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obeymeluv · 4 months ago

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We Had a Baby! (For a Grade?) - PT 1 -Malleus

Putting a divide up and a notice that Malleus' part WILL reference what he looked like in his younger fae form. For those that have made it through book seven, you know. For those that haven't made it to book seven, well...maybe skip this part.

Also...I thought these would be on the shorter side and I'd fit in multiple people but I guess Malleus is special. I'll try to be shorter with the other parts to get more people in.

Finding "Mal" names were hard, man.

Note: in this piece, book seven hasn't happened so this is the first time that Silver and Sebek are seeing fae eggs.

I'm trying out a hybrid style for this because it would be waaaay too long if I just typed it all in story form. Some story, some bullet points.

Not proofread. Need to give my eyes a break. Will review it later.

Malleus

The idea seemed positively strange to the Dragon Prince--people of your world treating sustenance as children? That didn't seem very productive of society at all! How were you to thrive as a species? What would a bag of flour do for you when you fell ill in old age? How could a potato assist you if you could not eat it?

Professor Crewel was also intrigued with the idea, so much so that he made it into an assignment. The puzzling introduction of your society's fondness for turning food into family quickly became a monologue on culturing fortitude, overcoming challenges, and assuring the class that this assignment met the 'general life skills' criteria expected of NRC and their excellent mages.

Crewel wouldn't admit it for anything less than a foolproof spell that could make Crowley competent, but he, Trein, and Vargas had bets on what the children would look like. They also had their preferred parents, of course. Given that he was the instructor of the class, he could pick as he pleased.

And he would. And he did.

He was very intrigued with the idea of fae offspring, as he had encountered (and rescued) only smaller species over the course of his potion-making career. Malleus was of impressive size and rare lineage so what would a baby version of him look like?

Like the rest of the class, Crewel was silent and stunned when the two of you stepped out of the summoning circle to see five shiny, pebbly eggs. The eggs were quite large and they had an iridescent sheen to them that could almost pass for a trick of the light. Upon closer inspection, the eggs had almost a geometric, scale-like pattern to them. Some spots thinner than others, giving a suggestion of something curled up inside.

Something warm and joyous roared in Malleus. A jolt of...something...struck deep at his core and all his nerves sang at once. Was this the parental instinct? He felt his eyesight sharpen, honing in on his clutch. His pointed ears flexed, somehow taking in the myriad of sounds around him to the point where he could tell Epel's nose was stuffed and Trey had a dry throat. Magic radiated off of him, sensed but unseen as it seeped into various objects around the room and things began to jump and float.

You picked up the nearest egg and he found it positively endearing. It was nearly as big as your torso! "We got eggs?" you were absolutely confused and held it out to him as if he could explain.

"Indeed! A fine bunch!" Malleus scooped up the other four and excused himself. The specks of green magic had just died when he returned with a basket woven from black briars. Humming and glittering with magic, Malleus gestured for you to put your egg in the vacant spot. The briar vines were alive, curling carefully around the other eggs--thorns facing out--and acting as individual holders.

Something in you said no and you weren't sure why. You just...didn't want to let it go. The egg seemed to pulse against you. "No," you shook your head as Malleus re-wove the briar vines to wrap around his body like some sort of vest, "my egg."

He let out a peal of laughter, head tilted back. Fae were nothing if not protective of their young. Dragon fae were a league above. Perhaps the eggs had cast an enchantment on their magicless parent? Or were his tendencies rubbing off on you? Either way, it was precious.

He'd want nothing less out of his partner.

Anything Crewel said was lost on Malleus, the future king looking over his shelled children as if they were the most precious jewels. His attention was recaptured by the sight of Deuce helping wrestle the assignment binder into your bag. Realizing this was the class that didn't have Lilia, Sebek, or Silver, he requested the class NOT breathe a word to the other Diasomnia students.

It was meant as a request but it came off as more of a decree. A command.

He wanted to give Lilia a proper scare. It was only fair, given his constant nagging and fretting over eggs. The old bat was more than due for a good startle.

"Come, Child of Man!"

You were surprised Malleus wanted to walk to Diasomnia instead of teleport. He explained that dragon eggs were nurtured by the same things that created them--magic and love. The basket was steadily infusing the eggs with his magic, strengthening the children aiding in proper growth. Teleporting may startle them and bursts of magic weren't really suitable for egg development. "So, wait, you love me?"

Your smile was teasing but no less beautiful to him. "Of course," he said with an honesty and ease that hinted at his sheltered upbringing, almost bewildered that you couldn't understand that yourself. "Ceaselessly. That's why Lilia separates us. It would be far too easy to make eggs. Advantageous, though. You can never have enough dragon fae!"

All you could do was blush. Malleus was quite happy with himself. The eggs wiggled and clattered softly against each other, their version of bouncing with delight. You were quite a fertile partner! It was rare enough to sire one egg every few hundred years but you had five!

If you became fae, how many clutches would you have? Malleus wanted a big family, personally. Perhaps one day a Draconia would rule each dorm at NRC! He at least wanted enough that no one felt sick trying to eat a birthday cake.

Malleus flung the door to Diasomnia open with enough force that it ricocheted off the stone, unable to control his strength in his excitement. "Behold, I have sired!"

Sebek was the only noticeable victim, midway through a sip of tea. He practically sucked the cup dry and began to choke. He didn't know whether to lean between his legs and let things drain or throw himself over the back of the couch and clear his throat. Lilia dropped his cup and saucer, tea spilling onto the couch and cup splintering on the floor as he took to beating Sebek on the back. The poor boy was basically being ground into the stone.

You wondered if Lilia looked terrified at the idea of Sebek choking or the sight of the eggs in the basket. His hair was more pointed than usual, seeming to float in distress. Silver had been jostled awake but couldn't quite understand what he was looking at.

These three didn't have potions until later on in the week so Malleus spoiled the lesson for them. Poor Lilia still looked like he wanted to have a heart attack. "We should tell Queen Maleficia."

"Perhaps when they hatch," Malleus was already looking for things to make a nest. It was imperative that his children were comfortable and guarded. You as well! He actually had the brilliant idea to build the nest with you at the center so the children could feel the love you emitted. Yes, you may be a different species and there would be many things to discuss about handling fae but he had no doubts of your capacity to love them.

Your nest was finished off with a fine, fluffy blanket that was surprisingly warm. Far warmer than it looked. "It is made of dragon scale," Malleus explained as he fanned it out over you and the clutch until he was satisfied, "we dragons can repurpose our shedding into things with magical properties."

"These blankets are usually familial gifts," Lilia added as he swept up the pieces of his broken cup. "They're handy for fighting the hibernation instincts when the colder months come."

"What if it's too warm for the kids?"

To hear you say the word 'kids' sent his stomach curling and churning in a way that left him oblivious to your worries. He's surprised a sixth egg didn't spawn, honestly.

What if they couldn't handle the heat as well since you were human? Wouldn't it, like, cook them?

"Fear not, my child of man. Draconias require heat, as we are a fire-breathing variant of dragon fae. They will be fine."

You hummed interestedly and resigned yourself to laying there for a while. It was weird to feel the eggs wiggling and pulsing around you. When you slipped out to grab your binder and see just what this assignment entailed, you were delighted to find Malleus almost stubbornly sticking himself under the blanket. It was for a constant infusion of magic, he said, but you were sure he just didn't want to leave the children alone. He looked obscenely happy to be around the eggs, squishing his lanky form down to touch all five.

The assignment was pretty basic---watch the kid (or kids) for a week and fill out some pages on height, weight, favorite activities, foods, and have them work on a few worksheets so Crewel could review their cognitive development. There were even spots to put handprints and footprints!

"How long do dragon fae even take to hatch?" you asked as you flipped through the assignment. "What if they're not hatched in a week?"

"It's an advanced spell so I'm sure the incubation process will be sped up, too." Lilia rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "But dragons hatch at different rates. There's a lot of factors involved."

"Which is why you should come back to the nest. Maybe they'll hatch faster if we're together." Malleus peeled back a corner of the blanket for you, eggs already clustered in his lap. You humored him, sliding back in and taking two of the eggs. The blanket was pooled around you now, eggs on full display. Silver and Sebek hovered at the edge of the nest, wanting to touch the eggs but a little hesitant.

"Only a little," Malleus cautioned them, his eyes bright. "I don't know if they would funnel your magic."

"Nonsense, my boy," Lilia returned with a thick book and tapped it on Malleus' head gently. "I held you plenty and I was fine. The eggs need to be exposed to all kinds." his clever ploy of handing Malleus a book of names in exchange for an egg almost cost him an arm.

"Instinct," Malleus apologized, letting go. His cheeks were tinged with pink.

"Likewise," Lilia gave him a cheeky smile, egg now cradled to his chest. He held it with both hands and bounced it a little. "This one might be a boy. Feels as heavy as you did!"

The book fell open to the 'M' section and you found it a bit curious. It was even weirder when you realized it fell open to MAL as if this section had been searched for a thousand times. "We Draconia have a tradition with our names," Malleus explained, pointing to his. "As followed by my mother," he pointed to 'Maleanor', "and her mother before her," he pointed to 'Maleficia'.

Thus began a discussion of names. Sebek and Silver were more than happy to give their input. They were quite handy in making sure the names weren't TOO weird. After hearing some of the ones that came out of Lilia's mouth, you could tell Silver was happy to get off with such a simple name. "I was actually thinking of renaming you at one point, you know," Lilia looked at the silver-haired boy, "too many people thought your name was too close to 'iron'. They thought you'd be unlucky."

"I like my name." Silver mumbled quietly.

After what felt like hours, you settled on five names: Malachite, Malum, Mallar, Malchus, and Malric. Lilia had picked up all the eggs and was convinced they were boys. You weren't sure how fae could judge gender from an egg, but he'd been around a lot longer than you. Malleus was so engrossed in the name exchange that he hadn't noticed Lilia sneaking the eggs off his lap to give them to Silver and Sebek. The sight of everyone holding an egg was sweet, you thought.

And realistic. If Malleus ever did have children, Silver, Sebek, and Lilia would be crucial in their lives.

The egg in your lap began to rattle. A deep crack formed at the top. Malleus quickly put it next to his. Three eggs hemmed the two. Hatchings usually happened together, you supposed, because the cracking of the first egg seemed to cause small cracks in the one next to it.

These little eggs were practically hatching in your lap and you were too scared, to in awe, to move them. You saw glimpses of wet scales, tiny horns, little claws, and maybe a tail before they started climbing out of the eggs. It was a very slimy affair. "A double! OH SEVENS, A DOUBLE!" Lilia practically inhaled a piece of eggshell when two little dragons climbed out of one egg. Malleus separated them gently, holding one each by their tender little bellies. He cooed at them.

"This one smells different," Malleus narrowed his eyes at the one in his right hand. Lilia gave it a cautious sniff.

"It's a girl!" Lilia, Sebek, and Malleus gave the others another smell in case the missed the gender. End result: five boys, one girl. 'Malin' was a maybe name that became a real one. Lilia ran off to tell Maleficia--somehow? You weren't sure how. Couldn't imagine a Queen having a cell phone--while the four of you started trying to get...claw prints...for the assignment.

Human babies, you had an idea of. Fussy when hungry, wet, and practically anything else but dragon babies were on a different level! You felt like you were wrestling a big cat! They were on the playful side, thankfully, but touching their claws and tiny pads earned gummy nips and a lot of writhing.

Silver was having the easiest time, somehow. Sebek had already been tail-slapped and gummed. A second dragon was climbing up his back and pawing at his hair. You had huffy, smoky protests and some scratches from the one in front of you; the other was currently chewing on your shirt and pulling at it. Malleus was locked in the growl version of a 'yes-no' as his dragon baby rolled every which way but onto the paper correctly.

This was going to be a long week.

Your week consisted of:

Trying to find a way to differentiate them. You tried painting their claws a certain color but that went as well as trying to get a print for the assignment. Tying cute little bandannas and things around their necks just caused a bunch of shredded mess to be cleaned up. You finally learned to tell them apart by the slight color difference in their bellies

Malric and Malin getting into fights consistently, tangling themselves into a big ball of scales and snarling and nipping at each other. The other three were usually a casualty. Malachite figured out he could separate them by flopping on top of them when they rolled by.

Malum was a biter and Mallar was a head-butter. When the twins turned on Malachite (as they often would), Mallar would come out of nowhere to headbutt Malric. You don't know how Malin escaped practically unscathed when she was literally half the problem. Malchus was your 'they're doing it again!' alarm child.

Lots of baby dragon ambushes. You're only holding ONE of them? HOW DARE YOU! You will soon find yourself besieged by baby dragons as they crawl over each other to cuddle and get attention. It doesn't matter what you were doing or holding before the onslaught.

Finding random piles of equally random things. Malleus says they're trying to build their hoard. Random 'hoards' you've found include: socks, silverware, pens, pencils, buttons, and several Diasomnia hats.

They learn to blow smoke at each other when they have their dragon arguments and it's not uncommon for windows to be opened to air Diasomnia out. Malleus is highly amused.

Zoomies at night. Because they're dragon fae, they're nocturnal and they don't understand you need to sleep. They usually sleep in a supervised pile in Malleus' room but will cause an UNGODLY amount of noise if they're not entertained.

They have cuddle piles when they sleep. Silver is main cuddle pillow. He's practically smothered by baby dragons but they all make these tiny, happy chirps when they nap with him. Sebek tried to wake Silver up and got three clouds of smoke blown at him all at once.

Taking them to NRC on Day 1 was a terrible, terrible idea. They were after anything that wasn't nailed down (for the hoard), wanted to climb everything, and would randomly squirm out of your arms to follow the students if something interested them. Idia about pissed himself when he noticed one had followed him to flying class.

Making it through a day of classes was almost impossible. Lilia, Sebek, and Malleus were constantly texting each other to do a kid count after Idia brought Malachite back. You didn't even know that Mallar had disappeared (you had Malin and Malum) until you heard about Sebek interrupting one of Cater's lives to snatch the baby dragon from him! After nearly giving Trein a heart attack and politely rescuing Lucius from Malin, the teachers agreed to make all of your assignments 'take home' until the kids were more...controllable.

You want to try socializing them again on Day 2 but Lilia insists they're still too feral and he doesn't want a repeat of Day 1. He has found immense joy in the laser light Idia gave him. It keeps him AND the kids occupied!

You and Malleus are doing constant kid counts. More than once you've only found five instead of six and Lilia is usually the culprit. Malchus is the number one victim.

They get their human form on day 3. You're not too hurt that they look like copies of Malleus. It's a spell and he's the one that has magic. He argues that some of the kids have your eye color, though. Malum has your hair color.

After Day 3, things get considerably easier. Feeding them is no longer a thing where you might have to write your will in advance. They're more open to trying things and quit trying to eat off of each other's plates like they'll never see food again. You think you see some sharing!

They speak in small sentences and prefer to point to things they want. Their favorite thing to do is to hang off of someone's shoulders (usually Malleus) and just guide them to what they want.

Malric likes spicy food, Malin prefers salty things, Malum is your unexpected sweets kid, Malchus devours all things citrus and sour, Malachite will eat a whole loaf of bread if you don't watch him, and Mallar is the pickiest eater.

Malum is your gentle cuddlebug

Mallar has physically fought Lilia over dinner because he didn't want to eat what Lilia cooked. He was the first one to breathe fire and almost burned Lilia's nose.

You measured the children for the assignment and was surprised to see that Malum was tallest. He spent so much time cuddled up to you that you didn't notice. Malachite is second-tallest, Malric just after him, with Malin and Mallar being tied for shortest.

Silver takes them on a walk through the woods every afternoon. He makes everyone hold hands. Malleus isn't far behind and usually steals one to ride on his shoulders.

Despite how loud he is, none of the kids really listen to Sebek. Malleus and Lilia make them listen. Malachite is the first to leave room when Sebek gets loud. Malin is most likely to comfort him and make an effort. She coaches him, to your surprise ("People would like you more if you weren't so loud.")

Lilia invites Baur over to see the children because he just has to brag. Something about the intimidating crocodile fae sends Mallar into a hissing, gouging mood and Baur is most amused. He play wrestles with them (as much as a stern-faced ex warrior plays) and thinks they'll make fine fighters one day.

Malin accidentally scratched a scale off of him and got a little worried. Baur and Lilia were in shock. "A fine princess! You'll take after your grandma one day!" Lilia smiled.

Day 4 is a visit from Queen Maleficia herself and you don't know what to think. The kids have all huddled around you--protecting you--as they assess this new dragon. You expected her to be much harsher, getting the anti-human warnings and all, but she's nicer than anticipated. The most she said to you was 'Impressive clutch size' but that counted, right?

Malchus, your favorite kitchen helper, caught what he thought was a look from her. One aimed at you. He looks her dead in her face and says, 'If you don't like them, I won't love you for a thousand years."

She laughed so hard you didn't know what to think. Neither did Lilia.

Queen Maleficia brought them little trinkets and snacks from Briar Valley. Their favorite thing was a back-scratcher. They sat at her feet for hours, just letting that rough weird brush go over them. The dragon vocals were in full swing and she answered them in dragon speak. She was impressed with how they helped Lilia set the table and had a good laugh at Mallar saying, "If you don't let Lilia cook I will love you for a thousand years."

It was an unexpected visit but it couldn't have gone too badly because there was no lightning involved (according to Lilia).

Day 5 saw you trying to integrate the kids into NRC. It went much smoother this time but there were still disappearances. And favorites.

Malin seemed to like hanging out with Jack and Trey the most and got in trouble more than once for trying to pick pieces of fur off of Crewel's coat.

Mallar liked Cater and Kalim; Mallar was actually one of the more outgoing kids.

Malchus found company with Epel and Jamil. He'd go on and on about how Epel talked funny and Jamil made the most delicious food ever.

Malachite thought Idia's hair was cool and wanted to know what all of his 'strange stuff' did. That discussion led to Rook butting in and saying how cool Science Club was, so Malachite ended up following Rook around to learn things after Idia's people battery was drained.

Malric was heavily influenced by Ace; the two had gotten in trouble for letting the flamingos out but he didn't care because he got to ride one. He promptly stole Riddle's tiny crown while the redhead attempted to lecture him and only gave it back after Malleus literally dragged him to the throne room of Heartslabyul and held him up by the back of his shirt like a sad puppy.

Malum liked to stick with Silver but was encouraged to get to know Riddle while learning to ride horses. The young dragon was impressed by what Riddle knew and asked him a million questions. Riddle suggested he get to know Azul, but Malum quickly decided that friendship was not for him. Azul smelled funny and he had an overwhelming urge to bite him. In the end, his favorite person on campus was Lucius (even though that doesn't count).

They wrote down who they hung out with, what they liked, and what they did for Crewel before taking their assessments.

The end of the assignment saw you and Malleus with an A; the kids were healthy and strong. Their assessments were all above average but Crewel could see that only Malachite and Malum actually tried. Malric did it because he was nagged, Malchus was told he'd sit there for however long it took (no interest whatsoever), and Malin did it with such disdain her papers were actually singed.

Before the kids disappeared, you were presented with a bunch of scales and shedding. It was heartwarming. Lilia did say the sheddings were familial, after all.

They disappeared in a puff of smoke and you let everything settle. You survived five days with dragons! That was impressive! As if he could read your mind, Malleus said, "Grandmother was impressed, too. She looks forward to her great-grandchildren coming around again."

#Twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #Malleus draconia x reader

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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, racing accident (spa 2021 q3), fuck the fia basically, autistic shutdown, angst (!!!!), brief mention of a life-ending accident.

Notes — Ok. Prepare yourselves. This one might hurt.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter Twenty (Spa—Italy)

The circuit is underwater.

Amelia sits on the low wall in front of the garages, glancing over at the track. Puddled, she thinks. Flooded was probably a better word, but nobody wanted to say it out loud.

A thousand stubborn fans in the grandstands spot her and call her name, undeterred by the downpour. She waves and flashes them a quick smile before hopping down and heading back toward Max’s garage, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.

“They’ll red flag it,” she says, shrugging as she steps inside. “Even if it means postponing qualifying. It’s not drivable out there.”

Max sighs and glances at his dad, who just gives an unhelpful shrug in return.

GP pops his head around the corner, his expression flat. “Just heard from race control. We’re heading out in twenty minutes.”

Amelia stares at him, aghast. “Are you serious? I mean—do they have a set of working eyes between them? It’s awful out there!”

GP shrugs like it’s out of his hands. “They want to give the fans something. Don’t want the complaints. Plus, some of the teams are pushing, saying it’s just a case of slicks.”

She narrows her eyes at him, unimpressed. “Which teams?” she demands.

GP opens his mouth to answer, but Max cuts him off. “No. Don’t tell her. She’ll only cause a scene.” Max turns to her, giving her arm a squeeze. His touch is meant to be calming, but it feels too light against the storm brewing in her chest. “It’s fine. We’ll all be careful,” he promises. “We’ve driven in worse conditions.”

She blinks, and all she can see is a boy—too young, too trusting—spinning out on this very track, his life taken away from him because someone said it would be fine. “Two years ago…” she starts, voice catching.

Max doesn’t let her finish. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself, zusje.”

