#looking back and realizing. oh. he was real. and he had no idea

[noxemma]

First comes love a kid(napping), then comes a marriage ... Yeah, they're definitely doing things in the wrong order, but maybe, if they're lucky, they can figure out how to reverse their way into something real.

Parts 1&2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

———

Thank you all for the comments and reblogs. I honestly didn't expect so many people to enjoy my little spin on colorlessjay's story idea and I'm really flattered. Hopefully, this next part lives up to the others and thanks for continuing to read! ———

Blackbird singing in the dead of night ... "I should, um, that, that's Jack, so I should-" Cas stutters an explanation as he grabs for his phone but it slips off the nightstand, the Beatles continuing to croon from the ground.

Take these broken wings and learn to fly All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise

"Jack, hey buddy! How did everything go last night?" "Great! Mr. Sam is awesome, even if he did make me go to bed at nine. He helped me with my math homework and this morning he made something yummy for breakfast. It's a piece of bread and you cut a hole out of it, then put the egg- Oh, hi Mr. Dean!" Cas turns the phone and Dean sees the kid's face fill the screen. "Oh, uh, hi Jack!" Dean gives a little wave, smile blooming because it's nearly impossible not to at the boy's infectious enthusiasm. "Sounds like you had a good time with Sam. He didn't burn it did he? Last time he tried to make them he almost burned down the whole house." "No, I did not!" Sam barks. Jack's giggling is almost loud enough to drown him out as the image blurs, and he's replaced by Sam.

"Glad to see Egg-in-a-Nest is still a fan favorite," Dean laughs, leaning over the bed closer to Cas so he doesn't have to keep stretching back awkwardly and they can both get into view.

"Yeah, well, I figured if it worked on me as a kid ... well, Jack just wanted to say hi and make sure you guys made it okay," Sam says, but Dean notices a weird tone in his voice and a squinting of his eyes. "Dean, are you-?"

He's suddenly very self-conscious about the fact that neither he nor Cas have shirts on.

"Right, well, uh, why don't you give the phone back to Cas so he and Jack can talk. I'll call you in a minute," Dean says to Sam who nods, before Dean turns to whisper to Cas. "Hey, I'm gonna go grab my bag so I can change. Can I have the keycard?"

"Oh! Of course. I got one for both of us; I must have forgotten to tell you last night. Yours should be on the table by the coffee maker," Cas murmurs back, eyes so close he can almost map the waves of dark blue in his irises. "Thanks," Dean breathes, frozen in place until Cas turns his head to respond to Jack's barrage of questions. "How long was the drive? How far away is Las Vegas? Have you seen Uncle Gabe yet?"

He hightails it out the door only stopping long enough to grab the essentials and opting for the safety of a door between him and the attractive professor before slowing down to pull on his dirty t-shirt and shoes.

Even before he's in the elevator his phone is buzzing, and he knows it's Sam. "Hey, Sammy," Dean answers with false brightness as he jabs the button for the lobby. "Don't 'Hey, Sammy' me, Dean. Please tell me you didn't sleep with my professor." Dean opens his mouth but Sam barrels on, "And don't tell me you didn't because I have eyes. You were both shirtless! In the same bed! And I'm pretty sure you don't own grey sweats or orange underwear!"

"How the fuck do you know what underwear I'm wearing?"

"Like I said: eyes. I saw you get off the bed before I handed the phone back to Jack. Now, I want answers."

"Look, I didn't sleep with him. I mean I did, but just because there was a mix up with the room and ours only had one bed. Both of us were so exhausted last night, or rather this morning, that it didn't seem worth the effort to figure it out." "And the clothes?"

Dean sighs and watches the digital number decrease.

"I desperately needed a shower but didn't realize I'd forgotten my bag in the car. Cas over-packed and lent me some clothes," Dean explains, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose to try and stop the headache he feels coming on. "Look, I promise I'm not looking to hook-up with your English professor, no matter how hot he is. I'm just here to play fake fiancé as a favor and maybe get a little extra padding for your tuition fund, okay?" Dean tells Sam, not particularly interested in analyzing why telling the truth feels so much like a lie.

He opens his eyes to find the elevator doors open he steps off only to bump straight into a guy who walks in without waiting to let anyone off. Dean curses as the jolt sends his phone skittering across the fancy marble floor.

"Watch where you're going," the man snarls, lip curling disdainfully as he takes in Dean's outfit. "Bite me!" Dean barks back, rubbing his arm and bending to pick up his phone, sighing in relief when there are miraculously no cracks.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam's worried voice calls from the speaker.

"Hey, sorry. Some entitled asshole knocked the phone out of my hand-"

"What did you mean 'fake fiancé'?"

Crap, I totally forgot to tell him about that little change in plan.

"Right, so the thing is ..."

Dean explains the whole backstory that Cas had told him about Jack while he grabs his bag and the shoes from Baby.

