’ve known it was a one time thing..” jay murmurs to sunghoon, who wasn’t focusing on their round of star craft, instead sulking on the couch with his legs crossed. “someone like her wouldn’t do a second time with someone like us— you to be exact.” adding on.

you had the best time of your life, choosing to hook up with the cute quiet dork unexpectedly. it was planned by you, it was just never expected of you for the plan to be executed perfectly. and you weren’t going to let another opportunity slip beneath you.

“she agreed to let me take her on a date though! and it’s only been two days.. maybe she’s busy.” he exasperates in response, opening his phone to see no new messages from you in his inbox.

“orrr maybe she wants you to text her first instead of her..” jay suggests, throwing the control at sunghoon to play the game again, sunghoon shrugs it off, putting his attention back to the next round of star craft.

you were indeed busy.. rambling to gaeul and your other roommates about the other night with sunghoon. raving about how he was ‘so so good.’ completely oblivious that you not texting him, or expecting him to text you.. is causing a minor miscommunication.

now, being back on campus, you were hoping to catch sunghoon at the campus cafeteria, and throw him teasing glances. strutting confidently in your cute denim shorts and low cut tee, you sit yourself across gaeul at the usual table. and looking up, you notice the pause in sunghoon’s movements, pathetically dropping his fork and pretending it was an accident, coughing so fake.

you let out a small giggle, kicking your feet back and forth underneath the table, forgetting that your friend was across you. “helloooooo? earth to y/n?” gaeul waves her hand in your face, causing you to finally blink.

“god, he’s such a loser.” gaeul points out, turning around to see sunghoon, try to not so obviously peek at you from his canned drink, attempting to hide his eyes from staring at you. “a hot loser though.” you correct, going back into a daydream like trance, thinking about the past weekend you spent with him.

flipping your phone open, you shoot a message to sunghoon, you hear the clatter of the metal can he was drinking from, seeing how fast he scrambled to flip open his own phone. was this really the same guy who railed you into the next dimension a couple days ago?

[you]

you know, i could see you staring at me

[hoonie (^з^)-♡]

What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

[you]

sure sureeeeeeee

you were surely so quick to open your phone

and dropping your little drink that made a loud sound from hitting the floor, okay though! (=´∀｀)

[hoonie (^з^)-♡]

Why haven’t you reached out to me since that night?

Did I do something wrong?

—

sunghoon didn’t beat around the bush. you wanted to apologize over and over, feeling guilt flood your body for not taking the initiative, especially for someone like sunghoon, who mainly kept to himself with one friend.

but something ignited a plan of mischief in your mind, wanting to tease the fuck out of sunghoon until he ruined you completely. the urge to tests the waters until you were in the hands of his mercy. looking up from your phone, you throw sunghoon a small grin, causing him to nearly drop his phone over a pile of rice on his lunch tray.

“just go get him in a room for christ’s sake, stop eye-fucking him infront of me.” gaeul scoffs, gathering all her things together to head to her next lecture, waiting for you to follow pursuit. “go without me gaeul.”, she raises an eyebrow at you, but then sees how your gaze is stuck on sunghoon who seems to be minding his own business now, eating the food on his lunch tray.

“mind if i take a seat here?” you ask sunghoon, making him startle at the sudden sound of your voice, eyes attempting to only focus on your face, rather than the sight of your juicy tits tight against your shirt.

“yeah.” he mutters, returning to finish the last of food on his tray. “why so silent..?” you fake pout, seating yourself across from him, leaning forward slightly.

“whyareyouavoidingme.” sunghoon quickly speaks, you’re unable to catch what he was saying. “hoonie, what?” you giggle, hand reaching under the table to grab at his knee, feeling how it tensed up under your touch.

“not in the cafeteria, please.” sunghoon flinches, trying not to draw attention by avoiding to have a big reaction, feeling your hand squeeze at his sensitive knee, bumping his knee up to remove your hand. you giggle and use both of your hands to straighten up your shirt.

“answer my question, hoon.” you repeat coyly, leaning forward across the table, sunghoon looks around at the people sitting at the surrounding tables, worried they’re catching onto what’s happening between you two.

“can we— talk somewhere else— please.” he stutters, looking down to hide his now flustered face. “hmmmm.. okay.” you contemplate, looking around the direction sunghoon was. “no one’s looking at us, hoon.” adding on with a playful smile painted across your face.

sunghoon opens his mouth to say something, but you interrupted his sentence that hasn’t even started; “oops! didn’t pay attention to the time! i’ll drop by your place at some time soon!”, gathering all of your things as his eyes blink rapidly.. so dorky, and so hot at the same time.

“but what if i happen to be busy..” sunghoon manages to slip out, seeing how you got up and was ready to leave him behind at his lunch table. “i’m sure you won’t be.”

sunghoon was convinced, no he was aware you were playing games with him now. every time you self-invited yourself to his table, right when he’s about to ask you if you want to study together, you leave abruptly. and it doesn’t help with you sending him suggestive messages on his phone while he’s around jay to stir things up.

“what game are you trying to play with me?” sunghoon blurts out, looking down at his hands on his lap, fidgeting nervously as you sat down on the lunch table seat across from him for the fourth day in a row.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you fake acting confused, playing with a strand of your hair in between your fingers. sunghoon sighs in defeat, only knowing you are continuing this silly little game of yours.

“i think you do.” he frowns in response, moving on to eating the bun he had in his hand. “how long are you going to keep going on with this?” sunghoon adds on to his sentence. you sigh in defeat, sitting yourself properly.

“don’t you enjoy taking to me hoon?” you frowned, doe eyes blinking at sunghoon’s as you await an answer.

“i do. but before we can even talk properly, you leave. how long are you going to keep this game of yours up?” sunghoon finishes the last of his bun before crossing his arms together, seeming to be less nervous and shy now.

“i guess i’m done..” you sheepishly replied, trying to read sunghoon’s unreadable expression. “what’s on your mind, hoon?” you ask, noticing the silence that filled between you two for a good 10 seconds.

“you know.. we’re supposed to be studying..” sunghoon comments, seeing how you crawled on his mattress seductively to seat yourself over his lap. “but what’s the fun in only studying hoon?”

“you said you needed help on— fuck.” sunghoon groans, sentence cutting off, throwing his head back with his glasses tilting lopsided, feeling you shift on his lap, back against the headboard of his bed, as your hands clumsily fumble at the zipper of his jeans to pull out his painfully hard cock that has been straining against the tight constraints of his boxers.

“is this what you wanted from me this whole time.?” you speak softly, gathering saliva to slip past your lips, onto the center of your palm, enveloping his base around your hand, gasping when you forgot how big he was when you looked down at your hand jerking his base slowly. you found the sight infront of you to be so pleasing.

seeing sunghoon’s tilted glasses, moving your free hand to put it back in place. “stop playing with me, y/n.” his voice strains, his large hands finding purchase on both sides of your waist. he sits himself up, looking at your irresistible glossy lips that slightly parted as you concentrated on working your hand at his base.

leaning forward to place his lips over yours, you whine against him from the sudden action, hand slipping off his thick cock as your hands run under his shirt, nails trickling at sunghoon’s soft skin causing him to hiss at the contact. you pull away from the kiss to pull his shirt off and over his head, along with him removing yours, throwing the articles of clothing everywhere in his neatly organized room. your lips return to tangling messily along with his, the smacking sounds filling the silence.

your lips trail down his exposed collarbone, leaving soft marks as you attempt to go down lower, feeling him stop you, a soft whine leaving your lips when you feel one of sunghoon’s hand grasp a good handful of your ass.

“this game of yours is ending right now.” sunghoon speaks lowly, gently removing the remaining material of your undergarments, taking in the sight of how your naked body looked so good, even with the dim lighting in his room— the lamp being the only source of light.