She presses her lips together, closing her eyes for a beat, sucking in a trembling breath. When she opens them, she looks past Max—at Jos, then GP. “Christian thinks this is okay?” she asks, voice low.

GP shakes his head immediately. “No. He was one of the team principals against it.”

Oh. That was pleasant surprise.

—

The rain only got worse once there were cars on track.

Amelia paced like a caged animal just behind the line of Max’s engineers, arms folded so tight across her chest it felt like she was holding herself together by force alone. The spray was impossible. Drivers couldn’t see five meters ahead, and the aquaplaning was awful.

Her stomach twisted tighter with every sector.

They were not driving anymore — they were guessing. Hoping.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

A car twitched through Eau Rouge and saved it. Barely.

She shot a furious look at GP, who lifted a hand in her direction like he was expecting her to throw something at him and needed to defend from it.

“I swear to god,” she hissed under her breath, “if anyone gets hurt—”

“Amelia,” Jos said sharply. He didn’t look away from the screens. “Don’t.”

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, breathing hard through her nose.

—

Lando thrived in the wet.

Where other drivers hesitated, he attacked, carving through the standing water like it was nothing more than mist. He looked alive out there.

He was flying.

By the end of Q1, he was at the top of the timesheets, Max just a few hundredths behind him.

Amelia watched from the back of Max’s garage, heart pounding harder with every sector split. She barely registered the noise around her, engineers discussing, the pit wall scrambling as Max came back in for a fresh set.

By the end of Q2, he was still there.

Still leading. Still flying.

Amelia didn’t even realise she was holding her breath until the session ended, the screen freezing with his name at the top.

Still at the top. Ahead of both Mercedes, ahead of Max.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle a noise she didn’t even recognise — part pride, part awe, part something else, raw and endless.

—

“Did that McLaren make it around the corner?”

It happened fast. Too fast. A flash of a McLaren on the big screen, the car snapping sideways through Eau Rouge, spinning into the barriers with a violence that made the garage gasp.

The monitors flickered to the crash site. Crumpled carbon. Shattered wings.

No movement.

Amelia didn’t move either.

She stood dead still. Silent.

And then she started whispering under her breath. "Oversteer mid-corner. Hydroplaned. No visibility. No grip. No correction possible." It wasn’t emotion — it was fact. Cold, clean, merciless.

Someone called her name.

She didn’t react.

Jos appeared a second later, hand reaching for her arm, voice low, concerned, "Amelia—"

She ripped away from him so violently he took a step back. "Don’t touch me!" she snapped, voice too loud, too sharp. "I'm thinking!"

Silence snapped over the garage like a taut wire. Eyes everywhere.

She didn't care. She just stared at the monitor, at the wreckage, at the nothingness.

Then… a voice, through a sudden crackle of radio static. GP had shoved a headset onto her head, barely sliding it into place, as Lando’s voice filled her ears, grainy but alive. "—I’m okay. Sorry about that, boys. Big crash."

She blinked. Stared at the screen. Saw Sebastian pulling up next to him in the Aston, saw Lando wave from inside the cockpit — a shaky, unmistakable sign of life.

Another voice filtered in, maybe GP’s, maybe Will’s. “Driver’s talking. He’s moving. All good.”

Lando again, winded but alive, alive, alive, "Make sure Amelia’s okay. She didn’t see, did she? Fuck, mate, that was bad. Go make sure she’s okay—"

She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought.

She just stared at the footage as it played over and over on the feed, the spray, the blind corner, the sudden absence of the car where it should have been, the brutal, sickening impact against the wall.

Her nails dug into her own forearms hard enough to leave crescent moons.

Her mind blanked.

Detached.

Facts and figures and split times. Angles and force vectors and hydroplaning coefficients.

If she thought about it clinically, if she could just keep it mathematical, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.

—

They let her into medical after twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes where she didn't move. Twenty minutes where she counted every breath she took and tried to keep her body from violently trembling.

When she finally crossed the threshold, Lando was sitting up on the stretcher, hair soaked and matted down from the rain and sweat. His race suit was still zipped up to his neck, damp and dirty from the impact. His left hand was flexing repeatedly like it hurt, but he was smiling at the doctor. A crooked, too-wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

When he saw her, the smile vanished.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

She stopped halfway across the room.

He looked her over once, quick and assessing — and she knew he saw it. The stiffness in her posture. The emptiness in her eyes. The way she was standing like she was still waiting for a second crash, a worse outcome.

He pushed off the stretcher, wincing a little but moving anyway, stubborn and alive, and crossed the room to her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t lift her arms. Didn’t even reach for him.

Lando didn’t seem to care.

He wrapped his arms around her anyway, wet and shivering and still so real, pulling her into his chest. His hand found the back of her head, cradling it against him. "Hey," he murmured, soft enough that only she could hear. "I’m here. I’m okay. You can touch me. I'm real."

She stood frozen for a second longer, and then, slowly, she pressed her hands to his ribs. Felt the rise and fall of his breath. The heat of him under her palms.

"Physics said you should have flipped," she said into his chest.

"Yeah, well," he said, smiling against her hair, "physics can suck it."

She let out a single, sharp breath, not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

Lando's arms tightened.

"You can be mad," he told her, still that same soft, low tone. "You can be scared. You can even punch me if you want. Just... don’t disappear into that pretty head of yours, okay?"

She closed her eyes, finally letting her forehead drop against him, anchoring herself to the solid, beating proof of him.

"I’m trying," she whispered.

"I know," he said. And he just held her

—

The door cracked open again, and suddenly Max was there.

Still half in his race suit, soaked through from the rain, his hair dripping into his eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of Amelia.

She turned her head slowly.

Max’s eyes flicked over her quickly, assessing, calculating. "Hey," he said, voice low, controlled. "You’re alright?”

Amelia didn’t respond. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t doing anything, really, just sitting there in Lando’s lap, stiff, her hands still twisted in the fabric of his fireproofs like she was the one holding him together and not the other way around.

Max exhaled, long and slow. Then, without asking, he reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulling her gently forward until her forehead bumped against his.

"Listen to me," he said quietly, his voice rough with feeling. "You did everything right. You are alright. Lando is alright. I'm here. We’re all still here, okay?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing finally hitching a little.

Max just held her there, forehead to forehead, grounding her with the solid weight of his presence.

"You’re safe, zusje," he murmured, almost too softly to hear. “And so are we. Everyone made it out alive, okay? Is that what you need to hear? Nobody died today.”

A shaky little sound escaped her, halfway between a sigh and a sob.

Lando tightened his arms around her from behind, his chin pressing into her shoulder, anchoring her.

Max pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I got pole.”

She manages a tiny, proud smile. “Well done.”

—

@/f1girlies: Amelia not even flinching when they showed Lando's crash... just staring at the screen like she's trying to solve it. There is a terrifying amount of love between them. 🥲💔 #F1 #BelgianGP

@/landozluvbot: idk what broke me more. Lando's crash or seeing Amelia looking like a ghost in the garage after. she didn’t even cry she just shut down 😭😭

@/redbullmax: Max asking if Amelia was okay over the radio after the red flag… this fcking team is going to kill me #BelgianGP

@/McLarenUpdates: The way Amelia was repeating technical data out loud after the crash... pure survival mode. That’s an engineer trying not to lose it over the boy she loves getting hurt 😭 #BelgianGP

@/softforf1: Seb pulling up next to Lando to check on him. Max worrying about Amelia. Everyone looking after each other. F1 can be brutal but it’s a family too 🧡 #F1Family

@/verstappencharts: “don’t touch me, i’m thinking!” amelia shouting at jos verstappen 😭😭 girl was fighting for her life. i was genuinely in tears watching her. my fellow neurodivergent girlies understand that she was fully shutting down

@/mclarensun: saying "make sure amelia’s okay" while he's still in the car wreckage was the most heartbreaking thing i’ve ever heard no i'm not okay

—

She feels broken.

A shell of herself.

Curled up on her side in her dad’s hotel suite, knees tucked against her chest, face buried in the pillow that still smelled like him — his shampoo, his aftershave, something warm and familiar and safe.

Lando was sleeping.

Bruised, sore, but breathing. Alive.

She’d left him there, in their hotel room, the weight of everything pressing too heavy on her chest to stay. She couldn't hold herself together, not even for him.

Her dad had found her at the rooftop bar, sitting alone in a corner, staring blankly into a glass of Sprite. He hadn’t said anything, just crouched down, touched her hand, and guided her gently to her feet.

He’d led her here, to his suite. Set her down on the bed like she was something fragile. Like if he said the wrong thing, she might shatter completely.

Then he’d stepped outside into the hallway.

She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, breathing in the scent of him, wishing she could crawl into her childhood and never have to leave again.

She felt selfish.

Selfish for making this about her when Lando was the one who’d crashed.

Selfish for being weak.

Selfish for needing someone, when Lando needed her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff and aching, and tried not to think.

Tried not to feel.

Tried, and failed.

—

Her dad returned, a quiet figure in the doorway before stepping inside. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed with a soft sigh. “Fernando is here, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle, trying to ease something too big for him to handle alone. “I thought he might be able to help.”

Fernando sat beside her, his presence grounding, steady. He didn’t rush into conversation, simply waiting. His eyes softened as they met hers.

After a long, thoughtful pause, he spoke, his voice low, weighted with experience. “I’ve had a lot of crashes, niña,” he began. “Big ones. Ones where I didn’t know if I was going to make it out alive.”

Amelia, still frozen, slowly turned her head to look at him.

“In 2010, I crashed in Canada,” he continued, his hands folded in his lap. “The wall hit me hard. The car was destroyed. I remember seeing the barrier coming and thinking, ‘This is it. I’m not going to get out of this one.’”

Amelia’s breath hitched. She searched his face for any sign of what he’d felt, but his expression was calm.

“I remember sitting there afterward,” he said, “and not feeling pain at first. It was like everything just shut down. I was alive, but I couldn’t process what happened. I didn’t know what came next.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room.

“Then, in 2016, another crash—this time in Baku. The impact was hard, but what scared me the most was the silence. After the crash, there was this stillness. I didn’t know if I could move, if I could breathe properly. And all I could think was, ‘What if I can’t get out of here?’”

Amelia’s lips parted, her hands trembling in her lap as the emotions she’d buried began to rise.

“I’ve been through a lot, niña,” Fernando said, his voice steady but compassionate. “But every time, you trust that the team, the doctors will pull you out. Even when you can’t feel it. And when it’s over, you’re just thankful. So thankful.”

He looked at her with intensity, his gaze warm. “Lando will feel the same. Thankful he made it out. Thankful he can return to you.”

Amelia’s walls cracked. Her breath quickened, uneven, as emotions she’d kept buried threatened to break free. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Nando, I was so scared.”

Fernando pulled her into a tight hug, his voice soft yet firm. “Ah, niña... fear is part of this sport. You know that. You know about all the crashes I’ve been through, probably with more detail than I can remember. Use that smart brain of yours. Let yourself feel the fear. But don’t feel shame for it.”

Amelia clung to him, then turned to her dad. She managed a small, broken smile, a silent ‘thank you’ for bringing Fernando to her.

—

She tiptoed back into their hotel room, shedding her clothes and slipping into bed in just her underwear. She pressed herself against Lando's warmth, inhaling a shaky breath.

His arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer. “Where’d you go, baby? You’re freezing,” he murmured against her ear, tucking the blanket around them both.

“Just needed to talk to Fernando,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Go back to sleep, Lan.”

She watched him sleep for a while, his breathing steady and calm. Her fingers gently brushed his neck, resting there, feeling the steady pulse beneath her touch. With a quiet exhale, she let herself drift off, comforted by the rhythm of his heartbeat.

—

“They should’ve suspended the session the second the aquaplaning became a problem and the drivers started to make it clear that the conditions were too dangerous,” Amelia said, her voice low but firm.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.”

Amelia crossed her arms, leaning against the table as she glanced down at the papers in front of them. They were in a small, quiet back room in the Aston Martin hospitality, away from the noise of the paddock. Sebastian had been working on the official complaint for the GPDA, and Amelia had come in to help finalise a few things.

“I really appreciate you checking on Lando after the crash,” Amelia told him, after a lapse of silence. "It meant a lot. To him and to me.”

Sebastian gave a small nod. “Of course. And how are you doing? You have had a rough few races, huh.”

She nodded, itching the back of her neck. “Yeah. It’s— it’s been a lot to deal with. But yesterday could’ve been prevented. That’s why I’m so mad, I think.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “That’s why the GPDA matters. We have to keep pushing for better safety measures, for the drivers to be heard." He paused, glancing at her with a thoughtful expression. "You’ve got the right mind for this, Amelia. I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, but how would you feel about joining me on the panel? You’d bring a fresh perspective, especially with everything you do behind the scenes. You’d make a real impact."

Amelia raised an eyebrow, a bit taken aback by the offer. "I don’t know…”

“Of course, I get it,” Sebastian said quickly, giving her a reassuring smile. “No pressure. But think about it, yes?”

Amelia nodded. "I will. I just— I already feel like I’m being split in a million directions.”

Sebastian gave a knowing smile. “No pressure. The offer will still be there if you ever change your mind.” He glanced down at the page. “So, you think we’ve got the final draft ready to send off?”

Amelia glanced at the papers again, nodding. “Yeah, I think this should do it. We’ve got a strong case. Now, we just need to make sure it’s heard.”

Sebastian gave a small smile, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Alright. Let’s get it to the drivers then. Thank you for helping out, Amelia. This wouldn’t be as strong without your input.”

She smiled back, feeling a little lighter. “Of course.”

—

They suspended the Grand Prix after one lap.

Amelia was selfishly relieved. She left GP with a quick smile and made her way across to the McLaren garages.

She waited as Lando climbed out of the car, got weighed, and finally spotted her — standing there with a cookie she’d swiped from the hotel breakfast, held out like a peace offering.

His face lit up, the disappointment of the day forgotten in an instant.

“God, I love you,” he said, grinning as he took the cookie.

She just grinned back.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Sebastian V.

Please can everyone sign this document and send it back to me? Thanks!

Max V.

GDPA?

Sebastian V.

Yes, mate.

Lando N.

Wait, did Amelia help you with that Her name’s at the bottom

Sebastian V.

Your girlfriend is very smart, Norris. She also believes that driver safety should take precedence over the entertainment value of a dangerous session.

Lewis H.

She’s a good kid. @Lando I tried to talk to her after Silverstone, but she brushed me off.

Lando N.

Yeah mate, not being funny, but you were part of the reason the guy she sees as a brother ended up in the tyre barrier You can’t be surprised she’s a bit pissed

Max V.

She ignored you, Lewis? LOL

George R.

Alright, let’s not do this here. Groupchat is for racing talk only. And Amelia, if necessary. This is not necessary.

Yuki T

.I have signed! I didn’t read it first. What did I just sign?

Esteban O.

Contract extension.

Yuki T.

HOLY SHIT, REALLY?

Esteban O.

No. Start reading things before you sign them.

—

Max wins his home race.

The Dutch fans go insane for it. Orange smoke suffocates the track before he even crosses the line — it’s like a living, breathing thing, filling the air, staining the sky. The stands are roaring, a wall of noise and cheers that doesn’t seem to let up.

She can’t stop smiling.

This will mean everything to him.

The whole weekend had been madness; the crowd, the pressure, the constant buzz that hummed around Max like static. She’d worried, in a quiet, gnawing way, that it would be too much. That the expectation would crush him.

Instead, he rose to meet it, higher and higher, like he’d been made for this. He had, probably. He was controlled. Fast. Untouchable.

In the paddock after the race, everything feels a little magical.

She and Lando are making their way toward the exit, half-holding hands, half-dragging their feet because nobody really wants to leave the energy behind yet, when a member of the Dutch media steps in front of them.

“Are you proud of Max’s win?” the reporter asks, microphone shoved toward her, as if there’s any possible answer but the obvious.

She beams; can’t help it, even if she wanted to. “I’m incredibly proud,” she says, heart in it completely.

Behind her, Lando chuckles low in his throat. She feels his hand tighten around hers, warm and steady. When she glances back at him, he’s looking at her like she hung the stars, his smile fond, just for her.

—

There’s no time between leaving the Netherlands and travelling straight to Italy, but somehow Amelia still manages to carve out enough of it to throw together a Pinterest board titled ‘Monaco Apartment’.

She shows Lando every phase she goes through — minimalist, then eclectic, then back again — and he just laughs, indulging her with amused commentary and the occasional veto when something was just a bit too extreme.

Eventually, she settles on something halfway between bohemian and modern; clean lines and light, natural colours, but still full of texture and life. Cozy, but grown-up.

She picks out paint colours while they’re waiting in airport lounges, scrolling through endless swatches. Lando gives his opinions on furniture when she nudges her phone under his nose — usually something like, “That’s too white, I’ll spill something on it,” or “I like that, it looks comfy.”

He has only one real request: that the spare room be turned into a streaming room for him, and she could take the bigger office.

It’s a no-brainer.

The office is huge, the window overlooks the street below, and she can already imagine herself there; late nights, sketching out ideas with music playing softly in the background.

He grins at her when she agrees without hesitation, bumping their shoulders together as if to say 'teamwork.'

The new chapter of their life together starts to take shape, little by little, through swatches, and wishlists.

In a few months, they’ll move in for real.

Maybe then it’ll finally feel like something tangible.

—

WhatsApp — 2021 F1 Groupchat

Lando N.

Quick question

Max V.

Already found it, mate. She left it in the strat room.

Lando N.

👍

George R.

That was quicker than usual.

Charles L.

I see Lando’s name pop up and immediately start looking for an iPad. Is that Pavlovian?

Checo P.

Yes.

—

On the jet, she finishes it.

Not just a rough sketch of the chassis — the whole package.

Every line, every angle calculated. Suspension geometry, underfloor shaping, cooling architecture. Aero efficiency balanced with mechanical grip.

She closes the sketchbook slowly, fingertips brushing the page like she’s sealing a secret inside.

A complete concept. Theoretical, but sound.

She glances at Max across the aisle, wondering briefly if he’ll resent her for it someday.

But she’s already done it for him. Designed the core philosophy that would carry him through 2022 and 2023, championships won before the seasons have even begun.

She isn’t thinking about just the next two years, though.

She’s thinking beyond that. She's thinking about evolution, dominance. . . legacy.

A future she could build, one millimetre at a time.

NEXT CHAPTER

#radio silence #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x ofc #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #f1 x female reader

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etheraltides · 6 months ago

Text

Tide of Temptation

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x married!Reader

Summary: What begins as a weekend of opulence aboard a luxury yacht turns into a dangerous game of forbidden attraction when Rafe Cameron, your husband’s best friend, decides he wants you.

Warning(s): SMUT – pinv, oral sex, dirty talk, degrading kink, sex tape without consent. Jealousy, infidelity, drug and alcohol use, humiliation (from her husband part), toxic/manipulative behavior. +18 only. mdni!

A/N: I want to write two more parts so let me know if you wish to be added in the taglist

The summer sun shimmered on the Atlantic, casting diamonds over the endless expanse of water. The Elysium — a name far too poetic for the vulgar display of wealth it represented — cut through the waves with practiced ease. All around was excess: champagne on ice, bronzed bodies lounging on plush daybeds, and music thrumming softly, a seductive bassline that vibrated against your chest.

You leaned against the rail, the ocean breeze playing with the loose strands of your hair. It was a fleeting escape from the suffocating company inside the yacht — a blur of intoxicated laughter, clinking glasses, and the hollow pleasantries of people who thrived on spectacle. Behind you, your husband, Nathan, was in his element, regaling a small crowd with exaggerated stories about his latest business venture. His voice, a practiced drawl, carried over the hum of conversation.

You were nothing more than the glittering prize at his side, a role you’d grown used to. Married at 24 to one of the wealthiest men in the Outer Banks, you’d signed up for a life of luxury — but it often felt like the price was your individuality. Nathan adored showing you off: the perfect smile, the designer dress clinging to your curves, the effortless charm you wielded like armor. But when the party ended and the audience dispersed, so did his attention and you were left to deal with the aftermath of a man with too many drinks and lines of white powder.

It didn’t matter. You had perfected the art of being seen and not heard. Until recently, anyway.

Rafe Cameron was a complication.

From the moment you’d boarded the yacht, his eyes had been on you, a palpable weight you could feel even when your back was turned. He was Nathan’s best friend — a dangerous cocktail of charisma and cruelty, all sharp edges wrapped in smooth confidence. And yet, he was magnetic.

Nathan had once described Rafe as “trouble in a designer suit.” and now, as you glanced over your shoulder to find him lounging in the corner with a whiskey in hand, the words felt like an understatement. His blond hair was perfectly tousled, his sculpted jaw shadowed with just enough scruff to make him look effortlessly rebellious. He was staring at you now, unapologetic, his lips quirking into a smirk when your eyes met.

You turned away quickly, heat creeping up your neck.

The yacht swayed gently, and you steadied yourself against the rail. A voice, low and velvety, cut through the sound of the waves.

“Careful. Wouldn’t want you falling overboard.”

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Rafe.