"Look, Sam. I know what I'm doing, okay? I promise I won't kill anyone or anything and even if I do, I know a great kid lawyer who'll get me out." "I'm not a lawyer yet," Sam groans before finally heaving a resigned sigh. "Just don't hurt yourself or Professor Novak, okay?" "You have my word, bitch." "Yeah, yeah. Call me later, jerk."

The bathroom door is closed and Cas is nowhere in sight, so Dean just starts changing. He's just pulling his burgundy overshirt on overtop the plain black tee he may or may not have picked because it clung a bit to his arms and chest, emphasizing the muscle there, when Cas comes out of the bathroom. Dean hasn't known the man long, but he feels confident that Cas is uncomfortable in the get-up. He has on khaki pants and a light blue button up with a tan striped tie that is somehow twisted backwards. His hair is tamed and there has to be some sort of product in it to keep the whisps and curls under control.

"Uh, you look- Should I change? I don't think I have anything that could be considered, what is that? Tax accountant chic?" Dean teases but only to stop himself from worrying about how woefully underdressed he's going to look in comparison. "No! Er, no. You look wonderful," Cas rushes as he glances over Dean once, then slows down for a more in-depth perusal that has Dean's blood heating again. "If I wanted you to change, I wouldn't be dating you." "You're not dating me," Dean mutters, wincing at how petulant it sounds and hoping Cas doesn't pick up on it. "Dean, if I wanted someone to play pretentious boyfriend, I could have invited Mick. My parents would probably love him, but I would never actually date someone like him." Cas trails off, clearly uncomfortable and trying to figure out what to say, but all Dean's mind can think is:

"You wouldn't date him, but you'd date me?"

"I may not have known you for very long, but I can tell that you are a kind, hardworking man who cares about your brother and the feelings of others," Dean tries to keep breathing as Cas continues on, getting closer until he's right in front of Dean, "You're smart, funny, intelligent, and I think I could probably talk to you for hours. So, yes, I would date someone like you."

The warmth that blossoms at Cas' proximity and flattering description of him cools to lukewarm at the two extra words that change the entire meaning of Cas' little speech.

Right. 'cause Cas would never date me either, just 'someone like me'.

"Uh, thanks, Cas. I always appreciate compliments and it's good to know my first impression didn't do irreparable damage to your opinion of me. I think you're pretty great too and I've enjoyed getting to know you," Dean reciprocates, forcing the palatable pieces of the truth out of his mouth, the rest, like how he's opened up more to Cas than he has to anyone else in years, sticks painfully behind his teeth and under his tongue. "Of, of course, Dean," Cas says, brow slightly furrowed as if he can sense something is off about Dean's response but can't quite pinpoint it.

Thankfully, Cas' phone starts ringing, this time blaring an old version of the Candy Man. "Gabriel, we are headed out now. No! Do not strangle Balthazar, he is allowed to dislike Celine Dion," Cas rolls his eyes at Dean, quiet for a few moments as Gabriel speaks. "Yes, he will be joining us for brunch, though not if you keep calling him that. Fine. We'll see you soon."

"So, uh, are we driving to this place or ...?"

"Oh, no. My parents are having it catered in the penthouse," Cas tosses out like it means nothing. "Oh, the penthouse. Great," Dean grumbles as he follows Cas out.

———

Before Cas even gets his hand up to knock on the penthouse door, it swings open. "Castiel, thank god you're finally here. If I have to hear Bal talk about how much he hates Titanic one more time, I swear I just might have to take drastic measures." "Good morning, Gabriel. Glad to see you're not overreacting," Cas says dryly, rolling his eyes. Dean peeks over his shoulder to see Gabriel in a theatric faint against the doorway. "After all I do for you-" Gabriel moans. "None of which I asked for."

Gabriel's eyes pop open and he looks like he's about to say something cutting when his eyes lock on Dean over Cas' shoulder. "Ah! You're still here. Castiel, would you mind introducing me to your paramour?" Gabriel asks innocently like he hadn't broken into their room this morning and doesn't have pictures of the two of them cuddling on his phone. "He's not my paramour-" "Didn't look that way this morning," Gabriel sing-songs. "-he's my boyfriend, and fiancé as far as any of our other relatives know. Gabriel, this is Dean. Dean, this insufferable idiot is my brother, Gabriel." "Don't let him fool you, he loves me," Gabriel insists as he sidesteps Cas to thrust out a hand to Dean.

"Uh, nice to finally put a face to the name, 'Uncle Gabe,'" Dean says, wincing a little as Gabe crunches his hand in a punishing grip and pulls him in. "Now. I know the engagement is fake, but what are your intentions with my baby brother?"

Gone is all the mirth and mischief from his eyes, replaced by a fierce protectiveness that Dean knows well and has to admire. "I just want to make Cas happy. In whatever way I can."