“hurry up then hoon..! oh.” you moan at the feeling of his fingers rubbing against your sensitive clit, moving to circle at your dripping entrance, teasing you by only pushing in his fingertips a few times, before plunging two of his thick digits past it. the warmth of your walls clamping down tightly from simply just his fingers.

“you can still barely even take it.” sunghoon chuckles, his free hand brushing his strands of hair back. moving his other hand, flicking his wrist at an angle that had you seeing all sorts of colors, relishing in the feeling of his fingers reaching the spots yours could never reach.

“please hoonie..” you whine, nails digging deep into his shoulders, holding onto him tightly to avoid falling off of his lap with the sensation of his fingers dragging in and out of you rapidly, crumbling apart when you feel the familiar sensation of your orgasm approaching.

despite the advantage you might’ve had in your position of being seated over him, you were powerless, taking in what he gave you, not seeming to mind loosing dominance you once had over him a little bit ago.

“you’re close aren’t you?” sunghoon raises an eyebrow, seeing how you grinded your hips slightly, to take in his digits even further, your eyes looking down to see how well you sucked his fingers in. “mm— yes please hoon i— what the fuck—!” you protest, feeling him pull his fingers out, one of his hands holding you still in place.

you squirm around on his lap, trying to escape his grasp, gasping loudly when you feel his hand smack your ass, the soft flesh jiggling from the touch. “can’t you be more patient for me now?” sunghoon smirks, flipping you onto your back, leaning over the side to reach his drawer for a condom when you grab at his wrist to stop him.

“want you so bad, hoon.” you strain out, face flushed with desire and neediness. you hear sunghoon let out a deep chuckle in response, stroking himself at the sight of your body splayed on his mattress, legs spread.

“you make me wait several days, but you can’t even wait a few minutes.” he scoffs jokingly, pulling one of your legs to wrap around his waist, aligning his tip to your entrance, wasting no more time to slide in easily- due to your wetness that trickled down your thighs.

you hear sunghoon let out a long groan at how your walls once again clamped around him tightly, glasses falling off his face and somewhere beside him on the bed, slowly bottoming out and relishing the feeling of your warm velvety walls. “fuckkk. you feel even better without a condom.” he groans, finding a pace with his thrusts, his cock dragging so perfectly and so deep into you to where you couldn’t even form proper words.

“s’ so good-!” you manage to slip out, palms pressed flat to hold tightly onto sunghoon’s back as you try to keep up with his fast, merciless pace, cock deliciously hitting repeatedly in that one spot in you that sent you spiraling.

“not talking now? had me playing a game like i was a cat and you were the fucking mouse.” sunghoon grunts, eyes meeting yours as you let out a small whimper at his words, clenching around his thick cock, causing him to let out a groan at the feeling, closing his eyes to take in the feeling of not having a condom wrapped around him. deciding to bring your other leg to wrap around his waist, moving to push the back of your thighs to practically fold you in half. you feel him press against the soft bulge of your stomach from how deep he is inside.

your high-pitched moans and mewls of pleasure fill sunghoon’s room when you take what he’s giving you, eyes rolling back as you feel yourself reaching your orgasm, arms wrapping sunghoon’s neck as he leans forward to kiss you, his lips muffling your loud moans.

“inside please.” you whisper, moving your legs to wrap around sunghoon’s waist again, watching how his thick eyebrows furrow in concentration when he twitches inside you, hips moving sloppily as he’s not too far from you— eventually stilling his movements to fill you up with his creamy white essence, seeing how you shut your eyes tightly as your chest heaves heavily, letting yourself go, whining when you feel him slip out.

“you’re nasty.” you giggle, seeing sunghoon return with a warm towel to help swipe up the mess on you. “you indulged into it, you’re not any different from me, y/n.” he laughs in response, throwing the towel into his hamper, laying himself down beside you as he pulls his boxers back on. you’re wearing one of his t-shirts, blanket pulled over as you’re ready to doze off.

“so when are you going to take me out on that date you suggested the last time i was here?” you smile, eyes half lidded as you melt into the embrace of his bigger frame.

“whenever you stop playing those silly little games.”

the both of you releasing a fit of laughter, feeling yourself slowly drift off to sleep, thinking about the next time you’re gonna have this with sunghoon.

hai i wrote this for @00kittenz and @pshbites ily both sm, i’m so glad we are friends bcuz of this silly little app. 💓💓

tag: @aewon

[marcepanowapani]

you guys get asks??

this is the first time ive seen your blog but based

haha thank you!

Also I hope you'll allow me to use your ask to write the following; I wonder, is the anonymous ask option really that fun? 😆 Most of the anon messages I receive are either really sweet or are neutral questions, so surely it can't be that embarrassing to write it off anon. I'm curious!

[hoshifighting]

how seventeen would act with reader having daddy issues

WARNINGS: it may be sensitive to some people, and there are mentions of past traumas and family issues. mostly of it is basically, seventeen and their family taking care of you <3

a/n: this was an ask that was in my inbox for a long time, sorry about this 🥺 and worse, I was writing it, and the light have gone off, so ivé lost the drabble and I cant find in my inbox, I just know that it was from my bestie hannieween, sorry about the long time 🥺🙏 I hope you like it

seungcheol: already planning how to spoil you just to make up for what you didn’t get. this man would not let you suffer through those awkward, tense family reunions. the second you even hint at feeling uncomfortable, he’s pulling you out of there and taking you straight to his family’s place. his dad, a total sweetheart. he’s the type to sit you down, ask how you’re doing, and genuinely listen. and that’s when it hits you—this is where seungcheol gets his protective streak. his dad’s got the same energy, always making sure you’re taken care of. it’s like you’re part of their family now, and honestly, it feels better than anything you’ve ever known.

jeonghan: he’s sneaky about it, but in the most loving way. like, he knows you’ve got that hole where support should be, and he’s filling it without making it obvious. he’d get his mom and dad to invite you over for a casual dinner, but then it’s all about you. “oh, y/n loves pasta, mom,” he’d say, nudging you under the table when you get shy. his parents adore you, and jeonghan’s sitting back, watching you laugh at his dad’s corny jokes with this smug little grin, like, yeah, that’s my baby.

joshua: he’d plan random trips to his family’s place, just so you can hang out with his mom. like, one weekend, you’re baking cookies with his mom, and the next, you’re playing guitar with his uncle. josh is always hovering, making sure you’re comfortable, but lowkey beaming when he sees you getting along with his family. he’s super patient, too—he never pushes, just waits for you to open up when you’re ready. and when you do... he’s holding your hand, whispering, “see? they love you, just like i do.”

junhui: he’d make sure you feel like you belong there too. he’d take you home during the holidays, and suddenly, his mom’s treating you like her own kid. jun would sit next to you at dinner, quietly making sure you’re okay, squeezing your hand under the table whenever he notices you getting overwhelmed. he’s just sitting there, watching it all unfold, thinking, yeah, this is what you deserve.

hoshi: this man would straight-up share his dad with you. like, he’d plan trips for the three of you—fishing, hiking, picnics, you name it. and he’d be so proud when you start opening up to his dad. he gets that it’s gonna take time, but when he sees you laughing at his dad’s terrible puns, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. sometimes, when hoshi’s away for schedules, you’d even hang out with his dad without him. he’ll be texting you like, “my dad loves you more than me now 😭.” and even when he’s away for work, his family still makes time for you, calling you over to hang out or have dinner.

woozi: jihoon’s not big on family talk, but he knows you are, and he gets it. instead of dragging you into his family stuff, he makes a point of creating a new kind of support for you. like, you want to skip a stressful family dinner? cool, you’re spending the night at his place, binge-watching your favorite shows and eating takeout. he’s not one for big gestures, but he makes sure you always know you’re not alone. his quiet, steady presence is the comfort you never knew you needed.