He was closer than you expected, leaning against the rail beside you, the scent of his cologne mingling with the salty breeze. His voice was like a slow drag of smoke, leaving a lingering burn.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” you replied, your tone brisk, though your pulse quickened.

His gaze swept over you, deliberate and slow, settling on the pink bikini you wore beneath a sheer cover-up. “Fine is an understatement.” he murmured with a smirk, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Smooth.”

Rafe chuckled, a deep, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “I call it like I see it, doll.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught him biting his lower lip, his blue eyes practically devouring you. There was something predatory in the way he looked at you, and instead of feeling repelled, you felt… alive. It was a dangerous thrill, one you couldn’t quite shake.

Of course you were used at men looking at you as if you were nothing more than breasts and ass. Nathan was all about it but there was something different in the way Rafe’s gaze unraveled you – something that wasn’t entirely selfish.

Inside, Nathan’s voice carried through the open doors as he delivered yet another boastful anecdote, oblivious to the two of you.

“Shouldn’t you be in there?” you asked, your voice tinged with mockery. “The golden boy, laughing at your best friend tales?”

Rafe’s smile widened, a flash of white teeth that was both charming and menacing. “I’m more interested in what’s out here.” His gaze lingered, unapologetic. “Or who.”

Your laugh was low, edged with disbelief. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

“Not when I see something I want,” he replied, his voice dropping an octave.

The words hung between you, heavy and electric.

You wanted to walk away, to laugh it off, to brush him aside like every other man who thought a pretty face entitled him to your attention. But Rafe wasn’t just any man. He had a way of getting under your skin, of making you feel seen in a way Nathan never did.

And maybe that’s why you stayed.

“Do you always go after what you want, no matter the cost?” you asked, tilting your head.

He stepped closer, the heat of his body brushing against yours. “Only when it’s worth it.”

The space between you was charged, the distant chatter and music fading into the background. His fingers brushed against yours, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through your body. You didn’t pull away.

“Rafe…” Your voice was a warning, though it lacked conviction.

“You’re wasted on him, you know that?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers traced the edge of your cover-up, skimming the bare skin of your arm. “He doesn’t see you. Not really.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“And you do?” you challenged, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

There was no way Rafe Cameron had catch on on what was happening to your relationship.

Rafe’s gaze locked onto yours, his blue eyes dark with intent. “I see everything, princess.”

The air felt thick, the space between you shrinking as his hand came to rest on the rail beside yours. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Tell me to stop.” he murmured.

The charged moment was interrupted by the sudden sharpness of Nathan’s voice, cutting through the tension like a bucket of cold water before you could even say something.

“Hey!” he called from inside, his tone loud and commanding. “What’re you two doing out there? Get in here!”

You flinched at the sound, instinctively stepping back from Rafe. The distance didn’t stop the heat coursing through your veins, but it was a necessary barrier, one that allowed you to regain your composure. Rafe, however, didn’t move. His smirk remained intact, amused and unbothered.

“He sounds impatient.” Rafe said, his voice laced with a teasing edge, pure mockery.

Without another word, you turned and headed toward the open doors, desperate for a reprieve from Rafe’s gravitational pull. He followed closely behind, the low thrum of his footsteps reminding you that his presence wasn’t easily shaken.

The yacht’s main lounge was awash in golden light, the decadent decor reflecting Nathan’s insatiable need for extravagance. He was sprawled on one of the oversized couches, a group of partygoers surrounding him like moths to a flame.

When his eyes landed on you, he beckoned you over with a crooked finger, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Come here, babe,” he drawled.

You obeyed, as always, crossing the room with the practiced elegance of someone accustomed to being watched. The second you were close enough, Nathan grabbed your hand and pulled you onto his lap, his grip firm but careless, like you were just another one of his possessions.

The room felt heavy, the air thick with a mixture of cologne, champagne, and indulgence. You stayed perched on Nathan’s lap, trying to ignore the way his hand wandered absently over your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles that were more for show than affection. His laugh echoed through the lounge, loud and exaggerated as he took another sip of his drink.

“You’re being awfully quiet, babe,” Nathan said, his voice laced with feigned concern. His hand slid lower, fingers brushing the curve of your ass. You tensed, shooting him a sharp look, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I’m fine.” you said curtly, reaching for the champagne flute on the table in front of you as you lied again. The two meaningless words already automatic.

“Fine isn’t good enough.” Nathan said, his grin widening. He leaned over, plucking the champagne from your hand and setting it aside. “Come on, loosen up a little.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him reaching for the tray again, his movements fluid despite the alcohol coursing through his veins. He picked up the credit card, carving out another line of coke with the ease of a man who’d done it far too many times.

“Here,” Nathan said, his voice taking on a coaxing tone as he dipped his head closer to yours. “Have some fun with me.”

You pulled back slightly, shaking your head. “I told you before, Nathan. I don’t want to.”

His grin faltered, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

“I said no.” you repeated firmly, crossing your arms. You’ve had enough of snorting lines because he had put you under pressure, to feel like you belonged in this crowd.

Nathan let out an exaggerated groan, tossing the card onto the table. “Fine. Be boring, then.”

He leaned back, his hand slipping further down, squeezing your ass with a possessiveness that made you grit your teeth. “Rafe!” Nathan called suddenly, his tone shifting from irritation to mock camaraderie.

Rafe, who had been standing near the bar, raised a brow in silent acknowledgment.

“Don’t just stand there looking pretty.” Nathan said, smirking as he gestured to the tray. “You want in on this? It’s the best shit I’ve had in months.”

Rafe’s expression didn’t change, though something flickered in his eyes — something cold and distant. He shook his head, his voice steady as he replied, “I’m good. Been away from that for a while now.”

You couldn’t help the frown in your brows as you looked at him. You couldn’t even count in both hands how many times you had seen Nathan, Rafe and Topper sneaking away to do that shit. That was… new.

Nathan chuckled, leaning his head back against the couch. “Oh, right. Mr. Reformed. Forgot about that.” He waved him off with a dismissive laugh. “Whatever. But do me a favor, would you?”

Rafe tilted his head, waiting.

Nathan’s hand slipped from your waist, gesturing lazily toward you. “Go dance with her or something. She’ll just sit here whining if I don’t entertain her, and honestly…” He turned to you with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re killing my vibe, babe.”

Your stomach churned, humiliation bubbling beneath the surface, but before you could respond, Nathan gave you a light slap on the ass, his grin widening.

“Go shake that body for me, baby.” he said, his tone dripping with mock affection.

Rafe’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening as they flicked between you and Nathan.

You stood quickly, needing to escape the suffocating weight of Nathan’s presence, your cheeks burning as you avoided meeting anyone’s gaze.

Rafe stepped forward, offering his hand with a calm ease that belied the tension crackling in the air. “Come on” he said, his voice low but firm. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated for only a moment before taking his hand – but the decision wasn’t a hard one: dealing with a bunch of coke heads ogling Nathan or ignore your body thrumming got Rafe while being close to him – allowing him to lead you toward the makeshift dance floor where a crowd of people swayed and writhed to the heavy pulse of electronic music.

The bass reverberated through your chest as Rafe pulled you into the center of the chaos. His hands found your waist, his touch firm but not overbearing, guiding you into the rhythm of the music. The others around you moved with reckless abandon, their bodies lost in the beat, but all you could focus on was Rafe.

His eyes locked onto yours, intense and unreadable, as the two of you fell into sync. The proximity was intoxicating, his body brushing against yours with every beat of the music.

You swayed against him, your movements fluid and confident, the tension from before melting into something more carefree, something electric. Rafe’s grip on your waist tightened as you arched into him, the thin barrier of fabric between your bodies doing nothing to dull the heat.

The crowd pressed in around you, the energy of the room frenzied, but it only heightened the intimacy of the moment. Rafe’s hands slid lower, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips, his touch deliberate and tantalizing.

Your breathing quickened as he leaned down, his lips grazing your ear. “You’re full of surprises, princess” he murmured, his voice thick with something that made your knees weak – he was sure you would pull away as soon as his hands touched you but he was so glad you didn’t

The world around you blurred, the pounding music and flashing lights fading into the background. All that mattered was the way his body moved against yours, the way his hands gripped you like he couldn’t bear to let go. How someone was finally giving you some real attention.

You tilted your head back, your gaze meeting his, and in that moment, the unspoken desire between you was undeniable.

It was reckless. It was dangerous.

And it was exactly what you wanted. What you needed.

His grip tightened slightly, pulling you closer until there wasn’t even an inch between your bodies. His breath ghosted over your ear, and the heat of it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You deserve better than him, you know” Rafe murmured in your ear, his voice barely audible over the music.

You froze for a second, your body stilling against his. “What?”

You weren’t sure if you had heard him right or your mind was projecting the worlds you so desperately wanted to hear. Nathan had provided you everything money could buy and you didn’t want to be ungrateful – the relationship was nice in the beginning. He used to give you attention, spoil you rotten until he didn’t. You’d spend hours alone at home, only seeing him at night and then be neglected in bed. Everything became about him. Your clothes, your companies, trips and parties, even the sex.

Rafe leaned down further, his lips so close to your ear that his words felt like a caress. “Nathan. The way he treats you — like you’re some kind of trophy instead of a real woman.”

You pulled back slightly, turning your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were piercing, filled with something dark and insistent.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” you said, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you. The last thing you wanted was to have people gossiping about it and you weren’t so certain if Rafe wasn’t going to ditch you to Nathan, saying his so perfect wife was going behind his back to complain about him to his so called friends.

Rafe’s smirk was faint, tinged with something sharper. “Don’t I? I’ve watched him, princess. The way he ignores you, shows you off like you’re a prize he won at a carnival. The way he treats you like arm candy instead of a woman.” He paused, his gaze flickering down to your lips before returning to your eyes. “And don’t even get me started on what I heard last night.”

Your stomach dropped, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over you. “What are you talking about?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

Rafe’s smirk widened, but there was no humor in it. “The way you faked it, moaning his name like it meant something. You’re a good actress, I’ll give you that. But you can’t fool me.”

Your cheeks burned with equal parts shame and anger. “You don’t know anything about me, about us.” you snapped, your voice shaking slightly as you could feel the tears prickling in your eyes. Couldn’t you have a single moment of peace?

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. Instead, he moved even closer, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, holding you firmly against him before you had the chance to walk away.

“I know enough.” Rafe said, his voice low and laced with conviction. “I know you haven’t felt wanted in a long time. Haven’t felt seen in a long time. It’s written all over your face, doll.” His fingers trailed up your spine, the touch sending a jolt through your body. “And I know I could change that.”

Your breath hitched, your mind screaming at you to push him away, but your body refused to obey. You were so fucking touch starved that it was infuriating to yourself.

“Rafe…” You tried to warn him, but your voice came out weak, shaky. Pleading for him to be the one to walk away, to respect you and his best friend.

His lips brushed against your ear again, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “I’d make you scream my name all night, princess. You wouldn’t have to fake a damn thing.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as his words sank in, their meaning hitting you with the force of a tidal wave.

“I’d show you what it’s like to be with a real man.” Rafe continued, his hand drifting to your waist again, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. “Someone who doesn’t just want to show you off, but actually wants you. All of you.”

The heat between you was unbearable, the air thick with unspoken tension. Your heart raced as you searched his eyes, desperate for something to anchor yourself, but all you found was his unwavering intensity.

“This is wrong.” you whispered more to yourself, though the words felt hollow.

Rafe’s smirk twisted into something darker, more intimate. “What’s wrong is the way he treats you like you don’t matter.” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the corner of your jaw. “Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like. Let me show you what you deserve.”

You closed your eyes, torn between the voice in your head screaming at you to stop and the magnetic pull of the man in front of you.

Many things were already wrong in your relationship, right? Adding something else wouldn’t be the end of the world, would it?

“I could ruin you, princess,” Rafe murmured, his lips grazing the skin of your ear. “But I promise you’d love every second of it.”

The world around you faded away, the pounding music and flashing lights melting into the background. All that mattered was the way Rafe’s hands gripped you, the way his voice wrapped around you like a siren’s call.

Your chest tightened, the air between you crackling with tension. “Shouldn’t you be with Nathan?” you asked, deflecting. Your heart beating so fast that you were sure everyone around you could hear it. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

Rafe shrugged, his smirk deepening. “Nathan’s busy impressing people who don’t matter. You, on the other hand…” He let the words hang, his gaze dipping briefly to the curve of your throat before meeting your eyes again. “Plus he did told me to keep his girl entertained, didn’t he?”

“I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing.” you said, though the words felt hollow, as if you were trying to convince yourself.

Rafe chuckled, the sound rich and infuriating. “It’s not a game, princess. Not with you.”

You turned away, needing space, needing air. But when you felt his hand on your wrist, gentle but firm, your pulse skipped.

“Come with me.” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing.

You frowned, trying to pull free, but his grip held steady. “Rafe—”

“Relax.” he interrupted, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “Just for a drink. Somewhere quieter.”

Your eyes searched his, looking a trap. But there was something disarming about the way he looked at you, something that made your resistance falter.

“One drink.” you said, more to yourself than to him.

His smirk returned, satisfied but not smug. “That’s all I need.”

The suite Rafe was staying was nothing short of extravagant, a private sanctuary draped in rich leather and polished wood. The lights were dim, the air perfumed with the faint scent of his cologne. It was intimate, almost too intimate, but you forced yourself to keep your guard up.

He poured you a drink from the sleek bar in the corner, handing it to you before settling into one of the armchairs. Nathan made sure to stock everything with top shelf drinks.

“See? No tricks” he said, spreading his arms as if to prove his innocence.

You leaned against the edge of the bar, the cool glass of your drink pressing against your palm. “You could’ve just left me alone, you know.”

Rafe chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Could’ve” he agreed. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with everything unsaid. You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the liquor grounding you, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the heat coiling in your stomach under his gaze.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Rafe’s smile softened, but his eyes remained sharp, piercing. “I think you’re not nearly as happy as you pretend to be.”

Your fingers tightened around the glass, his words striking a nerve. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“C’mon. I’ve known you for years now, doll.” he said, setting his glass down and standing. The way he moved towards you was unhurried, predatory. “I know the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying to stay in control to don’t scream at him in front of everybody.” He stopped just in front of you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I know you felt something earlier. Something you haven’t felt in a long time.”

Your breath hitched as his hand came up, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your arm.

“Stop” you said, though it sounded too weak to be a command.

His hand lingered, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on your skin. “Do you really want me to?”

The weight of his presence was suffocating, intoxicating. The logical part of you screamed to leave, to push him away, but the rest of you… the rest of you burned.

And then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was a tidal wave, sweeping you under and leaving you breathless. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved against yours with a hunger that left no room for doubt.

You didn’t resist. You couldn’t.

As your glass slipped from your fingers, shattering unnoticed on the floor, you surrendered to the pull of him, to the heat and chaos and everything he made you feel. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

For once, you didn’t care about the consequences.

His voice dipped into a gravelly whisper, thick with want, against your lips. “That tiny pink bikini is struggling to do its job, sweetheart,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the waistband with agonizing slowness.

The heat of his gaze lingered on every curve, his touch teetering on the edge of possession. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” His thumb slipped lower, a deliberate tease that made your pulse thunder in your ears.

With each second that ticked by, the pressure between your thighs grew more insistent, your body responding to his words, his touch, his very presence as you couldn’t help but ground against his as his tongue explored your mouth.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Rafe growled, his breath a searing rush against the shell of your ear. His voice was rough, like a match striking, igniting a fire deep in your chest. “Dressed up all pretty for him, and he doesn’t even care to look.” His hands gripped your waist tighter, his fingers pressing into your skin like a silent claim – just shy of leaving bruises. “But I see you,” he rasped, his lips brushing your jaw. “Every inch of you is mine to see, mine to touch now. Isn’t it?”

He stepped back, his eyes raking over your body in a way that made you feel both exposed and desired. "Take it off.” he demanded, his voice a low growl. "Let me see what's mine."

The music from the party was a distant murmur, a muffled backdrop to the drumming of your racing heart and his harsh breaths. You took a deep breath, the boldness coursing through your veins like a drug, and slowly, deliberately, you untied the strings of your bikini top.

Your eyes never left Rafe’s as you let it fall to the floor, revealing your full breasts to his ravenous gaze. His pupils dilated, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight of you – his eyes tracing every curve, every inch of your exposed skin in a way that awakened goosebumps all over your body.

You stepped closer, the music a muffled heartbeat echoing through the cabin. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t miss a single detail as you slid your thumbs into the waistband of your bikini bottoms, hooking the material and sliding it down your legs with a seductive grace that seemed to defy the tremble in your knees.

You’ve been feeding on crumbles of attention for the last year and now that you have a decent portion, you’d make sure to enjoy every second of it.

The fabric whispered against your skin as it fell away, pooling at your feet, leaving you completely bare before him. You felt his eyes devour you, feasting on the sight of your nakedness like a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

With a smirk that was all challenge and no apology, you bent over, giving him an eyeful of your ass, and scooped up the bikini bottoms. You threw them at him, watching as they slapped against his chest and fell to his lap.

If that wasn’t basically the only thing you had to wear, Rafe’d have stuffed it in his pocket to never retrieve to you.

Rafe’s eyes followed the path of the fabric before snapping back to yours, his gaze burning with a fierce desire that made your stomach flip. "Look at you…” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

"So fucking perfect." His eyes dropped to your center, where your folds glistened with your arousal already. "And that tight, wet little cunt of yours... it's begging for me."

You felt your face flush at his words, but instead of shrinking away, you found yourself pushing back against his hand right below the curve of your breast, craving more. "Prove it," you challenged, your voice a sultry whisper.

Rafe's smirk grew into a full-blown grin, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Oh, I will, baby. You have no idea."

He stepped back, unbuckling his pants with swift, sure movements. The sound of his zipper echoed through the cabin, a seductive promise of what was to come. His hands slid into his briefs, gripping his hard cock, and you watched with rapt attention as he pulled it out – long, thick, and heavy with desire.

"Now, doll." Rafe said, his voice a gravelly command that made your knees wobble. "Get down there and show me what that pretty little mouth can do and if you’re a good girl, we can talk about a reward, huh.”

You dropped to your knees before him, his cock standing tall and proud, demanding your attention. He stroked it slowly, watching you with hooded eyes as you leaned in, your breath hot against the velvety skin. Your mouth watering at the sight.

He watches you, eyes blazing with lust, as you tease the tip with your tongue, right before taking him fully into your warm mouth.

"Shit. That's it.” Rafe groaned, his voice a low, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through the very air of the room. "Suck it like you mean it. You know you want it. You know you've been craving a real cock.”

His words were like a spell, compelling you to obey as you took more of him into your mouth, your tongue swirling and teasing the head of his cock, feeling it pulse and throb against your tongue.

"So eager.” Rafe murmured, his hand threading through your hair, guiding you to take him deeper. "Such a good little slut for me. You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" His voice was a purr, stroking your ego while simultaneously reducing you to the most basic of urges – his to claim, his to use.

He palms the back of your head, guiding you in a rhythm that matches his thrusts, your cheeks hollowing as you eagerly sucks him like he's the only man who's ever mattered.

Rafe’s grip on your hair tightens, his hips flexing as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest. You moan around his cock, the vibration sending shockwaves through his shaft, making him groan with pleasure. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a mask of pure ecstasy as you devour him, eager to taste his desire.

But he’s not content with just that. He’s not a man who does anything halfway. He pulls back, leaving you gasping for air, your mouth slick with saliva and want. "On the bed.” he orders, his voice thick with need.

As much was he wanted to keep watching you as you greedily took his cock, he wanted even more to taste your sweet cunt, to feel how you wrapped around his cock – he could still remember how Nathan often bragged about you around the boys. The best pussy he ever had. Worth every penny of the money he spent on you.

You scurry to the plush king-sized bed, the silky sheets cool against your overheated skin. He follows you, his eyes never leaving your body. You lie down, your legs spreading for him without a second thought.

Rafe climbs onto the bed, his weight shifting the mattress beneath you. He settles between your legs, his gaze locked on your slick entrance. "You're so wet for me.” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Has he ever made you this wet?"

You shake your head. "Never." The admission felt like a secret whispered in the dark, and the truth of it hangs heavy in the air.

Rafe’s smirk turns into a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Maybe I should invite him to see how a real man fucks." He leans down, his mouth hovering over your sex, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "What do you think, baby? Would you like an audience?"

The thought of your husband watching sends a thrill through you, a delicious mix of fear and excitement. "Rafe, no.” you breathe, though your hips arch upwards, silently begging for his touch.

He chuckles darkly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Oh, you'd love it, huh?" he says, his voice dripping with confidence. "You'd love watching him realize what he's been missing all this time. Watching him see how much better I make you feel."

You bite your lip, the thought of it making your stomach flip. But before you can respond, Rafe's mouth is on you – his tongue sliding through your folds with a hunger that steals your breath away. He tastes you, devouring you like a starving man, and you can't help but moan his name, your body responding to his touch.

As his tongue flicks against your clit, Rafe feels the vibration of his phone in his pocket, and suddenly, his eyes are on yours, a glint of mischief shining through the desire. Without a word, he pulls out the device and presses record, the screen capturing the blissful expression on your face, the way your body arches towards him, begging for more. You're too lost in the sensation to even notice – his touch so masterful, so intoxicating, that everything else fades away.