The words come out so easily and Dean is surprised by the truth behind them.

Gabe nods, finally relinquishing Dean's hand. "Great. If you're done being an absolute bag of dicks, I believe we have a torture session disguised as brunch to attend." "You're mean when you're hangry, 'Cas,'" Gabriel teases, unwrapping a piece of taffy he pulled from who-knows-where and popping it into his mouth before leading them both into the penthouse. Dean had known that the penthouse of a Las Vegas hotel was going to be fancy, hell Elvis had lived in one, but nothing prepares him for the opulence he steps into.

Dean's jaw is on the floor as they pass beneath crystal chandeliers. A quick peek into the two rooms jutting off the entry way shows one to be a miniature movie theater with eight seats and the other a mini lounge complete with a pool table and fully stocked bar. Cas is impossibly unfazed as they swing by the living room that houses a hundred-inch flatscreen, a fireplace, and a baby grand piano and Dean can't figure out if he truly doesn't care or if he's just used to witnessing his family's wealth. They stop just short of the dining room, low murmurs echoing out to them. "Dean, are you sure you want to do this?" Cas whispers, ignoring the way Gabe arches his brow as he waits for them just in the doorway. "I'm sure," Dean says, lacing their fingers together for a quick, supportive squeeze.

Cas nods and they step into the lion's den together after Gabriel.

——— "Castiel, how lovely of you to finally join us," a woman's sharp words slice at them the moment they enter the room. "I was beginning to think you might not have shown up at all. Who is that with you?" Cas keeps a smile on his face, but his hand tightens around Dean's and Dean can see the tension around his eyes. "Naomi," Cas nods stiffly in acknowledgment before introducing Dean, "This is my fiancé, Dean."

"Dean," Naomi says his name like it's something slimy. "What is it that you do?" "I'm a mechanic-" Is all Dean manages to say before he is cut off. "'Naomi,' is that anyway to treat our dear mother, Castiel?" a man seated next to Naomi asks, words laced with venom. "Have some respect." Dean's eyes narrow as he focuses on the familiar looking guy before placing him as the asshole who'd bumped into him earlier that morning at the elevator. "She has made it very clear that I am no son of hers, so her given name is the most respectful thing I can call her, Michael, though I'm sure I could think of a few less respectful ones if you'd prefer."

Dean wants to whoop with pride, but he bites his lip, knowing if he says anything now it will be a long, long brunch and he's starving.

"Enough! Everyone, just sit so we can begin," booms an older gentleman Dean assumes is Cas' father, Chuck, based on how everyone follows the order as he takes his seat at the head of the table. Naomi claps her hands twice and waitstaff emerge from the kitchen carrying trays of food. Dean watches in morbid fascination as each tray is presented to Chuck first then brought around to each person, the waiter or waitress serving a portion from their tray to the plate on the table or pouring what looks to be mimosa into champagne glasses, completely ignored by everyone. "Chuck is at the head of the table, Naomi is to his right. Next to her is my older brother Michael and I think that is his fiancé," Cas whispers to Dean. "Abagail. Then you have Balthazar, our cousin. Uriel's wife, Sarah, is next to him and that's Uriel at the foot of the table. Moving on, Marv, the family attorney is on the other side of Castiel and our aunt Amara, is to dear old dad's left," Gabriel takes over explaining. "Basically, everyone one hates each other but we all play nice because tearing out each other's jugulars would probably make for bad press." Dean's head is swimming with names and faces, which only gets worse as he glances at all of them and realizes that underdressed is a gross overstatement. He's just contemplating stabbing himself with the salad fork (because yeah, the table is set with about a million different utensils Dean can't hope to guess the function of), when a flash of silver appears in his periphery. "Uh, sir? Would you like some-" Dean turns toward the server to respond, which seems to startle the gangly man so much that he stumbles back. Dean watches in horror as time slows.

The server fails to regain his balance, tripping over his own legs. The silver tray with a strange beige looking meat substance teeters on the waiter's hand before tipping and clattering to the floor with a splat and a clang. Time speeds back up as Dean leaps from his chair to help the man up. "Hey, I'm so sorry about that ..." "Uh, Garth, and I'm the one who should be apologizing." Dean hauls him to his feet before helping him grab his tray.

"Seriously, it was my fault. No need for you to take the blame for something I caused. You okay?"

Garth smiles and nods, "I'm a little bruised but definitely in better shape than the fois gras." Dean guesses that must be the meat on the floor, but he honestly has no idea. "Uh, you should probably sit back down now," Garth whispers, whipping out a cloth from somewhere and scooping up the meat, another person stepping in right after him to mop the spot.

He turns to heed the waiter's advice only to find everyone's eyes boring into him with varying emotions. Chuck, Naomi, Uriel, Michael, and Marv all stare at him with disgust and disdain. Abagail and Sarah with horror. Balthazar and Gabriel regard him with astonished amusement. Amara sears him with an intense emotion that borders on lascivious.