wonwoo: he’d just sit there, letting you talk, and then hit you with the most thoughtful response ever, like, “you didn’t deserve that, but you deserve everything good now. let me be that for you.” giving you the world’s warmest hug, he’d probably start joking about being your emotional support cat forever.

minghao: he fully believes in breaking cycles, so he’s the guy who helps you redefine what family even means. he’d take you to meet his ambient, his friends, his family, everywhere where he KNOWS you'll be taken care off. he’d also start little traditions with you, like Sunday morning walks or trying new restaurants, just to build something stable and comforting for you. he's not trying to be your dad—of course. but he's trying to make programs that he remembered doing with his dad and that somehow, marked his trajectory. he wants you to experience that too.

mingyu: when shit gets heavy, he doesn’t try to fix it all at once—he just sits with you, lets you cry on his shoulder, strokes your hair, and whispers, “you’re not alone, okay? you’ve got me.” when you’re ready, he’s like, “now, what do you want to do about it?” and he’ll back you no matter what. he’ll drag you out to do the most random shit—karaoke, late-night drives, baking cookies at 2 a.m.—just so you’re not stuck in your head. and when you thank him later, he’s like, “who, me? nah nah.”

seokmin: he is the kind of guy who’ll carry you—literally. if you’re overwhelmed, he’ll scoop you up like you weigh nothing and plant you on the couch with snacks, a blanket, and whatever dumb movie he picked. “you don’t need to do anything today,” he says, plopping down beside you with the softest smile. but also, he won’t sugarcoat things, but he also doesn’t let you get stuck in negative self-talk. “you’re worth more than what he made you feel.”

seungkwan: got a sixth sense for this kinda thing. you don’t even have to say the words—he knows. he’s the type to gently steer the convo every time someone in your family says something shitty, or he’ll swoop in with some sarcastic-ass joke to take the heat off you. but when it’s just the two of you, he’s soft as hell, cuddling you, stroking your hair, and reminding you that he’s your safe space now. he’d probably even offer to go with you to therapy, just to sit there and hold your hand.b

vernon: he’ll say the goofiest shit to make you laugh—like doing terrible impressions of your least favorite family members or purposely messing up on kendama. doesn’t even try to hide how much he loves you. when you’re down, he’s the type to turn everything into a you’re amazing campaign. random notes in your bag, impromptu “you’re so cool” chants, and hugs so tight they might crack your ribs.

chan: baby’s the sweetest. he’s lowkey hurt that you’ve had to deal with that kind of stuff, so he makes it his mission to show you what love and support really look like. chan’s family would love you, and he’d be so excited to share them with you. he’d plan little visits where it’s just you, him, and his parents, so it’s not overwhelming. later, he’d check in, like, “did you have fun? was it okay?” because all he wants is for you to feel loved and safe.

[ruinix]

recent walk in..sugar daddy quinn mad when he realizes you haven’t been using the black credit card he gave you for expenses

Hello, lovely. Of course, hehe.😏 You did not catch me writing this. I am just a ghost taking over the keyboard. I need to put this out before a new walkin comes out.... (edit not really fully sugar daddy!quinn. But he totally would pay for everything type of boyfriend)

Broken Promise, Broken Cards

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Spanking (pussy slapping??), Edging, Unprotected sex (protections, lovelies, they’re important), Squirting, Just Quinn being so angry that he became calm and he edges you coz he can.

Count: 3356 -> 3734 words (Edited) | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re sending him pictures of your shopping. One picture after another. One choice after another. Quinn helps you pick when you ask for his opinion. He has no problem answering your texts while he watches a replay of a game. The only problem is that Quinn has yet to receive a notification from any of your purchases.

With that, he can no longer focus on the game. It’s just white noise now while he refreshes his inbox.

Swipe down. Wait. Close the app. Open it. Swipe down.

Over and over again, whenever you send him a new photo of your successful purchase.

None. Not a single fucking one.

He is getting too agitated when he receives a photo of a paper bag of a particular brand of lingerie with your delicate hand holding it. You have your nails done earlier this morning. It’s so pretty with your favorite shade of pink and favorite flower designs. Just like how you described it before you went out. He can’t wait for your hands around him tonight.

‘Focus,’ he reprimands himself.

Shaking his head, focusing on the paper bag instead, locking in the brand, he gives the purchase a few minutes to process—or whatever the fuck—but again, nothing. He stares and stares into the screen, his eyebrows meeting. He remembers having every transaction on that card to be sent over his email too. He set that up long before. So, where the fuck are they?

Are you actually buying things or are you stealing them?

Did you bring cash?

Quinn didn’t give you cash for anything else other than your nails and the tip for its service today. His frustrations build up. He’s so close to calling the bank and making sure that the card is activated. When he receives another message, he takes a moment to calm down—he has to—before opening it.

He immediately gets distracted by how bright you look. You are grinning so much that the corners of your eyes crinkle, a blush flushing your face. Your nails are on full show once more as you hold up the bag next to your face. So beautiful.

After a solid five minutes, he remembers to refresh his inbox. Only then does it dawn at him.

Are you even using the card he gave you? No, that can’t be. You promised him to use that card today. You are definitely using it.

Aren’t you?

One last swipe down to refresh his email. Still nothing.

What the fuck.

You’re definitely not using the card.

Quinn paces. He’s getting angry for you breaking your promise, getting worried because you’re buying a lot of stuff today. More than you usually do. Didn’t you just complain about your depleting savings last night? It’s one of the reasons why he secretly transferred a few hundreds of dollars—exactly three thousand—into your account. He knows that you didn’t notice it, because you would’ve transferred it back to him after you lecture him about it. If it’s not that, did you suddenly replenish it in your own way? He quickly checks the date and confirms that it’s nowhere near payday, so that’s not it.

Where the fuck are you getting your spending money?

He refuses to acknowledge that you might be using your old credit card. The one with a fucking limit.

It can’t be.

There is no fucking way.

Something snaps in his head, pushing him to act. He rushes to your office, powers up your computer, and signs in without a hitch, because you’ve never put a password on it. If you do, he knows about your little notebook of passwords under your desk plant next to your monitor.

He never really goes through your stuff. He is content and trusts you with everything. Everything. He knows exactly how deeply you feel about him as much as he does with you. Although sometimes you hide your phone from him, that’s when you’re texting your friends about him. It’s obvious because you keep snickering while throwing glances at him. He doesn’t mind that. Not at all. You can talk to your other friends about other stuff. The fact still remains. He trusts you.

But, right now, he is losing it. He needs to see. He needs to look into your email. Just this one time. He’ll apologize for it later.

His eyes are locked on the notifications, the receipts, the confirmations. The account number on every single one of them is not the one on the black credit card he has given you. He had it memorized, and it doesn’t fucking match. You are not fucking using it. What the fuck.

An ache forms in his chest. It’s like a horrible backhand that could shake up his teeth, so horrible that he had to run his tongue over them, making a clicking sound to ensure his teeth are still rooted. He crosses his arms. His legs are spread wide as he slouches against the backrest, one leg bobbing up and down. He glares at the screen, trying to will the emails to disappear while he burns them one by one in his mind. He tries a different route to imagine the account number to change, but of course, nothing works.

He rubs a hand over his face. His head pounds at the start of a headache. His phone pings from another message. It sounds like a blaring siren, making his ears ring. After a few moments, a new mail pops up.

This is so much worse than you realizing the deposit in your debit. Because one, you broke your promise. Two, he feels useless. If you were not going to use the card, you could’ve let Quinn accompany you during this shopping spree that would at least appease his soul. But then, he can force his card into the hands of the cashiers. Realization hits him.