You couldn’t help the way your hips lifted from the bed, grinding against his face as if it was the first time you had been eaten. Your skin was on fire, your veins charged with electricity.

Rafe groaned dirty secrets on your ear about how he'll make you scream his name louder than any man has ever made you, while his hips piston into you with an intensity that leaves you trembling and oblivious to the video evidence he's meticulously capturing of their illicit encounter – his phone discreetly positioned against a jar of flowers on the bedside table.

Your eyes roll back as he hits that sweet spot, his cock swelling with each punishing thrust. The sound of your moans fill the cabin, growing louder with every passing second. He's so rough, so primal, so everything you didn’t know you needed until this very moment.

“Fuck, Rafe, yes, yes, yes!” you scream, your voice hoarse from the endless moaning. The bed creaks beneath you, his hands like vice on your waist, keeping you in place to take each powerful drive into your wet, welcoming heat.

Rafe’s eyes glint with triumph as he watches you come apart, his cock relentlessly claiming what he’s decided is rightfully his. He pulls back, his dampened chest rising and falling rapidly, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with every movement.

He whispers into her ear. "You love that I'm fucking you better than he ever could.”

Your nails dig into his back as he whispers those wicked words, a confession that resonates deep within your soul. You love the way he makes you feel, the way he touches you, the way he fills you up so completely that you forget everything else. You can't help but nod, your body trembling as his cock hits that perfect spot again and again.

"That's it.” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress that sends shivers down your spine. "Admit it, baby. You've never felt like this before. You've never come this hard for him." His strokes grow stronger, more demanding, and you know he's right. You've never been taken like this, never been owned like this.

With a final, powerful thrust, Rafe brings you to the edge of oblivion. Your eyes fly open, locking with his, and you see the triumph in their depths – the knowledge that he’s the one giving you what you crave. "Cum for me, doll.” he growls, his voice a command that you obey without thought. "Cum all over my cock, baby. Show me how much you love it."

Shit, you were sure that if the music wasn’t blasting on the deck, Nathan’d have thrown both of you in the ocean.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath, making your body bow off the bed. You scream his name, the sound echoing through the cabin, as your pussy clamps down on his cock, pulsing and tightening around him. Rafe’s own release is swift, his hips jerking as he buries himself deep inside you, filling you with his hot, thick cum.

As your climax subsides, his strokes slow, his cock still lodged deep within you – as if he didn’t want to leave the new discovered paradise of your walls. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear, his voice a mix of satisfaction and a hint of something that makes your pulse quicken. "You're mine now.” he says, his voice a gentle rumble.

Panic sets in as reality crashes over you like a cold shower. Feeling some of his release dripping down you. The thought sends a jolt through your body, making you tense around him. Your eyes fly open, meeting his, which are still so dark that you can barely see the blue in them. "Oh my god, Rafe!” you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. "What the fuck?"

Rafe's grin turns wolfish, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. "Relax, doll." he murmurs, planting a gentle kiss on your neck. "It's just a little fun." But his words do nothing to soothe the anxiety coiling in your stomach.

You push him away, the stickiness between your legs making you feel both wanton and cheap. "This isn't fun, Rafe" you say, your voice trembling. "What if I…?"

Rafe's smirk fades, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks down at you. "You're on the pill, aren't you?" he asks, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.

You nod, feeling your heart rate slow slightly. "But...what if..."

Rafe cuts off your protests with a shake of his head, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away one of the tears – the result of how good he had taken you. "Shh, baby," he says, his voice soothing, his gaze intense. "Don't worry. Nothing’s gonna happen, alright?”

The dim light in Rafe’s suite flickered softly, casting a golden glow over the disheveled scene. You ran trembling fingers through your hair, still catching your breath as you steadied yourself against the edge of the bar. The aftermath of what had just happened swirled between you like a charged storm cloud, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Rafe stood by the door, his shirt untucked and his expression maddeningly calm. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with deliberate care, a smug satisfaction written all over his face. His eyes flicked to you as you straightened your bikini top, trying to fix the evidence of his hands, his lips, his teeth, before you both returned to the upper level.

“You good, princess?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You shot him a sharp look, ignoring the heat still simmering beneath your skin. “If you say a single word to Nathan…”

His smirk widened, his gaze drifting unapologetically down your body. “Then I’d have to kill him.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned toward the small mirror on the wall, smoothing your hair and adjusting the sheer cover-up that now felt even more like a useless attempt at modesty. “We shouldn’t have done this.” you muttered, though your voice lacked conviction.

Rafe stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he loomed behind you. His reflection in the mirror met yours, his lips curling into a smile that was equal parts wicked and triumphant. “No, we shouldn’t.” he admitted, his hands fixing the back of your bikini bottom before gave your ass a sharp slap. “But you’ll think about it every time he touches you.”

Your stomach twisted, shame and desire warring within you as Rafe moved to the door, holding it open for you. “Come on” he said, his tone light but commanding. “Wouldn’t want Nathan getting suspicious, would we?”

You didn’t reply, brushing past him and walking down the hall toward the stairs. Your pulse still thundered in your ears as you ascended to the upper deck, the sound of music and laughter growing louder with each step.

The Elysium’s upper deck was a blur of neon lights and pulsating music, the crowd of partygoers moving in sync with the heavy bassline. But none of it registered as you stepped back into the chaos. The charged intimacy of Rafe’s cabin still clung to your skin, a tangible reminder of how far you’d fallen – and how little you cared in the moment. The only thing worrying your mind was the thought of being caught.

Nathan’s voice rang out above the noise, slurred and commanding as he spotted you. “There you are!” he called, his grin widening as he sprawled further back on the oversized couch.

Your stomach churned as he motioned for you to come over, his glassy eyes flicking between you and his drink. You hesitated, your legs rooted to the spot, but Rafe’s presence at your back – o steady, so unapologetic – propelled you forward, his hand slightly pushing your lower back.

Nathan barely waited for you to reach him before grabbing your wrist and yanking you onto his lap. His grip was firm, his fingers digging into your hip possessively as he shifted you into place, his cologne mingling with the acrid scent of alcohol and sweat.

Rafe’s jaw tightened as he watched the scene unfold, his smirk fading into a thin line. His hand flexed around the drink he held, recently taken from one of the trays the waiter kept serving around, the glass thick enough to resist it.

“Come here, baby” Nathan slurred, leaning back with a lazy grin. His other hand, still clutching a drink, gestured vaguely at the tray of cocaine on the table beside him. “You’ve been hiding, huh? Thought you’d run off and left me to deal with all of this on my own.”

“I was just getting some air.” you said, keeping your tone even as you tried to slip off his lap.

But Nathan didn’t let you. Instead, his hand slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you back against him. The pink bikini he’d chosen for you —more string than fabric – offered little protection from the heat of his palm, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep your reaction at bay.

Rafe’s eyes darkened, his shoulders stiffening as Nathan’s hand wandered. A faint muscle ticked in his jaw as he forced himself to stay still, though every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to yank you away from Nathan’s careless grip.

Nathan chuckled, his head dipping to the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin. “Nah, stay right here” he murmured, his voice muffled. His hand squeezed your thigh, the motion casual but claiming.

Then, to your mortification, his head tilted, and his teeth scraped against the curve of your breast where the bikini barely covered you – not giving a shit to the eyes and phones around you.

“Shit.” Nathan muttered, his voice slurring as he bit down lightly on the soft flesh. “Can’t help it, man. I love these boobs.”

Rafe’s grip on the drink tightened, the liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass as his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched as he watched Nathan humiliate you, turning you into a spectacle, a prop in his drunken display of ownership. The sight made something burn hot and sharp in his chest – a jealousy so visceral it almost startled him.

Heat burned across your face, and you tensed, trying to shift away, but Nathan tightened his grip with a laugh that echoed around the room.

“Look at this!” he said, addressing Rafe with a drunken smirk. “See these? Best goddamn thing I ever bought. Look at this tiny thing she’s wearing. Picked it out myself.” He ran a clumsy hand along the edge of the bikini top, as if to display his prize. “Ain’t she perfect?”

Rafe’s lips pressed into a tight line, his smirk long gone. His fingers twitched around his drink, and he forced himself to take a slow breath, his eyes flicking to you. You looked mortified, your gaze fixed on the floor, your cheeks flushed with humiliation.

Nathan, oblivious, barked out a laugh and gestured to Rafe again. “Where the hell were you, huh? You having fun, or what?”

Rafe didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smirk — a deliberate act to mask the anger simmering beneath the surface.

“You’ve no idea.” he replied finally, his voice smooth but edged with something darker.

Nathan laughed again, slapping your thigh as if Rafe’s response was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s what I like to hear! Good vibes, huh? That’s what it’s all about.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to relax, taking a measured sip of his drink. His eyes remained on you, his gaze dragging down the length of your body with an unhurried, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

Nathan, too far gone in his high to notice the undercurrent between you and Rafe, leaned back with a glassy-eyed grin. The man smirked as he saw the red, fresh marks on Rafe’s shoulder. “Damn straight. Lucky bastard, huh?”

Rafe’s smirk remained in place, but his mind was a storm of conflict. He forced himself to take a sip of his drink, the burn of the liquor grounding him, even as Nathan’s words grated on his nerves. Pathetic. That’s what Nathan was sometimes — a pathetic, arrogant fool who didn’t realize the treasure he had sitting right in his lap. The way he paraded you around like an accessory, like you were nothing more than an extension of his ego, made Rafe’s jaw clench.

He wasn’t blind to his own faults — arrogance, selfishness, an insatiable need to take whatever he wanted, even if it was you — but Nathan’s careless display disgusted him.

And now, Rafe wanted you.

It wasn’t just the way you looked in that tiny bikini, though that certainly didn’t hurt. It was the way you’d responded to him, the fire in your eyes when you challenged him, the way your body had melted into his back in that cabin. He’d had a taste, and now it was like blood in the water. If there was one thing Rafe Cameron didn’t do, it was deny himself something he wanted.

And he wanted you.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it” Rafe said finally, his voice low and deliberate, his smirk curling into something darker, meant only for you.

Your eyes darted to his, widening slightly as his words sank in. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink, even as Nathan threw his head back with another laugh, too high and oblivious to catch the undercurrent in the room.

Rafe could feel his pulse hammering in his veins as his gaze lingered on you, heat pooling in his chest. You were his best friend’s wife, a line he knew he shouldn’t cross — but lines had never meant much to Rafe. And now, with the memory of your taste still fresh on his lips, the idea of letting you go felt impossible.

One way or another, he’d have you. Nathan was too blind to see it, too lost in his own indulgences to notice the storm brewing right in front of him.

The room felt suffocating, the heat of Nathan’s body beneath you and Rafe’s eyes burning into you from across the space. And as Rafe raised his glass in a mock toast, his smirk never faltering, you knew this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

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arixella · 5 months ago

Text

Relief in the Aftermath

╰┈➤ pairing: Zoro x reader

a/n: none

summary: After a brutal battle, Zoro, deeply worried about your safety, is relieved to find you unharmed, and the two share a quiet moment of unspoken understanding and care.

wc: 750

contains: fluff, angst if you squint

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the aftermath of the battle. The once-thriving town now lay in ruins, the air still thick with the scent of smoke and the echoes of clashing steel. The Straw Hat Pirates had emerged victorious, but the cost had been high. Though they had defeated their enemies, the scars of the fight remained—both on the land and on the hearts of those who had fought.

Zoro, ever the stoic swordsman, stood near the wreckage of a building, wiping the blood from his blades with an almost mechanical precision. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set in a firm line. The exhaustion from the battle was there, but it was not what weighed heavily on him. It was the knot in his stomach, the gnawing worry that refused to leave.

He had seen you fight with every ounce of your strength, charging headfirst into the chaos alongside him and the others. You had always been strong, capable, and fearless. But the battle had been brutal, and he couldn’t shake the image of you being struck down, falling into the dust. He had never told you, but he always worried about you in the heat of battle, even if he hid it behind his gruff exterior.

Now, with the dust beginning to settle, Zoro’s gaze kept darting to the group of Straw Hats, looking for you. His heart rate picked up, and the anxiety he’d been holding onto all day slowly gnawed at him.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” Zoro muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. He could feel the tension building in his chest, and it only grew stronger when he saw Luffy and Nami talking to each other, but there was no sign of you.

Finally, as if answering his silent plea, you appeared from around a corner, your figure walking slowly but steadily. Your clothes were torn, your face was bruised, and your body was covered in cuts, but to Zoro’s relief, you were standing. You were alive.

For a moment, you locked eyes with him from across the battlefield, and everything else seemed to blur away. The relief that washed over him was so overwhelming that his breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure why it hit him so hard, but all the fear that had been clenching his chest since the moment you’d disappeared from his line of sight during the fight was suddenly gone.

You gave him a small, exhausted smile. “Hey,” you greeted, your voice hoarse but still warm. “You’re looking as miserable as always.”

Zoro’s lips twitched in the slightest hint of a smirk. He tried to play it cool, but his tone was softer than usual, more urgent. “What the hell took you so long?”

You raised an eyebrow, confused. “What are you talking about? I was just helping the others.”

“I was looking for you,” Zoro admitted, his voice gruff. “You disappeared in the middle of the fight. I thought—” He cut himself off, realizing how vulnerable that sounded.

You blinked, eyes softening as you took in his uncharacteristic tone. “You were worried about me?” you asked, your voice teasing but with an undertone of something more.

Zoro let out a huff of frustration, not knowing how to respond to that without sounding even more like a fool. “Shut up, I wasn’t worried,” he grumbled, turning his gaze away from you. His hand tightened around the hilts of his swords, his usual defense mechanism.

You took a step closer to him, ignoring the dull ache in your body as you moved. Despite the bruises and cuts, there was something warm in the way you looked at him—something that told Zoro, without words, that you’d felt the same fear. You had fought for him, just as he had fought for you.

Reaching out, you placed a hand gently on his arm. His body went rigid under your touch, and for a moment, you both stood there in a kind of quiet understanding.

“I’m fine, Zoro,” you said softly. “See? I’m right here. Nothing happened to me.”

Zoro swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He finally met your eyes again, and this time, the roughness in his gaze softened just enough to show the depth of his relief.

“I’m glad…” His voice was low, barely audible. “Don’t do that again.”

You smiled, the kind of smile that reached your eyes, and his heart fluttered in a way he hated to admit. “I’ll try not to. But you know me… I don’t like staying out of the action.”

“Don’t care,” Zoro muttered, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in it. He let out a quiet sigh, his usual sharp demeanor cracking just enough for you to see the truth behind his words. “I’d rather have you safe.”

You felt the warmth in his words seep through you, and despite the exhaustion of the battle, you felt your heart skip a beat. This was Zoro, the one who would protect his crew with his life. And maybe, just maybe, he cared for you in a way he didn’t show to anyone else.

“I’ll make sure to stay safe,” you replied, your voice soft but filled with sincerity. “But only if you promise to stop being such a dumbass and take care of yourself, too.”

Zoro grunted, but this time there was no edge to it. “Tch, fine. But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

You laughed softly, the sound like music to his ears. Despite the chaos of the day, the two of you stood there, in the middle of the ruined town, finding a moment of peace in each other’s presence. And for once, Zoro allowed himself to truly breathe, knowing that, at least for now, you were okay.

The weight on his shoulders didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

♡♡♡

#anime #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro x y/n #zoro fluff #zoro angst

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goldfades · 3 months ago

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More controversially young girlfriend x sidney please I beg 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 my fave thing on tumblr rn

Sidney was a lot of things.

Disciplined. Respected. A goddamn adult man with a fully formed brain and a career built on structure.

And yet.

Yet, when it came to you?

He had nothing. No defenses, no strategy, no self-preservation instincts. Nothing except the overwhelming, all-consuming, slightly humiliating urge to make you happy.

And it wasn’t just that you were gorgeous—though, obviously, that was a problem in itself. You had this effortless, natural beauty that made his head spin, sure. But it went so much deeper than that.

It was the way you looked at him. With amusement, with curiosity, with something warm and open and unfiltered. Like he was just Sid—not Sidney Crosby, not the face of a franchise, not a legacy—just your Sid.

It was the way you laughed—loud, unrestrained, with your whole damn body. You were playful, always ready with a joke, always willing to poke at him, never afraid to give him shit when he needed it.

And it was the way you felt beside him, your energy all light and easy, like you could take anything serious and make it a little less heavy.

You made him feel young in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with age.

Not young in the reckless, careless way of twenty-something athletes who had too much money and not enough foresight. No, you made him feel young in a way that was alive. In a way that reminded him that life wasn’t just training schedules and game film and calculated, responsible decisions.

And that was the real reason he couldn’t say no to you.

Because the world saw you as his young, spoiled girlfriend, the girl with the wide eyes and the expensive bags, the one they thought had him wrapped around her finger with a pretty pout and a bat of her lashes.

And, okay—fine. You did have him wrapped around your finger.

But not just because you were pretty.

Because you made him happy.

And Sidney, for all his discipline, for all his control—Sidney liked being happy.

Which was why, despite knowing better, despite all logic and self-restraint, he found himself in the same situation over and over again.

Like right now.

"You are not pouting at me right now," he said, watching you with a raised brow.

You blinked up at him, so falsely innocent it was insulting. "Pouting?" you echoed. "Me?"

Sid gave you a look. "Yes. You. The pout. The eyes. The whole act you’re putting on."

You gasped dramatically. "Are you saying my feelings aren’t genuine?"

"I’m saying," he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "that we both know exactly how this ends, and you are still going through the motions like I have even a fraction of a spine when it comes to you."

Your lips twitched, and he knew—knew—you were thriving off this.

"So," you said sweetly, stepping closer, tilting your head up at him, "*what I’m hearing is… you’re gonna get me the bag?"

Sid sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "God, I’m a fool."

"You’re a very generous fool," you corrected, standing on your toes to press a quick, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My favorite kind."

Sid muttered something about being so whipped it was embarrassing as he pulled out his phone, already texting his assistant to make the purchase happen.

And then, before he even hit send—

"Wait!" you gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Oh my God!"

He stilled, immediately on alert, brow furrowing. "What? What happened?"

You placed a hand over your chest, eyes wide and serious. "I think I just realized—"

Sid’s heart actually skipped a beat. "What? What is it?"

You squeezed his wrist. "I might need the matching wallet, too."

Sid groaned, head tilting back as you cackled. "I hate you."

"Liar," you grinned, nuzzling into his chest. "You love me."

And—yeah. Yeah, he did. Like a damn fool.

And Sidney wasn’t proud of how easily he folded for you. But in his defense, you made it really, really hard to say no.

So, of course, despite all his grumbling, despite rolling his eyes and pretending to put up a fight, the second you started up with that sweet, pleading voice and those ridiculously big, unfairly pretty eyes—he caved. Like he always did.

Which was why, less than a day after your little performance, a sleek black shopping bag from Chanel was sitting on the kitchen counter, filled with the bag you wanted (and the matching wallet, because he was so far gone it was pathetic).

And the second you saw it?

"Oh my God," you gasped, dropping your phone onto the couch as you all but floated toward the counter, eyes shining like you just saw heaven itself. "Baby, no way—"

Sidney, already leaning against the counter with a lazy smirk, shrugged. "You really didn’t think I was gonna get it?"

You turned to him, clutching the bag to your chest dramatically. "I hoped," you sighed, "I dreamed—"

Sid chuckled, shaking his head. "Unreal."

But before he could get another word in, you were launching yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, peppering his face with quick, giddy kisses.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," you murmured between kisses, your happiness so damn pure that Sidney actually felt something in his chest clench.

This was the part he could never prepare for.

Yeah, he liked spoiling you. Liked making you happy. But the way you reacted? The way you never took it for granted, the way you always lit up, always made it feel like the best thing in the world? That was what got him.

You pulled back slightly, your nose brushing his, voice softer now. "I love you."

And just like that, he knew.

Knew he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But, of course, he couldn’t let you off that easy.

"Wow," he hummed, lips twitching. "Now you love me?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut up."

Sid laughed, his grip tightening around your waist. "You weren’t saying that when you were trying to manipulate me yesterday—"

"Manipulate?" you repeated, scandalized.

"—with your little pout and those fake sad eyes—"

"FAKE?!"

"—and now that you’ve got your bag, it’s all ‘I love you’—"

"Sidney Crosby, you take that back this instant," you demanded, poking his chest.

"Mmm, I don’t know," he mused, enjoying this way too much now. "Maybe I should return it. Can you even appreciate something if you got it through emotional deception?"

Your jaw dropped.

"You are so dramatic," you muttered, pulling away, clutching your bag tighter like you thought he’d actually take it from you.

Sid grinned, tilting his head. "You gonna pout again?"

You glared. "You are the worst."

"And yet," he smirked, leaning down, voice dropping to a low murmur against your lips, "you love me."

You exhaled sharply, your resolve cracking. "Unfortunately."

Sid chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the couch. "C’mon, princess. Let’s see what other trouble you can get me into."

And just like that, the cycle would start all over again.