The other waitstaff all have soft smiles of gratitude.

And then there's Cas. Cas stares at him with pride and affection and something else that is warm and comforting. So, he doesn't look anywhere else. Just plops down and acts like nothing happened, Cas' hand finds his under the table.

"Dean," Naomi calls to him, his name icy and cold on her tongue. "I will let your impertinence slide as I am sure that you are not accustomed to silver service or etiquette, but the rule of thumb is to not interact with the staff." Dean tries to tamp down the anger bubbling in him, he really does. But then Naomi gives a little pretentious sniff and Dean can't help himself. "Thank you all for the wonderful service. Everything," Dean can't quite bring himself to lie because the truth is he hasn't had a bite of anything that tasted good, "Looks wonderful. Though I can't vouch for its taste, but that's probably due to my unrefined palate. Garth, would I be able to get some regular old peasant eggs and bacon?"

The scowls on him deepen and whispers begin to fill the room but the waitstaff can't hide their beaming and snickers and both Balthazar and Gabriel do a poor job trying to stifle their laughter behind their champagne glasses.

"Honestly, Castiel. If you can't even control your boyfriend, how are you expected to raise a child," Chuck throws out casually. "This is why he should come live with us. He needs the stability of two responsible parental figures." "Hey! Cas is a great father!" Dean snarls, old wounds scraped open and bleeding at the memory of being questioned about his own ability to raise Sam. "Dean," Cas says softly, placing a hand on his arm. "Ignore them, I do. Let's just get through this, okay?" Dean sits back in his seat, angrily chewing a piece of bacon that Garth ended up getting him, delivered with a grin and a wink. He resolves himself to let it go and stay silent for the rest of the miserable brunch.

It's a great plan, except Naomi just has to open her mouth. "Dean, I'm not sure you're aware, but Jack is Castiel's nephew," she corrects both the nickname and Jack's heritage, "not his son. Castiel will never be a real father, not with his ... condition." Dean tries to count to ten, tries to picture Sammy telling him not to, but he looks to Cas and all restraint flies out the window when he sees tears burning at the edges of his beautiful blue eyes. He jumps to his feet, slamming his hands against the table as if he didn't already have everyone's undivided attention. "Damn! Did you hear that, Cas? Turns out you can't be a father because neither of us can get pregnant. Guess that means we should stop trying so hard," Dean shouts, sarcasm dripping from every word. There is a full second of silence where time seems suspended before all hell breaks loose. Gabe sprays mimosa out of his nose at the inuendo and proceeds to struggle between laughing and coughing. Cas is staring open mouthed up at Dean, unreadable emotion in his eyes. Everyone else gasps and clutches their metaphoric pearls like he'd stood up on the table, pulled down his pants and underwear, and yelled "Pudding!" while shaking his junk at them. Naomi, unfortunately, appears to recover first. "How dare you-" "How dare I?" Dean asks incredulously. "How dare you? I may not be up to date on proper etiquette, but I'm pretty sure berating and belittling your son's fiancé, whom you've just met, is frowned upon. Also, how dare you question Cas' ability to be a parent? He is Jack's dad in every way that counts. He provides for him and loves him unconditionally and would do anything to protect him, which is clearly more than you two can say about yourselves. And he's not doing it alone anymore. He has me and I promise you: I'm not going anywhere." "Don't you speak to my wife that way," Chuck yells at Dean, standing and matching his stance. "And how could Jack possibly benefit from you, Dean? How much do you actually make as a mechanic? Will you be able to help with Jack's college and expenses? Did you even go to college? " "You know what, no. Happy? I didn't go to college. I've never had and probably never will have anything that amounts to material wealth. But what I do have is a G.E.D, a give 'em hell attitude, a decade of experience raising my brother, who got a one-seventy-four on his first shot at the L-SAT and is a few semesters away from graduating in the top ten percent of his class at Stanford, and a whole lotta love for Jack and Cas. So, you can keep your etiquette and complicated silver wear and awful tasting expensive food. I'd rather be poor and happy with a dick in my ass than rich and empty with a stick up it any day a'the week," Dean finishes, huffing and shaking as the rage still claws at him and begs for a bruisable outlet other than an inflated ego.

"Dean ..." Cas breathes beneath him and Dean wants to kick himself. He was supposed to make Cas look good, look stable. And now he'd probably fucked everything up. He doesn't look at Cas, even though he can feel him tugging at his overshirt. He can't look at him yet, needs another moment to scramble together a protective wall from the disappointment and anger he's going to find in the haunting blue. He chooses to stare down Chuck and Naomi who are apparently stunned speechless, as is the rest of the table. "Dean," Cas growls his name this time, but Dean still needs just one more second.