That’s exactly why you didn’t let him tag along. You know he’ll talk his way to overtake your payments. Exhaling, a chuckle escapes him. A smirk forms on his face as he gazes up the ceiling. You are such a clever girl, aren’t you?

He’ll give this to you, but you are in so much trouble when you come home.

As if on cue, you text him, “I’m on my way home.”

He turns your computer off, standing up. An eerie calm envelope him. He’s still so angry, yet instead of vibrating and burning outwardly, it settles deep inside his bones until nothing comes up. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not heavy. It’s not light. It just is. A calm before the storm.

He undoes his second top button. If you really want to use your credit card, you can. You’re your own person. Still, you should have kept your promise. Such a bad girl.

He walks back to the living room and sits down on the single seater, reaching the remote to close off every curtain, making his place dimmer and dimmer and dimmer.

Then he waits.

He waits until you come in with your impressive haul. Extremely impressive, because you have your arms full already. When you put them down, you only leave to get more of them until you get a little pile in the living room. It’s amusing how your grin looks so self-satisfied, not realizing that he’s sitting in the corner of the room, until your eyes land on him. Your smile turns sheepish, taking your hands behind you, not daring to come closer.

Truly clever.

“Hi, Quinny. Didn’t see you there.” You wave.

“My Love,” he greets, beckoning you with a finger, but you refuse to come, shaking your head. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to put these away.”

He watches you start with one bag with the little nightgown that looks so fucking sexy. You’re clearly distracting him and it’s working. Slightly. He obliges you, his amusement growing the more you ramble. You’ve enjoyed your shopping trip. You speak at a quicker pace than you usually do. You have a little bounce on your step. Your happy energy radiates from you in waves while you continue taking everything out of bags which you fold right after. He knows you’re aware that he knows. That’s why you’re taking your time.

Quinn’s aware that you are genuinely delighted that you distract yourself more than him.

He’s proud and happy that you enjoyed your day.

Truly.

It doesn’t erase the fact that he has already lost it. The calm that his anger turned is what’s keeping him from pouncing on you, from taking you over his lap and slamming his hand on your bare ass until you got handprints that will bruise and ache for a couple of days. Just like how you want them.

He still can’t believe that you’ve broken him just from breaking your promise.

It’s entirely laughable.

Yet heat streaks down his spine, down his lean abdomen, down to his cock.

He’s so fucking hard.

He stands up, stalking towards you while you’re crouching next to a pile of paper bags. You’re still rambling a pottery workshop you’ve come across. You’re saying that you want to go back there so you can make mugs for each other. When you’ve already successfully built a mug collection in one of his cupboards.

So adorable. So clueless about the danger prowling towards you.

He stops, his shadow looming over you. He counts the seconds, but you still don’t notice him, do you? Then he sees how your hands start to shake. You do. Silly girl.

A chuckle escapes him as he grabs your arm. He swiftly pulls you up then lifts you over his shoulder.

“Quinn!” You squeal, hitting his back a couple of times. “Put me down! You’re making me dizzy—”

You let out a moan when Quinn slaps the tender spot under your ass.

  “Quiet,” he orders, making you whimper like the dirty slut you are. “What did you say before you left?”

“Bye?” You sound so confused. “I love you?”

He spanks you on the same spot again, making you moan and whine. Even more when he slips his hand under your skirt, his fingers trail up and up, then he puts you down on the bed. Instantly, you flip over, looking at him like he has taken everything from you. He can already hear your protest that’s sitting on the tip of your tongue. He glares at you, daring you to speak them, but you don’t take the bait. You usually do.  Interesting.

“You bought a lot.” Quinn crawls over you.

His hand flattens over your sternum, effortlessly pushing you down.

Your pupils are so blown out when he levels his face with yours, his nose grazing yours, your breath mixing with his. He can smell the gum you chewed on before you arrived, the perfume you’ve sprayed behind your ears. Your eyes fall down his lips and up his eyes again, perfectly seducing him, but he refuses, moving away when you try to kiss him, your tongue darting out to entice him.

Not yet.

“Quinn,” you whine.

“Why’d you do it?” He asks. He kneels up, flipping you over your stomach, pressing a hand on your lower back to keep you from whatever you’re planning which is being  a brat.  

“I didn’t do anything,” you say with pout, shuddering when he slips his hand into your shirt. He unclasps your bra without exerting an effort, so used to your undergarments. “What are you doing? I haven’t showered yet.”

Quinn doesn’t fucking care if you showered or not. Since when did he care? He doesn’t care even if you come from a workout. He has fucked you like that. Many times. All sweaty and dirty. He already licked your sweat as he plunged deep inside your quivering pussy. You coming from a whole day of shopping is simple play for him. You’re just trying to get out of the inevitable punishment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he rumbles against your ear. He slides his thick fingers under you so he can touch your tits. So soft. So perfect in his hands. Your nipples are so taut from anticipation and his attention. He pinches the sensitive peaks, your hips coming up to grind against him. He pulls away, receiving an unsatisfied groat. “Uh, uh. Answer me before you get what you want, you dirty slut.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp.

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?” He grits. He slides down one hand down your abdomen, down into the waistband of your skirt, down until he reaches and feels the wet patch on your panties. He presses and teases along your clothed slit. “See? So fucking wet. I barely touched you.”

“Quinn, please,” you plead, panting for more.

Why are you still not repeating your broken promise?

He’s getting so annoyed. He forces your clothes off, tearing every piece of clothing on your beautiful body. He ignores how much you complain, ignores your little ‘ouch’ because you’re full of shit. There’s no way it’ll hurt when he is tearing the fabric instead of pulling it against your fucking skin. Do you think he’s fucking stupid? Do you think he’ll hurt you that way?

He’s not a fucking rookie.

He keeps you down, spreading your legs by kneeling between them, watching how your pussy drips on the silk sheets, how your entrance quivers, begging to be filled. Languidly, he feels your folds. You feel so fucking good, so fucking soft, so fucking wet.

You gasp and moan like you’re already getting fucked. You’re just so sensitive, aren’t you?

Then he gives you a slap right there. On your dripping pussy. On your clit. His other hand grips your hip to keep you there when you attempt to crawl away, but he gives you another slap. Then another. Another.

You are moaning and writhing from the pain, begging him to stop, when you’re the one pushing your wet cunt against his palm. You keep seeking, even after briefly reeling away from every hit. Your eyes look over your shoulder, meeting his, begging and begging, mentally conveying, “More, more, more.”

Such a good slut.

His slut.

You’re his.

Quinn slides his middle finger into your heat, smirking at how your walls quivers around him. Your cunt is so red from his spanking. His thumb teases your other hole. You writhe, wantonly moaning, pathetically grasping the sheets for support.

You’re not running away now, huh?

Not when he is fingering you. Not when he pounds and puts pressure on that specific spot that has you screaming breathlessly. You want this so much. You’ve been waiting for a relief that he can easily give you.

He adds another finger, thrusting them into your pussy. Harder. Deeper. The squelching noises are music to his ears when it’s coupled with your moans and groans.

Then he feels the familiar pattern of your pussy walls. You’re going to come soon. He knows you so much. Knows your pussy more than you. Knows your little tells like how your thighs quiver, how your toes curl, how your back arches into the bed.

He knows it.

So, it’s so fucking easy to just…pull away.

You look back harshly. You look betrayed as your breaths come out choppy. Disbelief reflects in your eyes, not used to him not letting you come. He always makes you come. Not now though. Quinn takes his fingers from your arousal to his lips and slowly licks them, like he’s feasting on your pussy, groaning at how you taste. Fuck, you’re truly his favorite flavor.