#sidney crosby #sidney crosby imagines #sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby imagine #sidney crosby smut #sidney crobsy #sidney crosby fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl #nhl fic #hockey #nhl fanfiction #nhl oneshot #hockey fic

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fear-is-truth · 4 months ago

Text

PLAYER 124 / NAM-GYU as your boyfriend

warnings — kinda toxic. mention of drug use. a/n — who should i write for next…

남규

nam-gyu is the kind of partner who constantly needs to feel in control. he has a fragile ego, so he’d want to prove he’s the one in charge in the relationship, even if it means belittling you in arguments. he’s not the type to openly apologise; instead, he’d try to “make it up” by buying you gifts or doing something overly performative to smooth things over.

wouldn’t outright say “i love you” (saranghae; 사랑해) unless it’s in the middle of an argument or you’re threatening to leave. it wouldn’t be the “romantic” type of “i love you”; it’d be desperate, like, “fine, i love you, okay? is that what you want to hear?” then he’d get mad at himself for even saying it lol.

he’d have a complicated way of showing affection—instead of saying something sweet, he’d tell you, “that hoodie looks ugly as hell, but you somehow make it work.” or, “you’re lucky you’ve got me looking out for you.” it’s almost backhanded, like he’s scared of being too soft.

when it comes to physical touch, he’d only be comfortable initiating it when he’s in control. he’d sling an arm over your shoulder in public to make sure everyone knows you’re his, but in private, he’d sit stiffly until you coaxed him to relax. if you tried to cuddle him or play with his hair, he’d grumble, “stop being clingy,” but wouldn’t pull away—and if you did stop, he’d be like, “what, now you’re ignoring me?”

he’d NEVER let you see him cry. he’d bottle up everything until it spills over in a way that’s either pure rage or self-destructive. but maybe, just maybe, he’d have a mini breakdown and choke out something like, “i’m so fucking tired,” and let you hold him for a minute before he shuts it all down again and pretends it didn’t happen.

his jealousy would be off the charts. if he even suspects someone else is catching your attention, he’d immediately become aggressive and violent toward the perceived “threat.” then he’d accuse you of flirting or not appreciating him enough, even if you’ve done nothing wrong.

he’d have this really toxic habit of trying to “test” your loyalty. like, he’d say something purposely cruel just to see how much you’d put up with, and if you didn’t take the bait, he’d either feel validated or spiral into self-loathing because he’s scared you’ll leave. he’s the kind of guy who pushes people away but gets furious when they actually go.

he’s manipulative and would use your vulnerabilities against you during fights, twisting your words to make himself seem like the victim. he thrives on power dynamics, so if you’re someone with a soft heart, he’d use that to his advantage to get his way. he’s not above emotional blackmail.

obsesses over how others perceive him, so he’d put a lot of energy into making sure you’re impressed by him. even if he’s not doing well, he’d brag about some minor victory just to hear you say you’re proud of him. if you ever criticised him—like genuinely, not jokingly—it’d eat him alive. he’d act like it didn’t bother him, but he’d bring it up days later in a passive-aggressive comment like, “guess i’m just not good enough for you, huh?”

he strikes me as the guy who’d buy you expensive gifts, to prove he’s capable of taking care of you. he’d probably get something super flashy and impractical, and then get annoyed if you fawn over it immediately. “what, you don’t like it? i spent a lot of money on that shit.”

deep down, i feel like he’s terrified of being alone. he doesn’t know how to show it in a healthy way, so it comes out as possessiveness. like, he’d constantly ask where you’re going, who you’re with, and what you’re doing—not because he genuinely doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust himself to be worth staying for. if you ever left him on read, even for a little while, he’d overthink it to the point of spiraling, doing drugs etc.

has zero tolerance when it comes to anyone disrespecting you. if someone said something rude or crossed a line, he wouldn’t hesitate to fight them to defend your honour.

definitely not the type to plan cute dates or do anything traditionally romantic. instead, he’d drag you along to things he already likes—bars, shady clubs—and expect you to have fun. but sometimes, when he’s in a good mood, he might surprise you by doing something actually thoughtful, like showing up at your door with your favourite street snack or insisting on watching a movie he secretly hates just because he knows it makes you happy.

his love language would probably be acts of service, but only in an effed-up way where it feeds his own need for validation. he’d show his love by offering to “solve” your problems, but he’d expect endless praise for it. he’d remind you constantly of how lucky you are to have him.

feels completely out of his depth when you’re sad, but he can’t stand seeing you like that. instead of asking what’s wrong (because vulnerability makes him squirm), he’d focus on practical things. if you haven’t eaten, he’d come back with takeout—probably ordering your favourite without even asking because he’s memorised it by now. he wouldn’t outright express his concern, though. instead, he’d shove the food at you with a gruff, “here. eat this before you waste away or something.”

despite his flaws, when you’re sad or feeling low, there’s a small part of him that genuinely wants to help, even if he doesn’t know how. he’d sit awkwardly next to you, fidgeting with his rings, and mutter, “you’re stronger than this, you know. don’t let whatever’s bothering you win.” …. the closest thing to a pep talk he can manage.

nam-gyu is FAR from an ideal boyfriend—he’s moody, defensive, and often toxic in the way he handles his emotions. his need for control and his inability to communicate openly make him exhausting to deal with at times, especially when his insecurities get the better of him. but underneath all that mess, he knows he’s piece of work, and a part of him feels like you’ll wake up one day and realise you deserve better. this fear makes him hold on too tightly, sometimes suffocatingly so, but it also drives him to try—clumsily, imperfectly, but genuinely for you. he doesn’t know how to love in a healthy way, but he does love, and he loves deeply.

#nam gyu #squid game #nam gyu x reader #squid game season 2 #squid game s2 #player 124 #nam gyu headcanons #nam gyu x you #nam gyu x y/n #squid game x reader

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luvleyshif4 · 6 months ago

Text

PLAYING WITH FIRE

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Being Rafe’s girlfriend wasn’t exactly on your ‘to-do list,’ but when it happened, you didn’t dare to complain. Now, he knows your love language, and he’s using it to drive you crazy in all the right ways.

Warnings: Mild sexual tension (if you could call it that), Readers love language is physical touch, Young adult theme, Peer teasing, Flirting, Kissing. Mention of Sarah and topper being a couple….

Word count: 1.42k words

Authors note: I kinda woke up and thought of how my love language is physical touch and I wanted to make this cute fluff for yall…hope yall like it!!! Lemme know if yall like it pls🥹🥹

Rafe Cameron and y/n were always a part of the same crowd, growing up in Figure Eight’s elite world of yacht parties, bonfires, and high-end privilege. Rafe, with his brash confidence and magnetic charm, had always been on her radar, though more as the guy who thrived on pushing her buttons than anything else. Their banter was infamous within their group, he’d tease, she’d throw sharp comebacks, and their friends would roll their eyes at the obvious tension.

It wasn’t until a party at the club a few weeks ago that things changed. Amid the chaos of drunken laughs and loud music, Rafe kissed her. It wasn’t sweet or hesitant, it was demanding, a declaration more than anything else. It took Y/N by surprise, but it also felt right. From that moment, they were together, though the shift from sparring partners to a couple was still something she was adjusting to. Rafe, on the other hand, seemed to take to the relationship naturally, slipping into the role of boyfriend as if he’d been waiting for it.

Tonight was one of their usual bonfire gatherings with their tight-knit group: Sarah and Topper, Kelce and his girlfriend, and now Rafe and Y/N. The dynamic was comfortable yet charged, especially with Rafe’s knack for teasing her in ways only she would notice. He knew her love language was physical touch, and he wielded that knowledge like a weapon, subtly pushing her limits just to see her reactions.

——

The beach was alive with laughter and the rhythmic crashing of waves, the warm glow of the bonfire casting flickering shadows on the sand. A cooler of drinks sat open— away from the fire, and the scent of roasted marshmallows mingled with the salty sea air. The group had claimed their usual spot near the shore not too close to the water, their blankets spread out in a semicircle around the fire.

Y/N sat in front of Rafe, her back pressed lightly against his chest, her legs tucked comfortably in front of her. His legs framed hers, his body a solid, warm presence behind her. It was a cozy setup, but one that made her hyperaware of him, his closeness, his touch, his breath against her hair.

Everyone was relaxed, chatting and laughing as they passed around snacks. Sarah was curled up in front of Topper, her head resting on his shoulder while he absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair. Kelce was sprawled out on a blanket with his girlfriend, gesturing animatedly as he told some exaggerated story about their last surf session.

Y/N tried to focus on the conversation, but Rafe had other ideas. His hand, resting casually on her hip, flexed slightly, his fingers pressing just enough to make her shift. It wasn’t an obvious move, no one else would notice, but it sent a jolt through her, her pulse quickening.

“You good?” Rafe murmured, his voice low and teasing, just loud enough for her to hear.

She tilted her head slightly, giving him a look over her shoulder. “Perfectly fine.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, the kind that made her stomach flip. “Sure you are,” he muttered, his tone dripping with amusement.

——

Rafe could tell he was driving her crazy, and he loved it.

She was trying so hard to keep her composure, to stay focused on the conversation happening around them, but Rafe knew better. He knew the way her body tensed slightly every time he moved, the way her breath hitched when his fingers brushed against her skin. It was subtle, but to him, it was obvious.

He leaned forward slightly, his chin brushing against her shoulder as he reached for the bag of chips in front of them. His hand grazed hers in the process, and he saw her stiffen just for a moment before relaxing again.

“You want some?” he asked, holding the bag out to her.

She turned her head slightly, giving him a look that was equal parts annoyed and flustered. “No, thanks.”

Rafe smirked, pulling a chip out of the bag and popping it into his mouth. He leaned back again, his arm draping lazily across her waist as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

——

Rafe was impossible.

She could feel his hand on her waist, his fingers brushing against the hem of her tank top in a way that was almost casual but definitely deliberate. It wasn’t fair how effortlessly he got under her skin, how easily he made her hyperaware of every point of contact between them.

“Rafe,” she muttered under her breath, her tone laced with warning.

“Hmm?” His voice was light, innocent, as if he had no idea what he was doing.

She turned her head slightly to glare at him, but the look in his eyes made her pause. He was watching her with a mixture of amusement and something else, something that made her heart race.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

He grinned, leaning in closer so his lips were near her ear. “You love it,” he murmured.

She hated how right he was.

——

The night wore on, the group’s laughter and chatter mingling with the sound of the waves. Y/N had long since given up trying to ignore Rafe’s antics, though she’d never admit how much she enjoyed them. His touches grew bolder as the night went on, a hand on her thigh, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her skin, his lips brushing her temple when he leaned in to whisper something.

It wasn’t just about teasing, though. There was a tenderness to his touches, a quiet reassurance that he was there, that she was his. And despite her initial resistance, Y/N found herself leaning into him more and more as the night went on.

By the time the night sky was even more darker than it previously was, she was fully settled against him, her head resting on his shoulder as his arms wrapped around her waist. The others were still talking, but their voices felt like background noise, the rest of the world fading away as she focused on the steady rhythm of Rafe’s breathing.

“You good?” he asked again, his voice softer this time, as he tilted his head slightly to rest his chin against her temple.

She nodded, her eyes closed as she relaxed against him. “Yeah. I’m good.”

And for once, she wasn’t just saying it. She meant it.

Rafe’s arms remained draped loosely around her waist, his fingers idly tracing patterns against her hip. She couldn't focus on what anyone else was saying. Not when every casual brush of his hand sent little sparks of electricity through her, grounding her in the moment but making her heart race all the same.

She tilted her head slightly to glance up at him. His sharp profile was illuminated by the glow of the fire, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes as he laughed softly at something Kelce said. The sight made her chest tighten in a way she wasn't used to.

Rafe must have felt her gaze, because he looked down, catching her eyes. His smirk softened into something more tender, he gave her a soft smile.

"What?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, but his eyes held something deeper.

"Nothing," she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips.

His brows raised slightly, unconvinced.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

he reached up, his hand brushing against her cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was unhurried, almost absentminded, but it sent a warmth spreading through her chest.

Her breath caught as his hand lingered, his thumb grazing her jawline. He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking to her lips before meeting hers again.

"You're staring," he murmured, his tone teasing but laced with something softer as he smiled down at her.

"Maybe I like staring at you," she shot back, her voice quieter now. She couldn’t hold back the smile that only grew on her face.

That was all the invitation Rafe needed.

He tilted his head, his lips brushing softly against hers, the kiss deliberate but unhurried. It wasn't about showing off or proving anything; it was just them, lost in a quiet moment in the middle of everything.

Her hands instinctively reached up, gripping the fabric of his shirt as she kissed him back. She could feel his smile against her lips, the way his hand slid back to cradle the nape of her neck, grounding her as much as she grounded him.

"Okay, seriously," Sarah's voice broke through the haze, pulling them back to reality. "Are you two going to come up for air, or should we move the bonfire to give you some privacy?"

Laughter erupted around them, and Y/N pulled back shifting slightly, her cheeks flushing as she buried her face in Rafe's shoulder. He only chuckled, his arm tightening around her waist and wrapping around her shoulders as he shot Sarah a smug grin.

"Jealous, sis?" he quipped, earning an eye roll from Sarah and another round of laughs from the group.

Y/N couldn't help but smile despite her embarrassment, leaning into Rafe's hold as his thumb stroked lazily against her side.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing against her ear as he murmured, "They can tease all they want. I don't care."

And somehow, neither did she.

#rafe cameron #rafe x reader #obx #rafe obx #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction #drew starkey #outer banks #rafe Cameron imagines #Rafe Cameron fluff #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x y/n #obx fanfiction #outer banks fanfiction

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theorist-fox · 8 months ago

Text

Fair trade

John Price x Reader

Cross posted from AO3.

This one shot deals with heavy topics such as emotional manipulation, emotional abuse from family, and self-objectification.

I'm begging you to read the tags before pursuing the story. Thank you so much for taking care of yourself first. 🦊

If you're looking for some aftersex comfort, recommending this by @/karlachismylife. 🧡

Summary: John helps you out of the toxic pattern your family has woven around you, and finds how utterly gorgeous you are behind it. He cuts your strings, and loves you the way you deserve.

18+

Word count: 10k CW: smut (cunnilingus, blow jobs, sex as a form of self-harm, sex as a way to feel useful), heavy angst, hurt/comfort, dubcon if you squint.

Masterlist 🦊

“No, we can’t come over, darling.”

To have a life planned out must be a dream. No worries nor fears, because everything is already outlined—a step-by-step guide, given to you at birth. A path, a purpose.

To give is your purpose.

It’s been ever since before you hit the eighteen mark; the birthday being only a threshold that signed your legal independence.

But you’ve always been, haven’t you? Shadowed by bigger problems ever since you were a small thing because there wasn't trouble that mattered less than you did.

The difference being that before you were shielded by your naïveté, by the bleeding heart they’ve carefully built for you, so you’d bend and break pliantly, even willingly at times, without ever realizing.

Now you're an adult, they'd implied.

Now they can use you at your full potential, and you won’t even put up a fight. You won’t set boundaries, because this is all you’ve ever learned. This is all they’ve ever taught you. Their perfect mold, kneeling in perfect obedience.

But how much can one take in a lifetime?

“Thanks for the help, love. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Will you?”

“Of course.”

But staring at the phone won’t make it ring.

When you’ve never had a moment for yourself but plenty of time to dedicate to others—where do you draw the line of this so-called purpose, then?

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

“It’s next week, mum.”

“Oh. I must have mixed it up.”

This goal—this agonized prize, towering at the finish line you’re desperately running to, the one defined by your family the moment your first cry pierced the air—what is it, exactly?

It’s a cascade of praises. It’s a shower of love that reawakens you from your torpor like a bucket of ice-cold water. It's abrupt but somewhat needed until it slowly becomes fresh instead of freezing, and it hydrates your skin and soothes the thirst. You feel rejuvenated, coming out of your lethargy, and alive and thriving and—

It stops.

Your fifteen minutes of unbridled, limitless love just snatched away in spare seconds.

And you’re parched again. Sometimes, they leave you wanting until you’re on your knees. Sometimes, they never give it back.

And so, the questions arise—what happens when you’re not needed anymore?

What happens when the calls plummet?

When the visits diminish until there are none?

When you're a ghost haunting your own life because your purpose is slowly vanishing. When that prize stands in the distance as a rushing fountain of praises and kindness, but you've already given a hand, an arm, your legs, your voice, your heart. What then?

How do you move, exactly, if there are no limbs to which attach the strings? How will you speak, if they’re not shaping your voice?

How does your puppeteer lift you from the floor? Your ventriloquist—how will it force you to agree to every demand?

“You... met without me?”

“Sweetheart, we thought you were busy.”

“You could’ve asked.”

“You would’ve said no.”

But you wouldn’t have. You’re not even sure you can say ‘no’ to them.

Is there someone who will hoist you up, when you’re nothing more than a torso, and take you to the finish line?

“Uh, darling, mind calling later?”

“I’m not feeling fine, I was hoping—“

“I’m busy, love.”

A therapist for your mum.

A crutch for your dad.

An advocate for your brother, but you’re no one to them.

A child, once. A person, now.

A notification on their phone. A Google reminder of a birthday.

A missed call. An excuse.

A vacant shape in a family photo. A memory, then nothing.

Raised to serve. But what happens when there’s no one to serve?

“What you’re doing to me is not fair.”

“I don’t like that attitude. Don’t forget how much we did for you.”

Your hands are tight around the steering wheel. White knuckled fists and creaking leather. The car smells of stale tobacco, cigarettes you’ve smoked with your offhand limp out of the car window, then stubbed in the portable ashtray.

"We love you, of course we do. How could you ask that?"

It's raining but your window's rolled down, a ciggie snug between two fingers. Elbow propped on the car door, arm hanging out. The sleeve of your sweater is soaked, and the cigarette is sodden. You don't even notice it when you bring it to your lips and take a drag. Nothing fills your lungs.

It’s fine.

It's a habit. It's autopilot. You go. You exist.

“It really doesn’t feel like it. You haven’t called in weeks.”

“It’s just—we’re people too. We’re busy.”

“You’re not busy for my brother.”

“He’s—you’re different, darling.” You’re used. We’ve consumed you.

It’s a feeling of emptiness that spills out of every hole like heavy smoke, clouding your senses. A husk that billows dark tendrils from its eyes, moves mechanically like an alien imitating a human being.

It's fake. You're a dummy. Unhuman. A thing.

“I just need your help. I—I’m not fine. I’m not asking for much. Just an evening toge—”

"So much is happening right now. You can deal with it on your own, love.”

You close the car door once you've parked it in the garage. Up the stairs you go, dragging your feet on every step.

“Like you’ve always done.”

Would this world exist even if you weren’t in it? Would these stairs lead to your apartment, if you didn’t inhabit it?

Is your flat even yours? Sure, you’ve paid for it. The party you threw after your signature was placed on the contract is still a cherished memory.

But what were you even celebrating? Four walls. A roof over your head. A bed to kip.

It’s a lot, you’re aware. Not everyone can say they own all that. But do you?

They’re things. Can you own things?

Surely, you are owned. By them.

But you’re not even sure you need things. You can’t need, because things don’t need. And what are you, if not a thing? Because things are used, not humans. Humans fight back, eventually. Humans hold their pride dear, it's the only character that separates them from animals, from meat. You never bit back, not once. So what does that make you, if not theirthing?

Your purpose is not a choice you made, it’s theirs. You have to give—that is why they made you.

You own, so you can give them.

You earn, so you can give back.

Because who’s given you a roof when you couldn’t afford it yourself? And the food in your belly?

Darling, it wasn’t for free. You were expensive to raise. You were costly to craft, to mold, to perfect.

But they haven’t called. No one has. No one will.

The master left the strings—and what of you, now? Do you just lie limply on the floor, waiting for the next hand that'll hoist you up?

And if they don’t call to ask from you, how do you know you’re doing fine? How do you know if the finish line is close when they took your eyes already? How do you ask for help, if you don’t have a voice?

But that was the point. Their goal. They own you, and without them, you’re nothing but a heap of wood, infested with termites. Wooden rods on the floor, nylon strings cut short. You’ll grovel and beg, they’ll croon at you in mockery, bleeding you dry, but it will be enough for you—anything would be enough for you.

You unlock the door. John hears and his head peeks from the kitchen.

“Hi love,” he rumbles, and you feel it shaking your heart.

Does he need you?

John Price is a captain of the special forces who has gone through hell and back. He's witnessed things you've only heard from the mouths of journalists or read in black-and-white papers, and he came out of each one of them unscathed. Strong. Resilient.

He doesn’t need you.

“Sortin’ out dinner,” he adds, and returns behind the wall that separates the living room from the cooking area. “You’re gonna love this pasta, I’m telling you.”

Of course, he doesn't need you.

The house is pristine. He takes care of it while you’re at work since he’s off deployment. He’s going to be home for a while now, a handful of months. That’s a good thing, you miss him when he leaves.

It’s you who needs him. But you can’t need, so how does this work, exactly?

How do you explain that hole in your stomach that relentlessly craves to be filled? That makes you want to curl on the floor. Turn into dust and seep through the cracks of the hardwood.