He doesn't get it. Cas is up on his feet beside him, grabbing his face in both hands and pulling him into a kiss.

Cas lips move against his, working at his lower lip until Dean's lips part and Cas' tongue is exploring his mouth. Dean shudders at the sensation, reciprocating eagerly and needing to taste Cas. "Thank you, Dean," Cas whispers as he pulls away far too soon, Dean's lips naturally chasing after him. "Cas?" Dean asks, dazed, confused, and licking the last traces of Cas champagne breath off his lips. Cas doesn't answer though because the room explodes in a cacophony of shouts as everyone jumps to their feet, excluding Abagail and Sarah who shyly give Dean secret thumbs up. Over the din, Dean hears Michael roar that Cas is uninvited from the wedding. "If Cas isn't going, then I'm not. And, judging from your tanking stock, you need me to present a united, family friendly front for the press. I mean that is what this whole wedding is, right? A merger between the Shurley Corporation and Roman Enterprises?" Neither Michael, Naomi, nor Chuck respond. "I'm loathe to agree with Gabriel on anything, but I'm on his and Castiel's team for this one. You bastards," Balthazar says the last part to Gabe and Cas with something that might be considered affection, shocking Dean with his British accent. "If Gabriel and Castiel aren't going, then I'm bloody well not either." "Chuck, Naomi, it's been a pleasure, as always," Cas spits toward them, grabbing Dean's hand and dragging him towards the door. Dean is still too out of it to resist, so he follows Cas, fingertips hovering over his swollen lips, barely registering Gabriel scrambling after them shouting, "Mom, pops, I gotta say, I think this is the best brunch you've ever hosted!"

———

Tag List (I think I got everyone who asked but lmk if you want to be added or removed):

@colorlessjay @destielfangirl24 @chokinghazardchirp @o-birdseed-o @examishbookwyrm

[theotherrookie]

Erica purred softly when the hug was returned.

"Me too. Then we should probably deal with Frosty before Antonio gets to him." Erica said, before she shrugged, "Good kitties and bad kitty, you know?"

Frosty already had a pretty bad day, they should be at least a bit gentle with him.

Lucien appreciated that brief moment of contact. It was a reminder that the worst had passed.

"Respect is something you must earn. No quest to attain what is 'rightfully yours' will get you anywhere closer to it." He brought a hand up to his chin, the pattern on his cuff glowing as he did so, "But it will force people to come together and defend themselves, thus making your life significantly more miserable."

He could speak from experience. All of this was Five's fault and, while he didn't expect him to apologize, Lucien wished for the hunter to deal with the fact that what was coming to him was entirely his doing.

It made the look of fear on his face absolutely priceless.

"Allow me~"

"Nope! Let us." Erica said, grabbing Five's arm. Willow grabbed the other to hold him in place.

"No! You can't do that!" Five shouted, "Let me go!"

"Oh, so you can cripple people for life but I can't give you a taste of your own fucking medicine? Go figure." Rook slapped Five's arm, careful to dig her claws in, "Contrary to popular belief, I don't go out of my way to piss off our patrons. Let's make this a learning experience. You could look back to this and decide to be a better person than how you were raised, or come back for another round and find out what it's like when the Order stops being nice."

That was a real slap in the face for Five, who also had to watch Rook getting showered in praise. He simply couldn't accept that they had all come together just for her. He had to pay his teammates and they even did a piss poor job.

"You have no idea what you got yourselves into. Her kind only spells trouble!" Five snarled, "Why don't you tell them where the hate comes from? I'm sure they will find it very interesting."

"Why don't we talk about where your money comes from? I sure would like to know why I've had to pry our stuff off the dead hands of the Brotherhood's idiots?" Rook watched as Five got really quiet suddenly, "Yeah, I knew you weren't ready for that conversation. Meanwhile, I'm fine talking about the past."

Erica wrinkled her nose. "We should hurry up, he's starting to stink again."

Unfortunately, Five realized the two strikingly familiar women restraining him were both immune to his toxins.

"Oh, and by the way. Five, meet Willow and Erica." Rook motioned with her hand, "Don't worry, there's even more of us."

Both shot him their best fanged smiles at Five, before they forced him on his knees.

"So, who wants to deliver some karma?" Rook then asked. Veronica stood to her side, ready to hand over the potion to whoever volunteered.

"He hurt so many we might as well take turns." Erica said.

"I was about to suggest Bill had the honor, considering he fell ill after biting Five." Willow replied, "An eye for an eye, as they say."

Rook eyed Lucien. "You should do it."

"Perhaps." Lucien only replied.

"Certainly." Frosty was going to be another mess to sort out. Another rebellious superpowered kid was just what they needed. It was bad enough Lucien had acquired new powers of his own.

But even if he was about to become a bigger menace, Veronica was glad he had managed to get some well deserved revenge. Now he just had not to ruin his heroic feat by getting his hair stuck in the straps of his mask.