“Quinn, I…” you call, your eyes tearing up. “You didn’t…”

He flips you over your back. He rests your ass over his thighs while your legs are spread out.

“Didn’t?” he mocks which you only process that as a question. You’ve already been dumbed by your pending orgasm, by your need for it.

“I didn’t come,” you whine, jutting your hips up the air, begging for another touch. “Please make me come.”

“Yeah,” he nods. That makes you smile, sighing in relief. Shaking his head, he silently says, “No.”

He doesn’t let you say another thing, plunging his fingers into your pussy. He fucks you fast and deep, thumb swiping over your clit just so perfectly, only to pull away when you’re on the verge of an orgasm.

By the third time, you finally understand what’s happening and you’re begging and begging.

Your pleas don’t reach him though.

They can’t. Not when he’s still not satisfied. Not when you still don’t say anything. However, the strange calmness that locked him is already dissipating the more he makes a mess out of you. The more beautifully and frustrated you cry.

Oh, his poor, sweet Love.

“Quinn, I’m sorry. I just wanna use my card.” You sob. “I’m sorry. Please. Please. I need to come. It’s been an hour.”

An hour?

You’re counting?

He pauses his torture, because you are finally talking.

You cover your face, hiding your fucked out face, hiding your beautifully blushing cheeks, hiding how your hair sticks to your skin.

“I saw you deposit money in my account again. I thought using my card would be a great revenge. Now, I know it’s not. This sucks! It hurts not to come. We both know you’re just going to pay the bill when it comes.” You sob, looking absolutely hurt and exhausted.

Quinn quickly pulls you up, soothing you with a hug. He sighs as you melt into his touch. You sniffle but your hand reaches between you two, tugging at his pants, trying to get to his cock.

“You have to make me come.” You beg, looking at him with your best puppy eyes. “Please?”

“You always beg so perfectly.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “Wasn’t so hard to admit your wrongs, was it?”

“I know. I already said sorry—”

He cuts you off by pushing you back. He quickly tugs his pants down, pressing his dribbling cock to your pussy, shuddering at the feel of your trembling entrance. One swift thrust and he’s seated inside of you. Fuck. Your pussy is truly made for him. He perfectly fits. All of him. He can feel every crevice, every texture, every arousal that coats you deep inside. Shit. So good. He can come just by being inside of you, by feeling your tight pussy’s embrace. Did you know that?

But he knows that it’s not enough for you tonight.

You need him to fuck you, so he does. He fucked you hard and rough that your eyes are rolling up as you come. Even then you plead for more and more.

So he gives you everything. Changing the tempo here and there, going slow and deliberate, going back to a fast pace. He gives you everything because you deserve it.

Every time he feels that you’re about to come again, he whispers into ears, “That’s my good girl. Give me one more. That’s it. My good little slut. Take what you need. Come, my Love.”

Every time.

He draws out your fifth orgasm then he comes deep inside you, swearing loudly into your ear. He’s coming so hard that his eyesight dims. Your pussy milks every drop of his cum. How he still manages to flick your sensitive clit while he comes so hard is a mystery, but it doesn’t matter when you start to gush.

You’re making such a mess.

You always do.

“Quinn, oh my, fuck,” you cry out.

“It’s okay. I got you. Just let go, my Love,” he encourages, flicking your clit again and again, until you’ve successfully drench both of you. “No more?”

“No more. No more.” You shake your head, so he stops. “Kiss me.”

He obliges you, kissing you, whispering praises in between. You both spend minutes just kissing until you’ve calm down. Quinn gives you one last kiss before he stands to run a bath. He puts a few drops of lavender and chamomile oils in the tub. It’ll soothe you.

He comes back out to wrap you with a fresh and heated towel while the bath fills up. You look so spent, so Quinn holds you for a few more minutes, whispering more and more soft praises in your ear, because you’ve earned it.

When he hears the tub fill up, he takes you to it. He helps you in, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Just relax here. I’ll join you in a bit, okay?” He says as you settle. You nod at him as your eyes slowly blink. “I won’t take long. Don’t sleep. Not when I’m not here.”

“Okay, Quinny,” you say as you yawn. Your tummy rumbles. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you a sandwich then I’ll make dinner after our bath. Sounds good?”

You smile at him.

His heart flutters, his stomach filling up with butterflies. He presses another kiss on your head, before he’s off, leaving you to have a little alone time. He got one thing in his mind.

He made his way to your bag that’s left behind on the floor. Humming a soft tune, he carries it to the counter, setting it down, as he takes out the ingredients for a sandwich. Just bread and your favorite jam. Washing his hands quickly, he fixes your sandwich, placing it on a plate. He also takes a fresh and cool bottle of water. It will do for a light snack before dinner, but he doesn’t take it immediately to you.

He sits on a stool, rummaging through your bag, finding your wallet.

He smiles at your photo with him there. It’s taken from a polaroid. He knows there’s another photo tucked behind it. It’s you and him in an ice rink that you had personally printed out. You’re truly cute.

He touches your face, heart pounding at how breathtaking you always look.

Even when you’re so fucked out, your beauty never changes. He can’t wait to grow old with you. He bet with everything he has and more that you will still look like the beautiful woman in the world, because you are.

Then he takes the credit card you’ve used today.

His smile never goes away as he stares at it for full minute.

Then he snips it in half and does the same to another and another.

Now, you only have one card left.

[nicksbestie]

m. s. - kisses (headcanons)

! sfw !

~ matt loves to press gentle kisses to the top of your head while you're curled up with him, alternating between gently running his hands through your hair and kissing your head

~ whenever you're sad, or even just not smiling, matt will place two kisses, one to each of your cheeks, just to get you to smile at him

~ if you're sick, instead of getting a thermometer to check your temperature, he tests how warm you are by softly kissing your forehead

~ he rarely wakes up before you, but when he does, he always kisses you as he gets out of bed, never leaving without doing so

~ he always blows you a kiss as he's walking out of the door, or if you're in his sightline as he pulls back into the driveway

~ it's very common that you receive a text from matt with an 'xo' at the end

! nsfw !

~ matt's gentle kisses to your cheeks turn into leaving marks on the underside of your jaw

~ he's a sucker for pulling back from an intense kiss to smile at you, knowing it drives you both crazy for the other

~ he has to be consistently reminded if you have anything coming up, so he can leave marks low enough down on your neck that can be easily covered

~ he's touchy when he kisses, always pulling you impossibly closer to him when things get more heated

~ your shared kisses after sex are partial gasps, smiles, lazy presses to each other's lips, relaxing in each other's presence

sorry for the inactiveness loves. hoping to be back to regular posts soon <3

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~ my inbox is open, come chat!!

[oc-ology]

How to get past the fear of OC posting

People should create for the sake of creating but people post to engage with the community. However, posting can be intimidating and anxiety-inducing for a lot of people. It’s easy to say “do it scared” but much harder to put into practice. So, I’ve put together a few steps that lead up to doing it scared. These won’t work for everyone and this is meant more as general advice.

Step One: Why are you scared?

The first step is to figure out what about posting is scary for you. Oftentimes, it’s not as simple as “what if my post flops” or “what if people think I’m cringe”. Once you’ve figured out the surface-level reason, dig a little deeper. If your post flops, does that lead to you doubting the worth of what you’re creating? If you’re worried about what people think, is that because you’ve experienced judgement before or are worried your inbox will be flooded with criticism?

Identifying why you’re scared will not only help you understand yourself better (yippee!) but you can also then work on the source of your fears and anxieties at your own pace.

Step Two: Find ways to lessen your fears

One way of working through anxiety online is to find ways to mitigate the specific source of your fear.