Disappear. Invisible. Paper-thin.

Because maybe you're tired of being needed. Perhaps you want to break through that mindset and start needing something.

You chastise yourself for even concocting the thought.

You stand stock still at the door. You hear nothing but the blood rushing in your ears and John moving pans around the kitchen.

You see his head at the doorway again.

“Love?”

Your eye twitches, but you don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you. Then why is he here?

There are plenty of people out there who’d love to bend for him. Mouths he can kiss. Holes he can fill.

That’s what people are, no?

No. That's what you are.

You’ll make him need you. You’ll show him that you’re fundamental, not just another hole. That you cannot be replaced, because you can't afford to lose him. You can't.

It’s selfish, it is.

You cannot be selfish, it’s not what you were taught. But you will. Just today, just now. The first apparent tear into the careful pattern threaded by your family.

But it's not really a hole, is it? If you're carving it to escape a trap, only to fall back into another one of your own making.

You hurriedly toe off your wet shoes and walk with purpose to the kitchen, dropping your bag on the floor as you do. He quirks a brow at you and your silence, but his face soon morphs into sudden confusion when you come to stand in front of him and drop to your knees.

You know how to do it—how to make people smile.

Your empathy is unmatched. You read people's tics, their quirks. Gauge them from the way they move their lips, the words they use, the way they look at you.

And John—oh, he loves how you work with your mouth.

And if he needs your mouth, then by extension, he needs you.

Your hands palm his thighs as you flutter your lashes up to him. He's forced to lean back against the kitchen counter, but he's not looking at you the way he usually does—not with his lidded blue eyes, heavy and wanton.

John looks dubious instead. Even flinches when you press your cheek to the crotch of his jeans, stroking the fabric to your skin. Denim’s rough, and it especially hurts when the plump of your cheek catches the zipper’s teeth.

Good.

Let him take. And let it hurt.

“What’s goin’ on." He states, doesn't ask.

Please, take.

You’re already working through the button and the zipper when you answer, fingers shaking as you do. “I wanna suck your cock.”

Now, John wouldn’t normally complain, but you sound much different from the other times in which you actually do want to suck his cock.

He hums, allowing you to palm him through his briefs, gently but firmly pressing your hand where he’s still soft. You nose him through the cotton, flattening your tongue against his dick—you can feel it twitch under the muscle. Good, means his body is responding how you want him to.

His hands curl painfully tight around the lip of the counter.

It’s so silent except for your heaving breaths warming up his length and the buzzing fire on the stove.

You place tender kisses as you feel him harden under your lips.

He's looking at you to try and gauge the reason behind all this. It's clear to him that you're not being your usual self, there is something in your eyes that tickles him in the wrong place. You know he knows—you know he's gathered something's wrong. He’s ever so attentive, capturing every minimal change in the wrinkles of your face.

You're so akin to him when it comes to that.

You don't give him time to ponder for long, though. You take his cock out of his briefs and force it into your mouth.

John knocks his head back against the cupboard and fixes his eyes to the ceiling, wide open. A heavy breath leaves him languidly. His cock chubs up as it sits heavy on your tongue, and you can feel it fill up your mouth.

“Christ.”

Yes. It’s what you want, to hear him lose himself in you.

You start slowly, pumping your hand at the base along with the movements of your lips, mindful of keeping your teeth out of the way. Tilting your head sideways, you let the tip of his cock push against your cheek while your tongue lavishes the malleable skin around its length.

Your eyes swivel upward, and you're met with the view of his corded neck, tight and straining as he refuses to look at you.

No.

He needs to know it’s you.

He needs to understand that you can give this whenever he wants, that you're not just another mouth. That no one else is as versed as you are when you eat him up. Your tongue knows how to follow the vein along the velvet of his skin, all the way to the slit on the tip. Your hand knows how to cup his balls and brush the seam in the middle—how he shudders, each time you do.

He needs to know that.

He can’t let you go. Not him too.

He has to hoist the limbless torso that you are towards the finish line, where you’ll get your caresses and your praises and your prize: the crumbs of love you’ll lap until your famished heart stops rumbling.

So, you drift your free hand upward and thread your fingers through the curls on his pelvis, gently grazing the skin with your nails. Then, you drum the pads on his soft belly, feeling them dip into the flesh and hit the harder muscles underneath. You splay your palm in the middle of his stomach, where you can feel the blood rushing madly as his heart pumps all the same.

It’s enough for you, the bodily reaction to the softness of your mouth.

But why isn’t he looking at you?

Recognize that is me. That I can make you feel good. That you need me, that you still do.

In the desperation of the moment, you opt for the best you can do: you take him deeper. The hand at the base of his cock moves to flatten on his thigh, and you carelessly widen your jaw to take more, and more, and more.

You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft and then twirl it around, all the while hollowing your cheeks without ever daring to take your eyes off him. That way, if he decides to look down at you, he'll find you teary-eyed and wanting—perfectly on your knees, like a devotee, no matter how artificially placed.

Your lips slide so easily up and down his cock, coating it with saliva, teardrops and precum. They swell so beautifully around it like a plump peach being ravaged; he always flatters you for it. Calls you beautiful when you suck him off so fervently, eliciting choked moans from you as you drink up the praise.

You dive in and the head tips at the back of your throat, causing you to gag around it. The muscles of your neck clench and he curses under his breath. Your eyes water in joy and overexertion when he looks down at you at the sudden change in pace. You don’t care if it hurts, let him bruise your throat.

You can give him more. You can give him everything.

You push even further until you're nuzzling against the coarse hair on his pelvis. You choke around his cock, a weak and wet cough that causes drool to dribble at the corners of your mouth. You pull back then, to take a wet gasp around his length, and then push forward to flush your nose to his crotch once more.

The tips of your knees hurt; the tiled floor in the kitchen is hard and merciless against the bone. It'll leave your joints aching and rough. They'll pop when you stand up, they'll hurt tomorrow when you go to work.

Good.

The knot in your stomach is ever so tight, seeking to be released and let go. It contorts in wantonness and, you’ll realize later, mortification. Just because you’re used to giving yourself so freely in exchange for crumbs, it doesn't mean it gets easier every time—to watch yourself bend on a whim, to see your pride shatter into even tinier pieces.

You feel his hand thread through your hair and tears fall down your cheek because yes, now he’s going to fuck your face like you want him to.

Use me. Treat me for what I am. Become the fucking puppet master. Take my fucking strings now that they’ve dropped them and guide me through this fucking shit I was left in.

But instead, he pulls you back, his cock escaping your mouth with the same ease you got it in.

A ragged breath, thick and wet, leaves your lips as soon as they’re free. Your coughs turn into a hack, as you stare at the glisten of your spit coating his shaft. A string of thick saliva tethers your mouth to it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you recollect your breath, nostrils flaring in the attempt to take in the air you’ve deprived yourself of.

“What’s this.”

You swallow down the liquid pooling in your throat, salty precum and viscous saliva like tar, gluing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“Let me.” You croak. The thought that you might sound pathetic doesn’t even cross your mind.

His brows twitch, but he keeps his voice even. “No. What’s going on? Spill it.”

Your pleading look morphs into a glare. Bloodshot eyes, tears, and snot. Spit and cum. Clumped lashes and runny mascara.

Whore.

Your chest heaves, not from the strain, but from being caught red-handed, and you don't know how to behave.

No one ever asks why you do it, they’re simply glad you do.

You’re helping, aren’t you? It’s what you were crafted for, brick by brick, bone by bone. Made to change like a chameleon based on other’s necessities.

It’s what you are—so let me do it.

“I want to suck your cock.” You say as crudely as you can manage. “I want you to come down my throat and then I want you to bend me over the table and fuck me until you’re empty.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, still holding your head by a handful of hair. His fingers aren’t tight, but your scalp stings nonetheless.

“Can do.” He shrugs. “Need to know why, first.”

You’re a heap of wood once again, piled up at his feet. Your limbs are jointless, just lying there, waiting to be thrown in the fire to rekindle its flame, so everyone else can be warm at your expense.

A broken puppet can still be used for other purposes until it's ash.

There's nothing in you, if not how wonderfully soft your mouth would be if only he'd let you wrap it around him again.

“Because I want to.”

He curls his nose, mustache following the stretch. “Hardly.”

“I do.”

He tugs at your hair and says your name in such a commanding manner that you can’t help but deflate. The glare in his eyes snuffs the defiant flame in yours.

"Please let me," you plead, and the way you sound is nothing short of degrading.

You don't care. You don't care if you reduce yourself to a puddle of pleas. You know you're not supposed to need anything, but you need this.

Your hands are sticky with dried spit and precum when they grab his cock again. You start pumping it fiercely, trying to make his orgasm hit earlier than what you had planned. He holds your head out of reach, meaning you can't wrap your lips around it—you'll have to make do with your hands.

Slut.

But it’s okay, you’ll be a slut, if it helps him realize that you can make him feel good with everything you have to offer. That he won’t find another as pliant and willing as you are. That if he wants to be served, you will be his thrall.

Everything you own, it’s so you can give him.

Everything you earn, it’s so you can give back.

He can mold you. He can break you and put you back together the way he likes. He can craft a new puppet out of you, you’ll hand him the strings. He’ll take you to the finish line and love you, then.

Only then.

You see his mouth curl, bile on his tongue, as he reins in his own lust. There’s something wrong about you tonight, and he’s starting to understand what it is.

And so, he leaves your hair, favoring the softness of your cheek. He thumbs the plump of your cheekbone and then rubs a line along your lower lip.

It's then that you take your chance and rush forward, planting a kiss on the tip of his cock. Tongue out to leave kitten licks at the drops of precum you are squeezing out of him with your hands, knowing he likes those tiny shocks it sends up his spine.

And just when you think he’s relented to your pleas, just when you have your lips plump and shiny, ready to wrap around the flushed head of his cock, he takes ahold of your chin and tips your head back.

“I love you,” he croaks.

Words he’s said already, but not as often as he should’ve. It’s his fault, he grievously considers, if you think you have to be on your knees to receive them.

He realizes it when you shock into a stop. When your eyes widen a tick too much.

Blind idiot he is.

"I love you," he says again, more firmly this time.

Your face screws up as if you're trying to wrap your head around this language you don't know. You haven't done much to reach that prize—if anything, you’ve done the opposite. You’ve edged him until the head of his cock has turned an angry red that must be aggravating to handle, impossible to quench without the welcoming warmth of your mouth or that of your cunt.

You blink up at him. Tears fall down your cheeks. “But you need to come.”

If you’d have shot him, he would’ve handled the ache much better than this.

"I need nothing." He supplies gently, tracing the corner of your lips with his thumb, getting rid of the mess he's inadvertently made of your mouth.

His statement hangs in the air, stale and musty and threatening, not as sweet as he thinks. It clogs your nose and tightens your chest, curdling your blood into frozen lumps. The noises around suddenly feel deafening: the bubbles popping on the surface of the boiling water, the wet sound of your skin unsticking from his cock as your hands leave it, their thud as they fall in your lap.

If you’re not needed, then what are you?

Carefully, he tucks himself back into his briefs as he kneels to your level.

He whispers your name and cups your cheek as he does. "I love you.”

You know he does, but stuck in the web woven by your family, you always thought it was a purely transactional sentiment. A fair trade.

He loves you because you kneel prettily in front of the sofa.

He loves you because you let him stuff you up and fill you to the brim with his come at the snap of his fingers.

He loves you because you're a lovely addition to his arm when you doll up for his work ceremonies or other functions.

He loves you because you cook a mean Sunday roast when he comes back from deployment.

And you love him because he's John, because what's there not to love.

With gentle blue eyes framed by bushy eyebrows, and droopy eyelids that give his often scowling look a gentler feel to it. The honey smatter of freckles on his nose, and the sharply trimmed beard on his jaw. Plump rosy lips, how soft they feel when he places them on yours, juxtaposing with the prickly ends of his mustache.

His encompassing heart and the way he's enlarged it for you to fit better, so you're all comfortable and warm in his life.

John gently presses his lips on your forehead as he speaks softly, "I love you."

Your eyes flutter closed. A heaving breath again, one that stutters as you try to inhale it. Fat tears fill the cracks in your lips and flow down your tongue.

John brushes the back of his knuckles across your cheeks. “Don’t need all this to love you.” And then he looks in your eyes, searching for any sign of skepticism, and regrettably finds a considerable amount of it. “You knowthat. Right, love?”

No, you don’t know.

But you don’t have the gall to tell him. Suddenly, it hits how pathetic you look. On your knees, begging for him to stuff your mouth with his cock so you can feel useful, so he can shower you with love once you give him a reason to keep you.

You kneel there helplessly, deflated.

Useless.

You gesture with your hands at him, feeling how limply they hang from your wrists as if you've never used them on your own in the first place.

There is very little you can do to humiliate yourself further, and yet you manage.

“But you need me.” You cry, as your face scrunches in a pain so deeply settled that John has no clue how to work around it. “I need you to need me.”

However, he tries. He tracks your tears with his thumb, stopping their fall right above your cheekbone.

"Don't need you, love." He says tenderly. "I want you.”

He shifts a little closer and cradles your face in both hands so that you cannot avoid his eyes even if you tried.

“Want you.” He breathes hoarsely, “Ain’t with you ’cause I need someone. I don’t need anyone, and I don’t want just anyone—I want you. ‘Specially when you’re not on your knees.”

Your nose is stuffy, and you can’t breathe right. Suddenly, you feel so unbelievably tired. Your face plops in his hands, and the humiliation feels ten times worse. It's hard, however, to interject with a word that would make him understand how deep this pattern runs.

He doesn’t let you, but only because he knows already.

"Like you when you get all chuffed ‘bout your plants sproutin’." He drawls. "Love it when you hop into bed and shove your cold feet against my thighs ‘cause I'm much warmer. Or when you make love to me. But not when you—when you pull this."

His voice is heavy. Your heart aches because you're so tightly wrapped in deadly silk, stuck in your family's cobweb, that you've never noticed how it must pain him as well, to see you reduce yourself to this.

"Bloody hell, love." He sighs, furrowing his brows. "I love you, yeah? I don't need—whatever this is. I don't want whatever this is.”

John's eyes close, his face screwing up in that way that tells you he's thinking. He shakes his head subtly, and you're afraid you've gone and done it now. He's going to go because he already has so much shit to deal with that your puzzled self would only be another broken case to add to his file.

But alas, dread doesn't even manage to settle on your heavy heart that he locks you in place with his blues.

One of his hands drifts to the back of your head. He leans in, enough for you to smell the tobacco on his breath.

You swallow dryly, lips parted in shaky pants. Eyes lidded and tired, nose scrunching in sniffles.

John presses a gentle kiss on your lips, no more than a peck. And then another one, and another, and another, until you can’t discern whether it’s the salt of your tears or that of his skin.

Your breathing becomes heavier and it mingles with his own when he comes to rest his forehead on yours.

"I love you," he murmurs tirelessly.

The hand on your nape guides you to him, and he kisses you again. Unlike the previous ones, this is bolder, yet tender all the same. He holds you in place while the rest of the world falls into impeccable silence.

The gentle smacking of lips is all you can hear, and even if only for a moment, it manages to silence the voice in your head—a mimicry of your family’s cries, their lying coos, their grating, consuming, plastic love.

You feel yourself uncoil under John’s touch and the deft work of his tongue on yours. Hands in your lap, you abandon yourself to him, but it's a different type of surrender; your eyes close and all your feelings, all your energy, flow into that kiss.

“I-I love you,” you venture, breathy voice brushing his lips.

John inhales sharply, and he realizes this might be the first time you said it because you wanted to and not because you had to.

His hand drifts from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your stomach and he guides you to lie with your back against the kitchen floor. His palms flatten next to your head.

Normally, John would have you on a fort of pillows and blankets and would never compromise about it—constantly making sure you’re as comfortable as they come as he ravages you. Beforehand, you'd get ready in the bathroom, having prepped yourself to a T. Shaved and moisturized and seasoned like a prized pig for him to consume, wearing the prettiest, skimpiest lace to frame the petals of your perfectly waxed pussy.

Because it’s a fair trade; he treats you like a princess, so you can be his pretty whore.

Yet tonight you think he won’t do any of that. There is a gentleness in his kisses that, while not uncommon, certainly feels unique. Your hands hover between your chest and his, unsure of where to place them. You hope he’ll guide you through this too, manhandle you into position like he always does.

But again, he doesn’t.

He barely feels like John at all. His behavior is so different that if you closed your eyes, anyone could be in his place right now. But that is only your perception, isn't it? Because John has always been tender with you, you were just too busy thinking about how to repay his kindness instead of living in the moment.

His lips leave yours only to busy themselves with the skin on your cheek, then down your chin and to your neck. You gasp at the goosebumps, and he stops.

His face comes into view and it is so flushed you think he must be collecting all his blood right in the apples of his cheeks.

“Okay, love?”

You blink. Your mouth tastes more like his cigars than tears and precum. It makes you feel less dirty, even if what you did (and have been doing your whole life) hasn’t changed.

You swallow thickly as he gazes into your eyes.

“Y-yeah, just—” A crease forms between your brows, “I should—I left you like that, and—”

He hushes you.

"No need to bother 'bout me." He reassures you.

He presses a kiss between your brows, smoothing the lines your concern has formed. You close your eyes, focusing on how warm he is in contrast to the tiles pressing against your back.

“Tell me what you want.” He breathes. As if you have an answer for that.

His kisses trail down your face and your neck, turning more open and wet. The rising gooseflesh, however, does nothing to stop your mind from running miles ahead.

What do you want?

You must've been posed that question before because it's such a basic one. You try to think of contests in which one might ask that, such as your birthdays, or celebrations, or a teacher wondering what is it that you desire in the future: a career, a husband or a wife, a family.

But to desire is to choose, and you don’t think you’ve ever been given that possibility.

Hence why you're rattled, aghast. On your back on the floor, with John sucking love bites on your neck.

You give the answer you know will make him content.

“Fuck me.”

You’ll moan like a porn star. You’ll dig your pretty nails into his back so he can show off the marks you left on him with pride. You'll pretend an orgasm if yours is taking too long, so that his ego will be kept fed and full, and he’ll still find you appealing. So that he can go tell his friends and comrades how good you are, in and out of bed. What a gem. Wife material.

He’ll doll you up and tie the strings around your wrists. Make you dance and you will—coy smile, pretty eyes and all. A new puppet out of you, just for his sake.

John stills, and he shifts uncomfortably above you. His mouth is suddenly next to your ear, and he leaves a kiss at your jaw hinge.

“You don’t want me to fuck you.” He murmurs, and you swear there is a hint of guilt in the way he says it.

You feel dizzy at the thought of being caught. It’s scary to have your thoughts so out in the open after having spent an entire lifetime locking them up.

John nips at the shell of your ear. You venture with your hands and place them on his chest, still unsure of whether you want him closer or far, far away.

"Can I make you feel good?" He asks hoarsely. Your body responds naturally and it makes heat pool in your lower stomach.

You suck in a breath, eyes fluttering closed at the idea his words have instilled in you.

You reply the only way you know. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Yes.” He says forcefully, almost as if he wanted the answer to stick to your brain for the days to come. The switch is so abrupt your heart skips a beat. “Yes, I have to ask. Of course, I have to ask.”

He props himself up, hips snug between your thighs. He could roll them against yours and seek the friction his chubbed up cock must physically need after you teased it.

But he doesn’t, and it makes you feel both inadequate and nervous.

“So, answer me, love.” He rumbles, as his pupils dance between your eyes. “Can I make you feel good?”

You’re not sure why, but it makes your eyes water and your heart hurt. Your brows draw together in a frown that rips at John’s chest.

“Y-Yes,” you stutter, voice strangled in your throat. “Yes, please.”

John leans in to kiss your eyelids as you snap them closed.

And then he kisses your cheek, your nose, and your lips. His hand trails over your sweater. A gentle tug at the hem makes tears fall down your temple and into your hair.

You give an imperceptible nod at his silent request and he thanks you by pressing his lips to your jaw. He lifts it above your breasts, sitting atop the plain, skin-colored bra you're wearing. You haven't shaved, there's regrowing hair under your armpits and you're flushed to the bone.

You're not the doll you allow him to see. You haven't prepped yourself for consumption this time, and it almost makes you squirm, as you force your biceps flush to your ribcage.

He can't see that you're not the perfect little puppet you've always shown him. If you aren't perfect, willing, and breakable, then he can find a thousand more like you—better than you.

But he presses a kiss to your sternum, ignoring sweat, squirming, and whatnot.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, tongue out to trace the line of the bone. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You sob. It doesn't deter him, as he lines the plain fabric of your cup until his fingers meet the clasp conveniently placed to the front. With a quick snap, he undoes it, and your tits spill out to the sides.

He hooks your attention back with a look, and you understand he’s asking, once again.

He’s seen you naked a thousand times but you realize he’s never seen you this raw. Your cheeks are flushed and his eyes have never looked so gentle yet hungry.

You nod again and he dives in, wasting no time.

His hands grab the fat of your tits. Push them together. Thumbs teasing nipples as they pebble under his pads. Lips kissing anywhere they can land, latching on flesh until it darkens. His teeth graze the peaks of your breasts, and your back arches off the floor.