"Aw, I'm sorry it was like that." Erica said, giving Travis a hug. With Five at their mercy, she could go back to caring for her friends in a less violent way.

Lucien preferred to simply give Russell's hand a squeeze. "I don't think calling us that would be very appropriate." he replied.

"Or expressed in such flattering terms." Willow added, still examining the drone. It was just a little dusty.

Not after Five's supposedly great secret had been revealed. Willow was surprised there wasn't smoke coming out of Five's ears like a cartoon character because of it.

"Yes, asshole." Five snapped, "I demand respect for our ancient code!"

"Do you mean the same code that says we shouldn't fight each other? That code?" Rook was quick to point her sword at Five as he moved to sit up, "Drop your sword, fucker."

Doing his best to pretend the blade pressing against his chest didn't bother him, Five carefully set his sword aside.

"Well, he isn’t in the Order. His family decided to leave when the others suggested they put me in charge." Rook explained, "But I didn't want that because I'm not big on murder in general."

"Excuse me?!" Five was cut off as his chest was poked again, "I'm the only one who still cares about our mission and I'm the traitor?"

"Let me clarify this for you all. These are matters that date back to before any of you got involved, not too long after we, the deceased, were set free by my daughter and yours truly, of course." Veronica glanced back at Five for a moment, before she continued, "His family abandoned the Order because of a century old hate they have towards our family and they did so while claiming he was dead."

That actually got Five to stop and look genuinely puzzled by that revelation. Perhaps his habit of twisting the truth was something of a family tradition.

"Now, what I assume happened is they kept their prodigal son hidden and trained him in secret in preparation to reinstate their de facto dominance of our Order, which is absolutely in line with our duties."

"They picked me because I was the one who knew the most about the supernatural." Rook replied, "But I got the impression nobody liked Five's family for some really good reasons. So the more you look back to this whole mess, the more stupid it gets. I'm really sorry you guys got caught into this."

[cheap-lemons-and-theatrics]

The Boots

very self-indulgent dante during the timeskip fic. probably not 100% lore accurate but just go with it guyz.

Dante shuffled under the covers, his back already hurt. He groaned as he rose.

“Honey…Do you have to make so much noise?” Nana mumbled, her pink hair had fallen loose from its ribbon and was now spewn on their pillows.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Dante apologized as he picked up the ribbon, he gently pulled his wife’s hair back. “We’re not too young anymore, but I think my back’s still doing better than yours.” He admitted as he caressed Nana’s swollen belly.

“Oh, I know yours is doing better.” Her eyes were half open now, she took his face in her hands. “This girl will be all worth it though, she’s a little fighter already.”

“Just like her mom.” Dante kissed her before he sat up again. “I’ll be home later with those berries you asked for.” 

Nana groaned in response before Dante heard her snores resume as the small man stepped quietly into the hall. 

His armor greeted him downstairs, his dirty boots next to the stand. The armor fit as it always did, though last year he had had to send Nana to Meteli to have the arms fixed after it started chafing him. Dante had refused any real changes even when his arms bled from the scabs.

Like every day before this, for the past 10 years, he strapped on that old armor. Alone in the warmth of his new home, a home his friends didn’t know he’d made with the woman they didn’t know he loved, Dante sighed as he admired what he’d made with the ghosts of his life. He stood without shoes now, always the last thing he put on and first thing he took off in the evenings so he didn’t get mud on his Nana’s carpet. Dante sat on the old stool he stole from the guard tower, he assumed Garroth wouldn’t mind it becoming a wedding present. He took the boots from their spot, he had torn a hole in one last year and the other had mud stains stuck no matter how hard he scrubbed with the solution Laurance had taught him how to make. 

This routine ended when his foot slipped in, not all the way like it used to. Not the routine, that's all he could register. Dante instantly pulled it off and stuck his gloved hand in the boot, sure there was something stuck in there.

Dante could only make a choked sound when he realized nothing was in there, he tried to fit it again and then the other boot. He tried both a third time before he let the truth take him. He’d outgrown these boots. Dante bit his glove when he felt the need to cry, he couldn’t wake Nana up for this, something so small. 

For almost an hour, Dante sat on that stool, stolen from the old guard tower because his mentor couldn’t see his wedding. He wouldn’t be able to buy new boots any time soon, not that he could stand the idea of them. “The guard tower...” He mumbled. There was a new guard tower now, one he and Levin carved his his mother’s tree, and only months ago he’d gathered enough strength to gather his and his friends’ old armor to display there. Dante hated the idea that rang in his mind, but there weren't many options.

Dante quickly snatched his old pair of civilian boots, ones Nana had made him when they got married, sliding them on while he opened the door. He ran towards the tree, almost tripping over the untied laces twice. Only to almost fall down the ladder up to the top level. 