Some fears have easier solutions than others. If you’re worried about people criticising your work, you can turn off anonymous asks (as most people are less likely to be haters when there’s a name attached to it) or turn asks off entirely, as well as limiting replies to those who have been following for a week. This way, if someone does want to be an unpleasant individual, it’s a little harder for them to do so.

A lack of engagement is a little harder to remedy. Here, the only real solution is to try and divorce the idea that engagement = worth. Remember why you’re creating an OC. Because it’s fun! It’s an act of creation! Because you want to find a community…? A community or OC friends will never just drop into your lap. You need to seek them out yourself. Look into discord servers, forums, tumblr networks (are they still a thing?), fandom events and exchanges, and most importantly: go out of your way to send asks/questions to others and build friendships with them! If you’ve got social anxiety like me, this is going to be a big challenge. Which leads to the next step…

Step Three: Start small

It doesn’t matter how small your first step is - so long as that step is forwards! If you’re nervous about OC posting, find the smallest thing about them and post it with the expectation of getting no notes. That’s right, I want you to go in and expect it to flop. Anything over one note is an automatic win. This first post isn’t about engagement - it’s about getting over the initial fear of posting. 

It can be tempting to just go right out the gate with elaborate explanations of backstory, lore implications, power levels, everything. But the trick really is to start small. Most people scrolling tumblr aren’t going to read a few thousand words on something they’re not invested in yet. TL;DR is a curse that I’m sure we’ve all fallen victim to. 

Instead, break up information about your OC into small pieces that can be posted one by one and have some kind of visual piece with it. People are usually more drawn to images than text. For example, which of these two things are more visually interesting?

What Perseus keeps in his bag:

Amulet

Tinderbox

A broken blade

50ft of hempen rope

25gp of silver powder

Waterskin

Rations (cheese, bread, sausage)

OR

Obviously this comes down to personal preference but a lot of people would find the illustrated version to be more interesting. You don’t need to be an artist to do this either! You could make a version of that example in photoshop or a similar program. Picrews, moodboards, edits, game screenshots and photography can all be used to add a visual element to your posts.

Step Four: Why am I still scared?

Fear is not easily stamped out. Anxiety is definitely the kind of thing that lingers. These steps aren’t meant to immediately make OC posting not-scary. That’s something that will only come with time as you get used to it. Again: Do it. Do it scared. Gradually, it’ll be less terrifying and in the meantime, you might be able to make a few friends who also want to talk about your blorbo.

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 5 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: You tell him about your traumatic past and he has a proposition for you. Could the man, who's slowly destroying your life, also be the one to repair it?

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, hinting at depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

Author's note: This chapter has a great focus on sexual abuse (not rape), so I'd just like to put an extra trigger warning here (That's also the reason I didn't manage to check the text for spelling errors, I just wrote it down and left it at that, so I apologize in advance if there are any mistakes.) And what I'd like to add at this point: If anyone is struggling with anything in that regard, I hope you find a way to deal with it. Please talk to someone! And my inbox is always open. I love you all!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

There was not much you could do. But the waiting was slowly driving you insane.

You remembered his words very well. They kept repeating in your head like a broken record and why wouldn’t they? Each and every one of his words was something between a gentle caress and a stab wound right in the middle of your chest.

A proposition, he called it. A proposition.

Doesn't one need free will to accept a proposition?

“Tell me who it was.” He had said. And you felt your insides clench and tingle unpleasantly once more.

“Don’t you remember what happened just twelve hours ago?” You nearly snapped. Of course it wasn’t really wise to speak to him in a tone that was anything besides timid, gentle and careful, but something bigger took your thoughts and your tongue hostage. “I don’t want to talk about it! I can’t! You saw what it does to me!”

You grasped the way he almost rolled his eyes, but decided against it. Instead he leaned closer, resting his elbows on the kitchen table. The way his sleeves were rolled up made something inside of you tighten. He was so handsome. So terribly handsome. What a bittersweet, sick thought.

“If you don’t talk about it”, he said slowly, “you won’t get over it. And if you don’t get over it, then I can never fuck you. And I want to fuck you. Soon.”

You didn’t understand how he spoke of such wicked things without letting a single muscle in his expression twitch. You couldn’t even say the words. You couldn’t even think them.

“I…”

“For God’s sake, just tell me who he was!” He called out impatiently. “Your father?”

“No!” You gasped out in horror. If there was one person in the world who had respected you and loved you unconditionally, it was your father. God, it had been the happiest five years of your life, back when he was still alive. And after his death, everything crumbled down to shit. Your life became your personal hell. On some days, when things grew particularly heavy on you, you had trouble not blaming him for dying. For leaving you alone. For ever getting married to your mother and having you. How could he have missed what kind of monster she was?

Did he even miss it?

You quickly pushed the thoughts away. In your head, your father had no idea. He was kind-hearted and good and it was going to stay that way.

“No, it wasn’t my father.” You murmured, unable to look up from the kitchen table.

He sighed, growing more and more impatient with the minutes. His tone stayed almost gentle though. Which was probably the most terrifying thing about the whole situation. At least, while he was angry you knew where you were at. Whenever he acted kind and calm around you, you expected him to suddenly lash out and knock the life out of you. Who knew? Maybe one of these days he would. You were growing too comfortable around him, denying him answers, talking back and all that.

“Who was it?”

You closed your eyes. “Please, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

He sighed again. “Let’s pretend this isn’t for the sake of me fucking you.” He said and tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. God, his eyes were so pretty when they were soft and calm like that.

Soft eyes.

Another thought for you to quickly dismiss. He hadn’t mentioned anything about him caressing you or begging you to come back to your senses, as you hadn’t either. And you surely wouldn’t. Because that never happened. That was what you kept telling yourself, for the sake of your own sanity.

It never happened.

You were growing far too comfortable around him.

You had a plan here. Play along, get him to trust you, get the hell out of there. And if that meant having to sleep with him, well, to you that sounded like a rather small price for your freedom and your life.

“What would that change?” You murmured.

“Pretend I’m someone you trust.”

These words surprised you and you looked up with a frown. Was it another test? To see if you trusted him? Oh God, would he pull the gun out again?

But no, nothing happened. He just stared at you with this…this calmness.

“And then?”

He sighed deeply. Obviously he wasn’t as calm as he made it seem. “And then we’ll talk about it. Listen, what was your plan anyway? Going through life for the rest of your days avoiding men and sex?”

You looked down at your hands. Yeah, that sounded accurate.

“Look at me.” He said in a soft tone.

It wasn’t your fault. It was your mother’s, again. And that part of you she had genuinely messed up.

Like every other innocent creature you had no idea of what sex meant, why some things felt good and others didn’t, what was allowed and what wasn’t, who was allowed to touch you and who wasn’t. She never mentioned any of that, because she, herself, was too ashamed to speak about it. Which was probably the cruelest trick she pulled on you.

You had no idea who was allowed to touch you and who wasn’t.

So, when he touched you, you didn’t say no, because you didn’t know.

“It was our neighbor.” You heard yourself whisper. A wave of disgust nearly made you shudder and your jaw hurt by how tightly you kept it clenched. Your nails dug into your palms and you took a slow breath.

In.

And out.

“Your neighbor.” He said in a whisper. Like he was afraid he might break your fragile composure. Which was very well possible.

“What did your neighbor do?”

You took a deep, shuddery breath as you kept staring down at your hands.

“He…”

You closed your eyes. All the pictures ran through your head like a camera roll. Except for the ones which were hidden away neatly, too deep imprinted in your mind and so your mind locked them away for you. How incredibly considerate.

“You can say it.” He said with a gentleness that surprised you. For a moment you almost forgot who he was and what he did. It felt like talking to a psychiatrist, a friend, a lover.

A lover.