Each grunt that escapes him has your spine vibrate. You can't fathom the thought that he likes this, not when you’re tasting like a long day at work and wet rain, instead of buttercream and mango.

You try to snake your leg between his own, to give back what he’s giving you. Carefully, you stroke the curve of your foot against his hard length, but he pulls back with his hips and gently guides your thigh to rest once more around his waist.

“Don’t need tha’, sunshine.” He grunts, a murmur lost as his lips mouth at your nipples. "This 's more 'n 'nough."

His hands hold you by the waist now, fingers gripping the flesh with tenacity. His beard scrapes at the soft skin of your tits as he travels downward with his mouth, following the path lined by your sternum to the gap between your ribs.

He licks stripes as if your skin were covered with cream. His teeth sink softly where your flesh is plumper, causing you to writhe against him, and he chuckles under his breath as he remembers you’re ticklish.

Such tiny things he knows about you, you almost forgot it’s been years he’s known you.

His bites turn kisses, and they're chastely pressed on the line of your stomach, over your belly button, and to the seam of your jeans.

John looks up at you when his lips reach the zipper, and by doing so you notice his brows arching up, causing lines to wrinkle his forehead. Pretty blue eyes take you in and the mess that you've made of yourself. Runny makeup, bitten lips.

You know he can see how undecided you still are. Brows pinched in both pleasure and discomfort because this is so new to you.

But you nod a little sharply for him to go on, as your mouth curls down in the hopefully non-futile attempt at muffling your sobs.

John unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips to your ankles in such an agonizingly slow manner you can’t help but think he’s doing it to give you time to rebut, in case you change your mind.

You don't.

He takes them off together with your socks and brings your foot next to his face. Places a kiss on the side of it, sending tingles up your legs that tip to the apex of your thighs. He leaves small pecks down your ankle and your calf, closing his eyes and sometimes brushing his beard against your skin.

You look away, cheek flat to the tiles, now wet with your tears and the rain soaking your hair.

It doesn't deter John in the slightest, not even when he slowly comes down to a crawl, chest to the floor and nose on your mound. He tugs with his teeth at the cotton of your panties, nothing more than plain white cheeky underwear. So different from the way you always present yourself to him, with your expensive lace and your silks and your soft skin—painfully waxed so it could mimic the feel of your babydolls.

Gingerly, you reach down with your hand and thread your fingers through his hair, smoothing them back from his forehead. You cup the side of his face and brush your thumb to his flushed cheekbone. He leans into your palm and kisses it, uncaring of the stickiness left by your previous activity.

You feel something inside of you crash and break, then, like a glass vase falling from a height. You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not, because it makes more tears collect at the corners of your eyes and those are never predictors of a good ending.

He digs the tip of his nose against your slit, following the wet stripe that inevitably formed the moment you dropped to your knees for him.

“Can I?” He asks, sending little spikes of electricity up to your chest when his lips brush against the sensitive skin covered by flimsy cotton.

You feel your chest get so tight someone might as well be curling rope around it.

You feel so pathetic for crying just because you’re being asked about what makes you comfortable and what doesn’t. You’re such an advocate for your friends to go out there and demand for their needs to be met, that you can’t help but wallow in your hypocrisy when someone asks for yours.

He waits patiently for your consent, even if he's a breath away from your private parts, with his hands caressing the back of your thighs. Even if he's done this to you a thousand times already, with your squirming body giving him a show worthy of the cameras, had they been there.

He makes everything around you look so soft, even the tiles of the floor that are uncomfortably sticking to your skin feel like plush cushions.

You wonder briefly if this is how it should’ve always felt, had you allowed yourself to recognize your needs instead of seeing your body as a means to make others happy.

It comes out of your lips as a breath that’s followed by a wet sniffle, your head nodding softly, contrastingly to how tight you’re biting your own teeth.

“Yes.”

No amount of pressure on your jaw could stop the sob that escapes you afterward.

John closes his eyes and a warm shuddering sigh brushes your skin. You’re starting to realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s being affected by this sudden change in your and his intimacy.

His fingers hook at your panties and he slides them to your ankles, letting them hang down one foot. You swing it carefully and kick them off as he returns his attention to the apex of your thighs, hooking your knees on his shoulders.

He starts tenderly, pressing kisses on the soft flesh of your vulva, paying attention even to the smallest bits you weren’t even aware could feel good. He latches on your outer lips, feeling how puffy they get at the slight suction.

Your thighs are corded and stiff under his grip, arms hooked around each plush leg, and palms flat on your skin.

John’s eyes are closed, although you wish he’d look at you as he travels with his lips along your slit. A kiss on your hole without probing too much, then one along the middle of your slit, which was getting impressively wetter as time passed, and the one on your hooded clit.

It sent jolts up your spine, causing your hips to buck against his mouth. His fingers tighten around your thighs in response, as if he’s trying to rein it in for you.

You appreciate it more than he thinks. You don’t think you’ve ever been placed on top of the queue so blatantly in your entire life.

The tip of his tongue darts out, but it’s obscured from your eyes by the regrowing hair on your mound and from his thick mustache. So, it takes you by surprise when he all but licks a thin stripe over the protruding part of your clit.

You hiss, and your head goes dizzy. You feel tiny pinpricks tingling in your brain, making you lightheaded and more than a little breathless.

During the whole relationship, you’ve been so focused on appearing like a full meal to his eyes, that you forgot how good it felt to be that meal on his tongue.

He laps at you again, eyes now wide open to gauge more of whatever you were giving him. You feel them as bright spotlights aimed at your face, but you can’t find it in yourself to display the act you’ve always given him.

You're already too different from the woman he's so used to seeing. You wonder if he likes you anyway; or if he likes you less, or more. When your eyes lock with his own, a dark flash tells you to go back to your ways. To flutter your lashes and pout your lips in small pleas, whimpering moans that always make his eyes roll to the back of his head.

And just as you’re about to give in to those old habits, John flattens his tongue against your cunt and licks all the thoughts out of your head. You tilt it back in a groan that has never, not once, left your lips in his presence.

He seems more than excited to hear it and starts eating you out like you’re his first meal in a century. This time, there is no plasticity in the ways you move. You’re not squirming away and acting coy about it, meeting his eyes to make sure he realizes that you're his pretty doll.

This time there’s you and the pleasure he gives you. There’s a hand in his hair that shyly tries to keep him still, as he puckers his lips around your nub and sucks it in his mouth. There’s the subtle canting of your hips to press your cunt closer to him, and the way he makes sure you don’t pull away from his tongue with his thick arms coiled around your thighs.

It’s so strange to allow yourself to feel so much. All this time you’ve been oblivious to all this as it happened in your same body because you were too busy focusing on how you appeared to his eyes. Even as he tongued your hole, your head told you it still had to be about pleasing him—because nothing in this world could ever be exclusively about you.

It hits you sharply that your beliefs about yourself, instilled by the callous teachings of your family, had bled through every aspect of your life. You already knew that, of course, but you never realized they had seeped into your intimacy as well.

Yet now you have proof of it, because you're sure John has not changed his tactics, it's you who's finally allowing your body to feel all this.

He twirls his tongue around your clit and you’re seeing stars. It’s such a strong sensation that you think you might have lost a marble or two in the process. Each grunt he emits from his lips vibrates through you and elicits similar sounds from your own mouth.

You’re not even looking at him, and you don’t care. It’s too good. He feels fucking heavenly and you’ll probably end up apologizing later for not having included him more, for not having paid enough attention to him as you should’ve.

But now—fucking hell, now—there's only how his tongue toys with each and every nerve ending of your sodden cunt.

You let him manhandle you, then, like he did so many times in the past. But now he positions you in an unflattering angle you would've never allowed before. He sits up on his knees, carrying your pelvis with him, close to his face.

To help yourself up, you place your hands on your haunches, propping your elbows on the floor. The tiles press harshly against the bone, much like they did on your knees when you’d knocked them down to suck him off not even twenty minutes prior, but now that pain feels so fickle compared to the pleasure he’s giving you.

He locks his arms around your lower belly, soft thighs pressed to his ears, and he dives in again.

Like this, you’re sure he can see every stupid, unflattering thing about you. But there’s the catch—it’s stupid. You’re sure you’re going to rethink all this eventually, but now everything that isn’t John and his lips on you is so unbelievably, fucking stupid.

“Taste like honey, y’ do.” You think you hear him say, as he nuzzles your cunt for all it’s worth.

He delves his tongue into your hole, plunging as deep as he can until he’s nosing your clit too. Facial hair scrapes the inside of your thigh raw, but that only enhances the opposite bliss happening thanks to his mouth.

You whimper, but not for show; it feels criminally good, and John knows it's real because your thighs shake so fiercely his vision goes wobbly too.

He chuckles, but it’s not derisive. His eyes are incensed, the light blue barely a rim around enlarged pupils. He looks in utter awe as he takes you in; face flushed, hair still wet from the rain and now from the sweat too. With an expression he's never once seen before, not on you. The sheer discomfort of the position but also the complete bliss that makes you forget you could have this on a more comfortable bed.

“Look at you—fucking beautiful." He murmurs with his lips to your cunt. "Criminal to hide this from me, love."

Your lips part into an oval, and your eyelids tremble, fighting the need to close your eyes and just feel. But he looks so unbelievably stunning you refuse, categorically, to take your eyes off of him.

And he apparently thinks the same, because his gaze never falters, not even when you tighten the grip your thighs have around his head. Nor does his tongue, as he plunges it again in your cunt, nose nudging your clit just right.

He might be fucking you with his mouth, but he sure is doing it with his eyes too.

And you’ve never felt so seen in your entire life. You’ve never felt so beautiful, so worthy, as right now. You wonder if he’s always been looking at you this way, but you were too lost in your own ways to notice.

You feel tears trickle down your temples again, mingling with your hair.

Jaw clenched tight, you breathe it out with all the strength you’ve got left in you.

“I love you.”

And John breaks into something different. You must have given him some final blow because his eyes shut closed and his brows knit together. An expression you've never seen, equally as pained as delighted.

He doesn’t answer, using his tongue for other purposes, keeping the stimulation both inside and out of you. Strong arms hold you still to his face, squeezing painfully tight around your hips. Thick palms flat against your lower belly, with his thumb tugging at your mons to unhood your puffy clit.

He goes on until you can’t hold yourself up anymore, arms giving out from under you. But he catches you anyway, hooking your legs better above his shoulders. The fact that your thighs are pressing against his ears gives you some sort of relief, knowing his hearing might have been muffled by your flesh.

So, you let go.

You moan loudly, fuck the neighbors, and whatever the world has to say. Fuck your head for sabotaging you, and taking you away from him.

You feel it build up slowly but suddenly; one moment it’s just fully encompassing pleasure, the next there’s a vine that stems from your ravaged cunt and curls around your belly, up to your neck.

Your throat blocks off, breathing shallow and sharp.

And then everything snaps.

John fights against the bucking of your hips just so he can keep his mouth on you and fuck you through it.

Your groan is so guttural you don't even think that was your voice. You don't even think, period. Your mind blacks out. A scorching heat develops from your sternum and coils around your chest like ivy in bloom.

You’ve had orgasms before thanks to his mouth, or his fingers, or his cock.

This, however, it’s so different you might consider yourself reborn.

It’s liberating. It’s new. It’s free and only, completely yours.

You don't even notice, as his tongue slows down, that your eyes are staring at nothing on the ceiling. That they fill with tears. And that you're crying.

You notice nothing, but just how good your body trembles, from the tips of your toes to the conscience in your head.

You don’t notice the sobs that leave your lips, as John gingerly places your body back down. Nor the way your chest heaves as if you’ve just learned how to use your lungs, while he hooks his arms behind your shoulders, and lifts you up to sit butt naked on the floor.

He holds you to his chest and you painfully sob against it. Not a thought about whether this is the right time to cry crosses your mind.

He cradles your cheek to his heart, while wet lips press against the crown of your head.

“Let go,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “’M here, love. Let go.”

You cry so hard you think you might crack like porcelain on that floor. Your heaving sobs echo against the walls of the kitchen like the cries of a newborn child.

And John has no intention of letting you go through it alone. He is there with his hands, with his lips, with the strong, steady heartbeat against your ear until your wailing abates. Only then does he cup your cheek to lift your face.

You weep under your breath when you notice the bloodshot whites of his eyes and the clumped lashes. The dampness on his cheeks and the redness of the skin.

He smooths your hair back. Kisses your forehead with such intensity that he just might suck away the self-hatred your family has seeded in your brain with his lips.

He looks at you, then. Lips pursed in a tight line.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now, love.”

It’s inevitable the way your lips stretch in a smile that quivers and shakes in a breathless, wet chuckle.

You dig the heels of your hands in your eyes, sniffling painfully hard to get some air in your lungs. Your mouth is pasty and God, you must smell like proper shite.

But John leans down anyway and kisses your lips, uncaring of the salt of your tears, the snot, and the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

And you kiss him back, this time threading your fingers through his hair, arms looped around his neck in an embrace you never want to break.

Noses flush against each other’s cheeks, lips parting only for you to take breaths because your nostrils are currently too stuffy for you to use them properly.

You sniffle and kiss and tug at his hair and hold him until you're both sated, but never enough. It won’t ever be enough.

A few beats of silence reign the kitchen as you sit on the floor, tangled in each other’s arms. The water in the pot must’ve boiled away, forgotten on the fire that still buzzes silently. John’s chest is your tiny alcove as you rest your head against it, and he holds you until your heart’s content.

Everything you’ve ever learned shakes before your eyes. Every thread that knitted the pattern carefully woven around you is slowly unraveling. The fabric wears down the more he shows you love without asking for anything in return.

He's making you regrow your limbs, returning the eyes they stole, allowing you to see that at the finish line, there's nothing but lies.

Nothing but missed calls, skipped appointments, and neglect. Honeyed words, saccharine pet names to render you soft as dough, willing to offer yourself to their exploitation. Sucking on every last drop of your sap, until only a hollow marionette is left.

John hasn't refilled you with energy; he made you realize you were never empty to begin with. Helped you see that they never smothered your fire to ashes, but only dimmed it to a flame, one you can rekindle easily.

One he cannot wait, for the life of him, to see ablaze again.

He’ll fight with you, give you the wood you need to keep yourself warm and your heart safe. Cut your strings once and for all, until you can get back on your feet again.

He thrives at the idea of seeing you glow like you did moments before, in your most raw and real form; a woman he's yet to meet.

However, being human, he does feel a temporary disappointment at the thought that you had put up such a blatant front for so long. Anger that he’d never noticed, thinking you were just this pliant little thing.

But he should've never thought of you as a thing. Never should've seen you as this obliging, pretty doll hanging from his lips. He should've dug deeper, like he always does even on the field, instead of falling for lies.

He’s often asked himself how you’ve never seemed to need anything, often pegging the behavior to self-sufficiency. You always took care of everything by yourself and promptly refused any aid when he tried to give it to you.

His mind reels with memories of the times he’s offered a helping hand, and you’ve politely declined it. It shatters him to think that you did it because you were afraid you had to give something back and maybe were too tired to offer anything.

It’s then that his mind deep dives into a place that sickens him.

How many times did you have sex with him and see it as a bargaining chip? Or as a way to repay him for something he’s done for you just because he loves you?

He shuts his eyes briefly, forcing the bile down his throat and deciding to dwell on the subject later. This moment comes first. You come first. So, he takes you in, blinking his eyes open once more.

He blindly reaches back to turn off the stove, before returning his arms around you. He brushes his lips to your temple, and your muscles soften under the way his breath tickles your skin.

You tilt your head back to lock your eyes with his own, gauging the earnestness swimming in his blues.

“I love you,” he breathes for the umpteenth time, that day.

No ventriloquist forces you to say it back. No strings move your arms to loop around his neck, as you lift yourself on your knees to be level with his eyes.

It's you, who rests your forehead on his own, brushing your nose to his in a butterfly kiss.

You feel like flesh and bone, more than polished wood tied to nylon strings. No voice box if not your vocal cords vibrating when you decide it, asking and giving all the same.

“I love you,” you whisper back.

There is no hunger for love, no finish line to reach. It’s not a race, not today.

And with John, you don’t think it’ll ever be again.

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szarina · 16 days ago

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How many babies do you think Zayne wants? I feel like he'd be a big family man, but forcing himself on his wife again isn't something he exactly enjoys.

And if the reader, after thinking about it and accepting his situation, were to let her bear him more children, how many would they have?

Three. That's all.

Zayne's an only child who recently learned that he's a brother to a monkey his parents had adopted in the tropics named Sweet Potato.

It gets lonely sometimes when he was still a child and sees the joy in your eyes when you bonded with your siblings. The laughter, the quarrels as you all chased each other in the meadows and going home to be scolded with dried mud caking all of your faces. That's when he decided if he was ever going to have a family of his own, he's going to have more than one but that depends on his wife.

Which you didn't had a decision in the first place. It was necessity in his side cause you were going to leave and it was rather a haste decision which he didn't normally do. He does not enjoyed your tears while it happened, considering it was your first time and his.

The pregnancy was a total fluke. It only happened one time and when your blood results coming positive for pregnancy. He felt happy. He was going to be a father even though you weren't still open in the idea of being a mother, let alone being his wife.

Two heartbeats! The stars aligned for this moment when you laid in the hospital bed where Doctor Myra in the OB-GYNE was the one who handled your first ultrasound to detect a fetal heartbeat to know that your child is alive. Imagine the surpise on his face which was the same stoic look when he heart those two heartbeats.

You were different though, the pregnancy mortified you. The first days upon the news of you being pregnant — you were numb for a few days. This time you were perplexed. Twins at the first try and you were about to cry and had been staring at your plush stomach where inside your babies are thriving.

Zayne held you tight every night and spoiled you every chance he can get minus when you attempted to escape. You didn't dare harm your babies, attached to the feeling when they started moving inside you. You cried the first time they kicked. Blaming him for putting the babies inside you when you were struggling and vulnerable. That hurts him but he deserves it.

When the twins were born, you changed drastically. Bloomed into something like you were always meant to be. A mother. He often hears you say that you won't be like your mother and you would give them all the love they deserved and the constant apologies when you wished them dead.

The twins turned out to be fine. He's contented with this life. You didn't scream at him no more. Yesterday was the past and you didn't want to put your children in a stress, thinking how much you loathed their father. You don't want them to grow and blame themselves for the things they can't control.

Zayne was surprised when you whispered to him one night that you wanted a another child. In your own terms, of course. In which he agreed without hesitation.

You were pregnant again within a month. Yue and Aurora starting kindergarten. It was a perfect time. They weren't going to have a much larger age gap and can play with their new sibling when it is born.

So, three children and that's all.

#✉ ⋮ shai's mail⸝⸝#zayne x reader #love and deepspace #chubby reader

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gay-dorito-dust · 9 months ago

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Either college or old man Ford being with someone who, even after all the years theyve spent together, still looks at them like a lovesick puppy

like theyre blushing and getting flustered when he rests his hands on their waist or doing normal couple stuff, etc.

it's like their mind still doesn't register that they're together and instead, to cope, just proceeded to have the most down bad crush on their HUSBAND

(like that one reddit post LMAOO)

You knew that you were staring but you didn’t care, and you knew that Ford knew that you were staring and yet you didn’t care when the finest man in existence was before you and was also your husband?!

You still found it impossible to come to terms that this silver fox was yours forever and always, you still get flustered when he compliments you and your bed head, even more so when he cups your cheeks in his hands and kisses your forehead.

You really shouldn’t be this badly affected after being with Ford for so long, but you couldn’t help it! Your husband was hot and you’d be blind to not take time out of your day to stare at him, shamelessly admiring his aging face and silver fluffy hair that looked like storm clouds! It was unfair that Ford looked so effortlessly beautiful no matter what he did that it left you swooning and pining after him like a lovesick fool, you’d find yourself asking if he was single…

Only to remember that you were married to him and got to see him be so effortlessly handsome every damn day of your life and you end up smiling stupidly.

‘You alright my love?’ Ford asked and you internally squealed like a little girl.

‘I am just perfectly fine my dear, just admiring my beautiful and talented and smart husband is all.’ You admitted also sheepishly as though you were confessing to him all over again as you felt the best rush to your cheeks and tips of your ears.

Ford smiled softly as he walked over to you and held your face in his hands, feeling the warmth radiation off of your cheeks as he caressed them; After all this time together Ford was aware of the fact he still held some power over you and he couldn’t help but feel flattered at how little had changed from then to now.

It was charming and sweet and kind of you to still look at him through the lens you did since your time at college together, he didn’t feel like he deserved it, but he knew that feeling would fade the moment he looked into your eyes and saw the abundance of love you held for him was still thriving and very much alive.

‘That is very sweet of you my dear,’ Ford said softly as he kissed your forehead, ‘you truly enlighten me with your love and affection that I can not thank you enough for marrying this old fool.’ He chuckled as he saw your eyes widened as though you still weren’t accustomed to the reality that you two were indeed married and have been for the past two months. Ford often wondered what what off in that head of yours but from the look within your eyes, he already knew his answer and couldn’t help but find it endearing.