“I’m getting too old for these ladders…Damn you, Levin.” Dante cursed under his breath as he remembered how he let his nephew convince him a ladder would be more “strategic” than stairs. That boy had a thing for ladders just like his mom. 

When he reached the top, Dante saw them, the shrine he’d made to his mentors and friends. Dante knew off the bat Laurance’s boot wouldn’t fit, that man’s feet were always weirdly small. His hands trembled as he looked up towards the grey O’Kasisian metal. 

Dante was too short to take the stand off its ledge without jumping. He huffed as he tried to get it down, his lungs burned and he fell on his bad shoulder. Dante began to tear up, this stupid ordeal could be solved if he wasn’t so ashamed for anyone to see him doing this. It was grave robbing in his mind, no matter how much he denied the idea they were dead. He jumped up again, finally grasping the spine before slipping again.

The armor clattered sharply as it slammed to the ground around him, to Dante this was like Garroth snapped at him after catching him about to steal his things. “I’m sorry…” He mumbled to a ghost that never haunted him. Dante sighed deeply, feeling the rise and fall of his own chest was the only way to calm him, he could imagine his mentor taking those big breaths when they’d spar, and somehow it always helped him believe those lungs still had air flowing through them. He wiped the few tears he let fall before he forced himself up. 

Dante fell back on the ground next to the boots, dark and polished like Garroth had left them in his room when they’d been gifted the new armor. He slid the dirty gloves off his hands before he held them, like they might be tainted by the dirt as if Garroth hadn’t slept in them for years. Dante just admired them for a moment, before he slipped off his shoes, not taking his eyes off the boots as if they might disappear like their owner. 

Finally, Dante slid one boot on his foot, squeezing his eyes shut like it pained him. It did, in a way. It fits. He thought, It fits. It fits. It fits. He couldn’t steel his heart anymore, Dante let out the sob he’d been choking down the whole morning, another arose from him before he could stop. The man collapsed in on himself, the second boot in his hand.

Hours later, Nana found him. He was still bent over that second boot, tears somehow still falling. She looked around at the mess, and her dear husband in the middle. Nana knelt next to him, careful not to touch any of the armor or the one boot still in Dante’s hands when she took his arm. 

Without a word, she gently took the second boot and slid it on him. Nana laced both up before she finally looked up at him. “I think he would’ve wanted you to have them, dear.”

[thollandsgirl2013]

How are you doing ? I was an idea for a series or one-shot for a Peter Parker x fem Stark reader. For a PDHPE assessment at Midtown High School, students are paired up with "fake" relationships assigned to them, with the intention of simulating real-life scenarios—however, one unsuspecting couple which is Peter and Y/n unexpectedly develops genuine feelings for each other, blurring the lines between what was supposed to be a mere exercise.

Hi! So, I’ll be honest, I had no idea what a PDHPE assessment was at first 😅 and had to do a little digging. Once I realized it was more of a fantasy-style prompt, it actually fit really well with a Stark!Reader storyline. Hope it’s close to what you imagined, and that you enjoyed watching Peter Parker fall head over heels for his assignment partner💙✨

----------------©®©®©®©®----------------

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞… 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Parings → Peter Parker x Stark! Reader

Warnings → Fake dating, Friends to lovers, Fluff, Humor, Stark Sarcasm, Protective Tony, Flash being Flash, Mild language, PDA.

Summary → What started as a fake dating project turns real fast.

(gif not mine)

You were already halfway checked out the moment your PDHPE teacher, Ms. Calder, wrote “Relationship Simulation Project” across the whiteboard in big Pink letters.

You blinked at it.

Peter, two rows over, tilted his head like a confused golden retriever.

And Flash whispered (loudly), “Is she seriously making us fake date? This is not what I signed up for when I chose PE over Drama.”

You leaned over to MJ, eyebrow raised. “What the hell kinda Black dimension lesson plan is this?”

Ms. Calder clapped her hands for attention like a chaotic game show host.

“Okay, class! So to explore interpersonal communication, compromise, and emotional regulation, you'll be paired up to simulate a romantic relationship for one week. Each pair will complete a daily journal, a conflict resolution worksheet, and plan a 'mock date' together. This is for assessment, people.”

A few groans echoed around the room. Peter Parker turned an impossible shade of red.

You muttered, “If I wanted forced intimacy, I’d go to another Stark family therapy session.”

“Names are being randomly chosen,” Ms. Calder went on. “No swaps, no trades, no take-backs. This is about working with people outside your comfort zone. Growth, people.”

You rolled your eyes. “Growth can kiss my a—”

“—nd our first pair is…” She glanced at her tablet. “Peter Parker and Y/N Stark.”

The silence was so loud you could hear the metaphorical record scratch.

You blinked once. Then twice.