“It…He never raped me.” You immediately said, almost like you were defending him. You always did that in your own head.

He didn’t rape me. It wasn’t that bad. I’m overreacting.

“He didn’t rape me.” You said again. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What did he do?” He asked slowly.

You tried to think of it as a band aid. Just pull it off.

Just spit it out.

“Sometimes he’d wear no more than a towel. Then he pulled me on his lap.” You whispered, unable to open your eyes or unclench your hands. “On other days, my mother made me bring him some leftover food. He’d open the door, fully undressed. I never saw him naked, like...frontal. I just caught a glimpse of him walking away, undressed.” You choked out.

It got harder with every word, but you forced yourself.

Spit it out, spit it out.

“He always called me his mouse.” You croaked out.

God, how you hated that word. If someone called you that, you were sure, you’d straight up punch them. Disgusting. What a disgusting word.

“Always said, we’re friends. Friends. Friends don’t have secrets. Friends are there for each other. One time, I hardly remember it. I just remembered it recently. He kissed me on the lips. Just a peck. But it were my lips.”

Now, that you had begun, you couldn’t stop.

“I remember the smell in his flat. I remember how much I hated it. There was always a cauliflower somewhere. He had one of those old computers. Sometimes he gave me money to buy myself something sweet.”

And by now, your hands were shaking. You couldn’t look at him and you had no idea what his expression looked like.

Horrified? Surprised? Bored?

“But the thing that weighs the worst on me”, you whispered, “the thing that haunts me the most, is the way he touched my waist. Whenever I was on his lap, he’d slowly slide his fingertips along the bare skin of my waist, creeping under my shirt. Sometimes I swatted his hand away. Sometimes I didn’t. I felt uncomfortable. I always felt uncomfortable. But he didn’t rape me.”

You opened your eyes. The look in your eyes was crazed.

“He didn’t rape me. I’m overreacting.”

The look he wore was like nothing else you had ever seen on him. He looked equally as disgusted as he looked angry. His frown was deep and his eyes far away and thoughtful.

He took a slow, long breath to sort out his thoughts and then slowly placed his hand over yours.

“He didn’t rape you.” He said slowly. “But you still realize that it was abuse, right?”

You stared at him, no words on your tongue and no thoughts in your head. You opened your mouth and closed it again.

It was?

You had never perceived it as such. Mostly for one simple reason. He didn’t rape you.

After your mother found out something was off, she did something that was entirely unexpected of her.

She got angry.

No, she was furious.

She didn’t allow you to go anywhere near his door ever again. She didn’t truly talk it out with you and she was most likely aware that it was her fault to the greatest degree.

But she protected you. From then on, she did. At least when it came to other people.

To men.

She never protected you from herself.

Instead of answering his question, you murmured: “I hated being looked at for years.”

When he curiously raised his brows, you continued.

“No one was allowed to look at me. I never understood why. When I changed. When my shirt rode up the tiniest bit. I hate revealing clothes.”

He hummed softly. “I could tell as much.”

“I hate when someone touches me unexpectedly. I hate when someone touches my…my waist. I hate when someone touches me from behind without my knowledge. It makes me feel ticklish. But not in the way it makes me laugh.”

He looked at you with the same thoughtful frown.

“I hate when someone calls me mouse.” You hissed out.

He raised his hands in surrender. “That word is as dead as Latin in these halls.”

You took a deep breath to calm yourself.

“Alright.” He said softly. “How do you feel now?”

For a while you simply thought about it. You felt…better. Safe, somehow. What scared you a little was the fact that all up until now you never realized you’d been abused. You needed someone else to tell you. You were so much worse broken than you first assumed.

“Lighter.” You finally whispered.

He nodded slowly and ran his thumb over the back of your hand.

“Good.” After a beat, he added. “What about the other thing?”

You exhaled through your nose and averted your gaze again.

Of course you knew why you were so ashamed to speak about it. Sex was non-existent while you grew up. She never spoke about it to you. It was shameful. It was no subject for a mother to tell her daughter about.

It was shameful.

And now you were stuck here, in South Korea, unable to say the word penis out loud.

“I can’t speak freely.”

He frowned in a mixture of amusement and confusion. “Because we’re being spied on or…”

“Because I just can’t!” You snapped again. “I can’t…My mouth, it…The words won’t come out. The dirty words.”

That made him smile, but not in a mocking or even an amused way. It seemed almost fond. Like he found you cute. It was probably the first genuine smile you had seen on him. It confused you more and more.

“Try to describe it in your own words.”

You exhaled again. God, this conversation only ever got harder, it seemed.

“Alright.” You said quietly. “It’s just…”

He waited patiently. That made you feel safe enough to continue on your own. “I never told this to anyone. It’s…It’s the thing I’m most ashamed about. You’ll look at me differently.”

Oh God, what did you just say?

Your eyes widened and you quickly added: “I mean, you’ll think I’m a freak. That I’m twisted.”

That wasn’t even close to a good save. You had just admitted that you cared about his opinion and why in the world did you care about his opinion?

Because you realized it was true. You cared. But you tried to keep these thoughts hidden away.

Play along. Get his trust. Get out.

His smile widened, almost teasingly. “Oh, sweet girl.” He purred. “If you think your desires are twisted, there’ll have to be a new word for mine. Go on. Just tell me. No matter how horrible you think it is. For every twisted thought you have, I’ll have three worse to go.”

Your eye brows shot up and you found yourself mumbling: “Really?”

He raised a brow as if saying, do you mean this question?

“Yes. Really.”

Alright.

“Alright.”

You took another deep breath, then you began. Slowly. Quietly. And carefully.

“I realized pretty early on in my life that my fantasies were a little…dark.”

He said nothing.

“When I was younger, I was…” The words died on the tip of your tongue. And so did your composure. Tears welled up in your eyes and you wrapped your arms around yourself, tightly.

His smile slipped and he frowned again. Was that a hint of concern?

Don’t be an idiot. You’re his pet. His toy. His girl.

“I was…”

You choked down a sob and buried your face in your hands. Your body was being shaken by your sobs, faster and faster, until you were sobbing frantically.

You expected him to get angry at your emotional outburst, but you neither heard the clicking of a gun nor a belt.

Instead, and that was really weird, you felt…

You felt…

You let out a loud, surprised gasp, when he pulled you into a tight embrace. It felt like being struck by lightning or getting hit by a bus.

And waking up in paradise.

He felt warm against you and his perfume was so subtle, yet you caught on it. You felt safe. So safe. It felt amazing. You didn’t want it to end.

Ever.

But after a while, long after your sobs died down, he slowly pulled away.

He didn’t need to say it. You could tell, he wanted you to continue. And so you did. Forcing down a new flash of ashamed tears, you did.

“I needed to think about him when I…”

He nodded in understanding.

“That stopped, fortunately. After a while I forgot about him. I barely ever thought about him again and never again during those moments.”

And then you told him everything. Things about being used, called names, hurt.

Things about things about things which you didn’t understand yourself. Not in the slightest.

But you were forced to think about them, whenever you felt the nervous twitch in your lower body.

Normal things did turn you on.

Or well, the thought of normal things. You couldn’t tell for you hadn’t experienced either.

Neck kissing was good. Oral sex was good. Any way of worshipping your body was good.

But to cross the finish line, you always needed to think about those sick, twisted things. And you didn’t even get the time to properly cross the line, because the shame kicked in faster than you could.

“Is that all?” He finally asked, his expression unreadable and his tone of voice calm.

You nodded.

His lips curved up into a delicious smile.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Hours later, while you sat in your bedroom, digging your nails into your palms in your nervousness, you kept thinking about his words in all your dizziness.

And you got more and more nervous by the second.