‘I’d be the fool if I didn’t marry you Ford, even a bigger fool if I didn’t say anything back in college. I think I’d fight myself if i didn’t.’ You admitted as you thought of an alternate universe where you didn’t spill your guts to Ford back in college, you honestly didn’t want to think of where your life would’ve been like had you not married Ford as you were certain it was one full of regret and longing for what could’ve been. So you thanked god every night as you cuddled up to him in your shared bed that you got to live in a reality where you got Ford to be yous in every aspect possible.

Ford chuckled. ‘I highly doubt there is one where we don’t end up together my darling, and trust me I’ve been through the entire multiverse for the past thirty years.’ His eyes then soften as he rests his forehead against yours, causing your whole body to heat up at the action as you found yourself melting into him and his warmth. ‘I’m just happy that you were willing to wait so long for me. So, so happy.’ He adds in a whisper.

You nudged his noses with yours, flighting off the butterflies that were now within your stomach and running rampant at his words alone. ‘I would’ve waited far longer if needed just to see you home safe and sound.’ You told him as you kissed his nose and cheeks softly, happy to be in his arms and breath him in, content in knowing that he was here and that he was real unlike the dreams you had in the past. ‘So don’t thank me for doing something I would’ve done ten times over. You deserve as such Ford.’ You add as you pecked him lightly on the lips reassuringly.

‘Still I must thank my adorning wife/husband/spouse for being by my side when they had every right to walk away.’ Ford said as he tugged you closer to his chest, just innocently holding you in his arms lovingly but yet you couldn’t help but feel your heart hammer in your chest at being so close with him as you burrowed your face into his heck.

‘Your wife/husband/spouse is just happy to see you home where you’d belong with your family.’ You murmured again his red turtleneck, holding his waist tightly as you indulged in his comforting scent, something you loved about him that rivalled your love for his six fingers.

‘And I’m happy that I get the opportunity to call you my wife/husband/spouse.’ Ford admits as he kisses the top of your head before nuzzling his face into your neck, pressing a tender kiss there which made your breath hitch in your throat. ‘I love you my darling, so, so much.’ He whispers as though it was something that would only be shared between the two of you, like no one else is allowed to hear such talk between lovers and soulmates.

Your love for Ford was insurmountable, no words could properly describe just how much you love this man that you were more then willing to rip heaven and hell for, to rip through time and space just to see him home safe, anything if it meant seeing a man as sweet and loving as him smile that adorable smile of his in your direction.

You needed Ford like you needed air to breathe, water to drink and food to eat. Ford was a necessity for your survival and you weren’t going to let him go ever again, for you didn’t know how you’d be able to cope without him again.

Sure you might still have an embarrassingly massive crush on your husband, and become flustered every time he held your hand, kissed your forehead or even looked at you lovingly but you weren’t ashamed of it as it just meant that you were that your love rang true even after so long. If anything it meant that your love was stronger then most that fizzle out after a certain period of time, and yet you couldn’t help but smile stupidly and look away whether Ford complimented you or engulfed your hand with his own.

Ford was your best friend, husband and your crush all at the same time and you were more then happy to have finally gotten your happy ending with him, all the while staying perpetually in love with him regardless of the passage of time because Ford was so much more then your husband but he was massive part of yourself that you couldn’t live without nor intend to.

‘I love you so much my beloved Ford.’ You said as you rested your eyes and listened in on his strong heartbeat that told you he was alive as he held you tighter. ‘So very, very much.’

‘Then I hope you keep loving me for a long time.’ Ford confessed as he kissed your neck some more.

‘And I’ll promise to love you for an even longer amount of time after that.’ You admit as you moved your neck so that he’d have more access as you clutched onto him, smiling dopey as you felt as though you were on cloud nine within your husbands arms, blissed out of your mind as it ran rampant with ideas for the rest of your shared lives together.

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #ford pines x you #ford pines imagines #ford pines imagine #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x you #stanford pines imagines #stanford pines imagine #stanford pines x reader

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agentstarkid · 3 months ago

Text

A TABLE FOR TWO ✦ DR3

✦ DEBRIEF: No cameras, no obligations, just the lazy rhythm of conversation and the comfort of familiar hands intertwined. The world can wait, just for a little longer. After all, some moments deserve to stretch on forever.

✦ CHECKERED FLAG: 3.7K words

✦ TRACK LIMITS: just lots of fluff and cute banter. no use of y/n. english is not my first language x

✦ MAY'S RADIO: yesterday i saw this video on tiktok and i had to write it for danielito 💘 it was supposed to be just a drabble but...*sighs*

< back to general masterlist

The golden Monaco sun cast a warm glow over the pastel buildings, the scent of salt and freshly baked bread drifting through the air as you and Daniel strolled through the narrow, winding streets. His hand brushed against yours absentmindedly, the easy intimacy of two people who had carved out a quiet life together away from the chaos of the world.

The city, alive with its usual summer hum, felt slower today—or maybe that was just him. Daniel walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a light scruff dusting his jaw. He looked at ease, like he belonged here, like the world of racing had never claimed him in the first place.

Laughter bubbled from his lips as he recounted some ridiculous story, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he glanced at you with that signature grin—the one that made your heart trip over itself no matter how many times you’d seen it.

“Alright, mon amour,” he teased with an exaggerated accent, nudging you gently with his elbow. “We’re in the mood for something fancy, or are we going full tourist and getting pizza by the port?” The sun kissed his tanned skin, his carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled world he usually thrived in. But here, with you, in the lull of summer, Daniel was just Daniel—the man who made you laugh, who pulled you closer when the breeze picked up, and who, at that moment, looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

You rolled your eyes at his question, adjusting your sunglasses as you glanced at him with feigned exasperation. “Daniel, we live here. We are not tourists.”

He let out an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if you had wounded him. “Excuse me, but pizza by the port is a classic experience, no matter how long you've lived here.” His voice took on a faux-serious tone, but the playful glint in his eyes gave him away.

You smirked, shaking your head. “Mmm, sounds like someone just doesn’t want to sit through a proper meal.”

“Okay, first of all,” he held up a finger, “a proper meal is subjective.” He gestured toward the lively cafés lining the streets, their terraces filled with people sipping wine and sharing plates of seafood. “Second, I was thinking of you, my love. You always say you don’t like eating heavy meals in this heat.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, skeptical. “That’s true… but you’re also conveniently leaving out the fact that you have the patience of a toddler when you’re hungry.”

Daniel gasped again, more dramatic this time, stopping in the middle of the cobbled street. “Uh excuse me?! I have the patience of a saint, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms. “Oh, really? So, you didn’t nearly lose your mind waiting for our order last week at that fancy place?”

“That was different!” He threw his hands up. “They made us wait forty minutes just to bring out the bread, and you know how I feel about bread service!”

You burst out laughing, grabbing his wrist to pull him forward as he stubbornly stood there, reliving his past suffering. “Okay, okay, let’s compromise. We get something light but not just pizza, deal?”

Daniel hummed, pretending to think it over as you turned a corner, the sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. “Fine, but only if I get to pick dessert.”

You squinted at him. “So, this was about your sweet tooth all along?”

A guilty smirk spread across his face. “Listen, baby, I can’t help that gelato is my one true weakness.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You are so lucky I love you.”

“Oh, I know I am,” he said smoothly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “And I plan to keep reminding you with every bite of gelato I feed you later.”

The narrow street opened up into a sun-drenched plaza, the scent of espresso and fresh seafood hanging thick in the warm August air. You and Daniel meandered toward a café with a shaded terrace, but he kept bumping into you lightly with his hip, a mischievous grin plastered across his sun-kissed face.

“Oi, you keep shoving me, I’m gonna have to start charging you rent for walking in my personal space,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge back.

Daniel clutched his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Your personal space? Babe, please. This whole city should be paying me rent just for blessing it with my presence.”

You scoffed, stepping up onto the curb while he remained on the street, making you just slightly taller than him. “Oh, you think you’re some kind of gift to Monte Carlo?”

He wiggled his brows. “I mean, yeah. Have you seen me? Local legend. National treasure. The pride of Perth.”

You deadpanned. “You’re in Monaco, Daniel.”

“Exactly. I’m international, baby.” He struck a ridiculous pose, hands on his hips like a superhero.

You covered your face, laughing into your palm. “God, why am I dating you?”

He gasped, dramatically taking a step back like you had just rocked his world. “You don’t know?! Babe, this is alarming. What happened to ‘oh Daniel, I love you so much, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me’?” His voice pitched higher as he mimicked you.

You burst into laughter, nearly tripping over the cobblestone as you smacked his arm. “I have never said that in my life!”

Daniel waggled a finger. “Nah, nah, you said it. Maybe not in words, but with your eyes.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert in my eyes now?”

“Mate, I could write a whole bloody thesis on ‘em.” He tilted his head, squinting dramatically. “Chapter One: ‘The Death Stare—How One Exotic Woman Strikes Fear into a Grown Australian Man.’”

You crossed your arms, feigning seriousness. “Uh-huh. And Chapter Two?”

“‘Heart Eyes—A Study in How Quickly She Melts When I Do This.’” Without warning, he reached over and pinched your cheek, pulling lightly before quickly dodging out of your reach when you swatted at him.

You groaned, but you were grinning. “Daniel! You are so annoying!”

“And yet,” he sang, slinging an arm over your shoulders and tugging you close as he steered you toward the café, “here you are, still stuck with me, schricchiolina.”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

Daniel grinned, pressing a noisy, exaggerated kiss to your temple before whispering, “You love it, though.”

You did. And he knew it.

The café was tucked into the curve of the quay in Fontvieille, shaded by striped awnings with little potted citrus trees lining the terrace. The warm hum of conversation mixed with the occasional clatter of cutlery, the scent of espresso and grilled seafood weaving through the air.

Daniel, ever the gentleman, pulled out your chair before plopping down across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his seat.

A waiter appeared, all polite efficiency, handing over the menus. You glanced over at Daniel, who was already scanning the options like it was a life-or-death decision.

“You’re just going to order the same thing you always do,” you teased, not even looking at your own menu.

“Excuse me, I am a man of taste and variety,” he argued, though his eyes flickered over to the pasta he always ordered.

You snorted. “Taste, yes. Variety? Absolutely not.”

Daniel rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, what are you getting, then, Miss Culinary Adventure?”

You pretended to ponder. “Mmm, maybe I should just order for the both of us. Make sure we get something exciting. Maybe some... snails?”

Daniel’s nose scrunched immediately. “Alright, first of all, escargot is just a fancy way of saying ‘garden slugs on a plate,’ and I refuse.”

“Ah, so you do lack variety.”

“I do not lack variety. I just have standards,” he declared, setting his menu down with finality. “And my standards say no to chewy bugs drenched in butter.”

The waiter returned before you could tease him further, and Daniel ordered his usual (as expected), and shot you a cheeky look. “–and a side of bread. You know, for the trauma.” You snorted, shaking your head as you placed your own order, picking something different just to prove a point.

As the waiter left, your eyes flickered over his outfit—the mint green bucket hat, the Enchanté tote bag resting beside him, the Gator Tours trunks that somehow made the man look like one of those dads on tourist-mode. You smirked.

“You know,” you mused, resting your chin on your hand, “for someone who gives me a hard time about my shopping habits, you sure do love wearing your own merch.”

Daniel smirked, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I have impeccable taste.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” you nodded mock-seriously. “But let’s be real, do you actually like the designs, or do you just love seeing your own name on your clothes?”

Daniel gasped, placing a hand over his heart. “I am offended at this blatant attack on my fashion sense.”

You bit back a grin. “I just think it’s funny how you act all cool about it when I know you get all smug when someone recognizes your stuff.”

He huffed a laugh, then narrowed his eyes at you playfully. “Alright, Miss Observant, if we’re pointing out habits, let’s talk about how you love my merch.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Yeah, I wear your hoodies sometimes. So what?”

He wiggled his brows. “Not just hoodies.”

Your stomach dipped slightly at the knowing glint in his eye. “What are you talking about?”

Daniel leaned forward, voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m talking about how you love wearing my shirts. And only my shirts.” His grin turned downright devilish. “Just a t-shirt and a cute little pair of panties—or not—, walking around the apartment as if it is your own runway.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Daniel.”

“What?” he teased, sipping his drink like he hadn't just flustered you in broad daylight. “It’s a great look. Huge fan, really.”

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you still give me a show every day.” He winked.

A beat passed and then—

“Are you okay?” he leaned a little over the table, amusement dancing in his eyes at the crimson tide that surged into your cheeks, a hint of mischief colored his tone, “You look a little–”

“I’m fine! Shut up.” a gentle pout formed on your lips, but you couldn't help the smile that threatened to lift the edges of your mouth. A lighthearted smirk pinched at his cheeks, his gaze drifting toward the marina, you could tell he’d gotten lost in thought. The sun highlighted the light scruff on his jaw, the easy way he carried himself here, like these last few months had softened all his edges.

A TikTok trend you’d seen that morning flickered in your mind, sparking a mischievous idea that you couldn’t resist. You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, Daniel.”

He blinked, startled out of his daze, his wide brown eyes meeting yours with the cutest little look—eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, like you’d just pulled him out of another world. “Yeah?” His voice was softer, curious.

You leaned in even closer, as if you were about to reveal something truly life-altering, and whispered, “I have a crush on you.”

You said it like it was the first time, like it wasn’t something he had heard countless times before, like it wasn’t already carved into the foundation of your relationship.

And oh, the way it hit him.

His shoulders bunched slightly, his hands coming together on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. His head tilted just a bit, cheek brushing against his shoulder, a shy, boyish smile creeping onto his lips.

So fucking cute. You could eat him with a spoon.

He pointed at himself with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. You simply nodded, your chin resting on your fist, watching the disbelief flicker across his face.

“You… you do?” His voice was small, teasing yet unmistakably earnest, like you had just knocked the air right out of him and sent him spiraling back to the nerves of a schoolboy with a crush.

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I think you’re pretty cool.”

Daniel let out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to process. “Wow. That’s—uh, that’s pretty huge, actually.”

You nodded seriously. “Massive.”

His lips twitched, cheeks tinged pink, before he did a little victorious shimmy in his chair, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just won something monumental. Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, and then—just loud enough for only you to hear—he leaned in and whispered,

“I have a crush on you, too.”

And just like that, you had the privilege of watching a grown man—a man who had faced death-defying speeds, podium finishes, and championship pressure—turn into the most bashful, love-struck thing in the middle of a sunlit café in the Principality.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him—all coy and ridiculously endearing—like this was all still new, like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

God, you were so in love with him.

The waiter returned with your drinks, setting them down before disappearing again. You picked up your smoothie, taking a sip as Daniel tapped a beat against the table with his fingers. His eyes softened as he watched you, a content smile tugging at his lips.

“Y’know,” he mused, tilting his head slightly, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”

You set your glass down, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “What do you mean?”

Daniel shrugged, looking out at the sun-drenched plaza before meeting your eyes again. “Just… this. Us. Waking around the city, sitting in some café, arguing over yucky foods and bread. No rush, no cameras, no pressure. Just us.”

Your heart melted just a little, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. You reached across the table, lacing your fingers with his. “Yeah,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me too.”

Daniel grinned, squeezing your hand in return before leaning in conspiratorially. “But just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice dropping like he was about to tell you a grand secret, “if you do try to order snails next time, I will cause a scene.”

You snorted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held onto it, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Oh, so you’d embarrass yourself and me just to avoid a plate of escargot?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I have my dignity to protect.”

“Dignity?” You raised an eyebrow. “Big word for someone who once tripped over his own shoelaces while trying to bow after karaoke night.”

Daniel groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. “Why must you always bring that up?”

“Because it was hilarious.”

“Alright, well, for your information, I meant to do that,” he declared, sitting up straighter, looking smug despite the lie.

You hummed, unconvinced. “Sure you did.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but his fingers absentmindedly traced slow, lazy circles over your ring finger, grounding the moment in something softer.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the chatter of the café filling the space. The sunlight caught in Daniel’s curls, turning them into lazy golden waves, his eyes flickering between you and the street beyond. His free hand reached for his drink, but before he could take a sip, he hesitated, then set it down again.

“I don’t want to move,” he admitted suddenly, as if the thought had just hit him.

You blinked. “Move where?”

“Anywhere.” He gestured vaguely around. “Like… I don’t want you to go back to the other side of the world, or us to get dragged into some event, or—” He paused, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles, voice quieter when he continued. “I just want to sit here with you. All day, if we can.”

Your chest tightened, a warmth spreading through you at his words.

You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his as you leaned in slightly, your voice just as soft. “We can.”

Daniel’s eyes flicked up to yours, something tender and almost boyish in the way he searched your face. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “We’ve got nowhere to be. No flights, no schedules, no cameras. Just you and me, sitting in a café in Monaco, eating not pizza and people-watching until we get bored.”

His lips twitched into a small, lopsided smile. “And then what?”

“Then,” you shrugged playfully, “we walk back to our place, take a nap with the AC blasting because it’s too damn hot, and probably end up ordering takeout for dinner.”

Daniel exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “God, that sounds perfect.”

“It is,” you agreed. “And it’s all ours for the whole month.”

He looked at you like he was committing this moment to memory—the way the sun painted your skin golden, the relaxed ease in your posture, the sheer rightness of having you across from him, promising time.

For the rest of our lives, was what he didn’t say.

“Guess I should start charging you rent now,” he teased, squeezing your fingers.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. If anything, you should be paying me to grace that fancy apartment with my presence.”

Daniel snorted. “Oh yeah? And what exactly do I get in return?”

You smirked, sipping your drink before answering, “Entertainment, obviously.”

“Ah, yes. Watching you dramatically sigh every time I leave my socks on the floor is top-tier entertainment,” he said dryly.

You gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I do not dramatically sigh.”

“You do,” he countered. “It’s like a mix of disappointment and deep suffering. Very moving, honestly.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You huffed but didn’t deny it, instead narrowing your eyes at him.

The waiter returned with your meals, setting down a plate of cacio e pepe in front of Daniel. His eyes lit up as he inhaled the comforting aroma of the simple yet perfect dish—cheese, black pepper, and pasta.

“Now this is real food,” he said proudly, grabbing his fork like he was about to paint a masterpiece.

Then, the waiter placed your dish in front of you—a beautifully plated bouillabaisse, the classic French seafood stew. Steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of saffron, garlic, and fresh shellfish.

Daniel took one look at your bowl and immediately wrinkled his nose. “I still don’t get how you can eat that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally just seafood.”

“It’s seafood in soup,” he corrected, staring at it like it might bite him first. “Why would you ruin perfectly good fish by dunking it in a bowl of sadness?”

You scoffed. “It’s not sadness, it’s flavor.”

“It’s wet,” he countered flatly, making you snort.

Rolling your eyes, you picked up a mussel, dipping it into the fragrant broth. “For a guy who’s mom is Italian and lived in Italy, you’re weirdly dramatic about food.”

“I’m right about food,” he corrected, taking a victorious bite of his pasta. “You could’ve had literally any pasta dish, and you went for—” He waved his fork at your bowl. “That.”

“It’s French cuisine!” you defended. “We’re in Monaco! It felt appropriate.”

Daniel shook his head, exasperated but clearly amused. “You know what? Enjoy your soggy seafood. I’ll be over here eating like a king.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile, and he grinned, twirling more pasta onto his fork.

You smirked, cutting into one of the scallops and lifting it toward him. “Try it.”

Daniel leaned back like you’d just offered him poison. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. You love seafood!”

“I love seafood that’s not drowning,” he countered.

Rolling your eyes, you took the bite yourself, humming in satisfaction. “Mmm. Too bad, ‘cause this is incredible.”

Daniel huffed but couldn’t stop smiling. “Fine. But when you inevitably regret it and start eyeing my food, don’t expect me to share.”

You nudged his foot under the table. “Noted. Now, eat your boring pasta before I change my mind and steal it.”

The two of you fell into easy conversation as you ate, the sun casting a warm glow over the café. At one point, Daniel reached for your hand again, absentmindedly tracing circles against your palm while you talked about the most random things—how you should redecorate the apartment, whether or not a croissant counted as a sandwich, if pigeons had secret meetings when humans weren’t looking.

And then, just as you were finishing your meal, Daniel suddenly said, “I wanna take you somewhere after this.”

You blinked. “Oh? Where?”

He smirked. “Secret.”

You raised a brow. “Do I at least get a hint?”

Daniel pretended to think. “Mmm… It’s somewhere I know you’ll love. And it’s a little bit of a walk, but I promise it’s worth it.”

Your curiosity piqued, but you didn’t push. “Alright, mystery man. But if you’re leading me into some weird alley, I’m fighting you, Ricciardo.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair deal. But I promise, you’ll love it.”

And with that, he squeezed your hand one more time, finishing the last bite of his meal with a content smile, looking at you like you were his favorite view in the whole city.

Little did you know, he had been carrying a certain ring in his pocket for months now, waiting for the perfect moment. He could feel the box burning a hole in his pocket, the weight of it heavier than it had ever been. So he took your hand again and kissed your knuckles, right where the ring would soon sit. And as he watched you laugh, looking effortlessly happy, he knew—this was it.

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