He’d be here in a while. And then there would be no way back. If you did this now, then you did it. And nothing could ever change the course of things back to how they were before.

Were they really that much better before? You asked yourself. But again, you forced the stupid-as-hell thoughts away and focused on his words again.

“A proposition?” You had asked in a soft whisper. “What kind of proposition?”

He leaned ever closer to you and looked at you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Your first time will be magical.” There was it again. That silken voice, the one that felt like a gentle caress. “I’ll make sure of it. The whole night. Everything is going to be perfect. I’m going to worship you in ways you can’t even imagine. I’ll take care of you. I’ll guide you. I’ll hold your hands. Look into your eyes. I’ll whisper in your ear and I’ll kiss your neck. I promise you, I’ll make you feel better than you ever felt about yourself. I’ll make you happy.”

For whatever reason, that last remark was what got to you the most. Everything sounded incredible obviously (it also sounded far too good, to be honest, but you decided to trust him when he said this), but when he said he’d make you happy, it nearly made you cry again.

Oh, was that a tear? You couldn’t tell, he wiped it away already, all the while you stared at him in stunned silence.

“And?” You heard yourself whisper. “What then?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Your first time will be perfect, my sweet girl, I promise it. I’ll make you feel loved.”

The words were as sweet as they were cruel. If only he had punched you again. Hit your face. Make you lick the floor clean, if it pleased him. But no. He had to say the one thing that tore at your heart like nothing else, the one thing you longed for, the one thing you burned for.

Love.

Hope was such a dangerous thing and especially for you. Which was why you quickly shut your thoughts down and this time for real. You couldn’t afford to have such thoughts and desires.

These were the real twisted desires.

No amount of blindfolds and handcuffs could get close to that.

“Your first time.” He said, his tone growing more serious. “But only the first time. And from then on, I’ll have you any way I want. Whenever I want. Wherever we are. However you feel. You’re sick? I don’t care. You’re in pain? Good. I’m too rough? Finally. You can’t take no more? Shut your fucking mouth and swallow it.”

You knew that something like that would follow. As you already thought before, it had been too good.

And yet, you couldn’t help yourself.

God, you knew it was stupid.

It was crazy.

It was sick.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

“Okay.” You whispered.

“No.” He said firmly. “I want you to think about it. Truly think about it. You can’t just agree, because later on you can’t back out. Do you understand that? I want you to grasp the severity of your agreement. If you do this, you belong to me. More than you already do. Entirely. I’ll be fucking you, sweet girl. I’ll be fucking you for what could be a month, a year or the rest of your life.”

You took a deep breath. Did you even have the chance to say no? What would happen if you did?

And what did the rest of your life mean? A few weeks, months, years? Until he grew tired of you? Or until fate decided it was time for you to go?

All the things wrong with you combined gave way to the worst thing you could ever do.

“It’s a deal."

_________________________________

Author's note (2): First off, I want to thank each and everyone of you for your support, your kind words and all your messages and generally, anyone who takes the time to read this story! I cannot begin to describe how much this means to me. I'll be honest, I've been writing a lot when I was younger, but at some point in my life I stopped because I got really depressed and the things I enjoyed once suddenly became unbearable and impossible. I felt like I forgot how to write. But this story and all of your kind and sweet support has reminded me that I really, really loved to write once and I still do. So, I'm thanking you. Everyone. Thank you. You gave me back the part of my soul that was missing for a long time. Much, much, much love!

Tag list: @mitsuki-dreamfree @kpopsmutty69 @heroine-chique @vkeyy @mizuwki @blu-brrys @z0mbi345 @yourpointbreak @ayieayee @freddyzeppsworld @lola11111111 @indifitel6661 @salesmanlover08 @laurenbenoit70 @lalalaa2210 @lila-marshal @auspicious-lilana @0-aubrie0 @lovelyaegyo @theredvelvetbitch @violentbluess @muriels-lover @dorayakissu @eviebuggg @muchwita @ririgy @strxlemon @obsessedwthdilfs @kiwilov3

[tothosewhoyearnforit]

tgif (quickie) - tripleS zhou xinyu

mind you she says "are you still leaving?" on fromm after she sends this picture like how do u not expect me to be riled up ????

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed, casting a sterile glow on your weary face. Your inbox overflowed, a digital avalanche of emails threatening to bury you alive. Another late night loomed, the prospect as appealing as a root canal. Heaving a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, you finally succumbed to the inevitable.

Pulling out your phone, the cool metal a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from the overworked computer. A quick text to Xinyu was the least you could do, especially after promising that you would come home earlier to watch a movie with her.

Honey, looks like I'm going to be stuck here late again. So sorry. Will order takeout.

You hit send, expecting the usual "Okay, love you" in return. Instead, your phone buzzed almost immediately.

A picture message.

You hesitated, then clicked on it.

Xinyu.

Not the tired, makeup-free Xinyu of the morning who grabbed your arm as you climbed out of bed. This was Xinyu take a selfie from the top, tongue sticking out and eyes sultrily looking at the camera. Almost the same view you'd get when you stand over, cock in hand and-

ping

Your breath hitched.

aww man...i was hoping we could do some painting after the movie too 😣

You stared at the picture, his heart pounding. Suddenly, the allure of a quiet night at home, of escaping the sterile office and diving into the warmth of Sarah's embrace, seemed infinitely more appealing than any amount of overtime.

You slammed your laptop shut, a grin instinctively splitting your face.

incentive accepted

The fluorescent lights seemed to dim, the office noise fading into the background. All you could see was Xinyu, waiting for you on her knees, and the promise of a night that would be anything but ordinary.

.

.

.

So much for burning the midnight oil, you think to yourself as Xinyu kneels before your raging cock, only this time, her face has been fucked thoroughly, saliva dripping down her chin.

"Gonna cum for me daddy? Paint my beautiful face with your hot. Thick. Load?"

You furiously jerk yourself off to completion in front of her face, spurts of semen flying onto her face like a lock on missile, some landing on her stuck out tongue.

You slump back against the couch as you finally start breathing again, blood rushing back to your head.

But Xinyu's not done. No.

She pulls your pants and boxers off your legs. Heck, you haven't even noticed that you hadn't taken them off fully yet.

"We're not done yet daddy."

You watch as her slender, naked body mounts you, perfect, bouncy skin glowing softly thanks to the dim lamp in the corner of the room.

She unbuttons your shirt and practically rips it off you while all you do is watch. And rest your hands on her curvy hips, admiring her figure of course.

"Want to show you what I learned from Yuqi.", she says as she kisses you before climbing off of your now naked body.

She drags a chair from the dining table and places it right in front of you. She takes a bottle of lube from the shelf and squirts some liquid on your cock before drizzling some on her pretty little feet. You watch as she runs the sole of her feet against the underside of your hardening cock, the friction being just the right amount to stimulate your pleasure senses once again.

"Don't think about work anymore daddy. It's TGIF."

(we need more tripleS smuts man, they're all stunners)

[neechees]

I honestly dont think White users on tumblr especially are actually reading any educational texts outside of MAYBE sometimes Queer theory featuring White people bc so many White users can barely be bothered to read text posts on tumblr gently explaining racism while holding their hand.

Thats why you have proshitters unironically calling teens who voice discomfort with the sexualization of child characters their age (or younger) "fascists", and why you have White users flinch and cry and sob about potential alleged deportation or genocide when Indigenous people so much breathe the word "landback" & "decolonization", why even White American & Canadian users somehow don't know about incredibly influencial, popular movements or political terms like MMIW or Idle No More (& they don't even know what those initials stand for despite living in the country it originated).

None of you know what anything means or is or bother to read or Google it to educate yourself & instead you just shit your pants in nonwhite users' inboxes & reblogs