Peter looked like he had stopped breathing. Fully frozen. His pen dropped out of his hand and rolled off the desk with a dramatic little clatter.

MJ snorted quietly beside you.

“Oh my God,” you said under your breath. “I’m going to fake date a human golden retriever.”

She elbowed you. “Didn’t you say you haven’t seen him since that mission briefing last week where he knocked over two mugs and called you ‘dude’ twice?”

“That was three mugs,” you muttered, “and he also called me ‘sir’ once by accident.”

Meanwhile, Peter was frantically gathering his things to come sit beside you. He bumped into the desk. Then the chair. Then his own knee.

You raised your hand as he awkwardly took the seat next to you.

“Quick question,” you said dryly. “Do I get hazard pay for babysitting a nervous breakdown?”

Ms. Calder smiled like she hadn’t heard you. “Try to treat this seriously, class. Think of it as a way to learn about yourself, and each other.”

You turned to Peter with a half-smirk. “So… boyfriend. Long time no see. Ready to fake love me for a grade?”

He coughed. Choked on his own spit. Literally.

“Y/n! I—uh—hi. Yeah. I mean. Sure. Girlfriend. Wow. Okay. This is fine. I’m fine.”

You leaned back in your chair. “You’re already sweating, Parker. This is gonna be fun.”

Peter just nodded, trying to look casual while dying inside.

You raised an eyebrow. “You're already short-circuiting and we haven't even started. You're lucky I'm used to tech malfunctions.”

Peter let out a laugh that was mostly panic. “Um. Yeah, fake dating. Cool. Fun.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Weird how I’ve seen you literally throw a bus across a street and this is what breaks you.”

He groaned softly. “Please don’t tell Mr. Stark I choked on my own spit when you said ‘boyfriend.’ ”

You smirked. “Depends. You plan on doing anything else embarrassing today?”

Peter looked genuinely concerned. “Should I say yes just to mentally prepare?”

You leaned back in your chair with a shrug. “Honestly? Yeah.”

Oh yeah. This was gonna be chaos.

----------

You told yourself it was still just an assignment.

Even when Peter brought you real flowers to your “mock date.”

Even when his hand lingered way too long during your “communication trust exercise.”

Even when he sent you goodnight texts that said “sleep well, Y/N :)” like it was just for homework.

You were a Stark. You didn’t catch feelings. Feelings caught you and then got yeeted into the sun.

At least, that’s what you told yourself until you were ten minutes into your second fake date, sitting side by side at the local boba place Peter picked, knees touching under the table and you realized:

Peter Parker was kind of… devastatingly sweet.

And kind. And funny. And soft. And awkward. And nervous in a way that was weirdly endearing, like he wanted to impress you but didn’t want you to know he wanted to impress you.

“You don’t have to hold my hand the whole time,” you teased, looking down where his fingers were wrapped gently around yours.

His ears turned bright red. “R-right! Sorry! I just—Ms. Calder said physical affection boosts realism and—uh—I can let go, I wasn’t trying to—”

You smirked and squeezed his hand. “I’m messing with you, Parker. Relax.”

“Oh,” he said, clearly short-circuiting again. “Cool. Haha. Relaxing. I am relaxed.”

He was not relaxed.

You tilted your head and studied him for a moment, your tone softening.

“You’re doing really well, y’know. You’re not half-bad at this fake boyfriend thing.”

His eyes flicked to yours, hopeful. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, surprised at how much you meant it. “Honestly… I think you’re kind of better than most real ones.”

He blushed so hard he nearly combusted.

---

DAY 4: Texting for the ‘assignment’

Peter: hey so i’m supposed to check in with my fake gf or i fail romantic communication

You: wow. tragic.

Peter: i know. pls answer this or i’ll have to write a poem about my emotional decay

You: ngl i kinda wanna see that

Peter: rude. i’m a sensitive artist.

You: ok ok. i had a good day. fake bf check-in: 8/10. could use more boba.

Peter: noted. fake gf deserves the world (and also extra boba)

You stared at your phone way too long after that one.

---

DAY 5: Jealousy hits like a truck.

You were walking out of class when Flash suddenly appeared like a gremlin summoned by drama.

“Hey Stark,” he grinned, draping an arm over your shoulders. “If this whole fake thing with Parker doesn’t work out, you know where to find me.”

You blinked at him. “The trash?”

Peter was a few steps behind you, arms crossed, clearly trying so hard not to look bothered.

When Flash strutted off, Peter mumbled, “You know, you really don’t have to flirt back just to keep it realistic…”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He froze. “N-nothing! I mean, it’s fine, I’m not mad! Or jealous. Or—uh—noticing. You can flirt with whoever. Because we’re fake. Haha. Totally fake.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You good, Webs?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Y-yeah. Totally. Just… don’t date Flash. Even fake-dating Flash would be a crime against humanity.”

You laughed. But something weird and warm fluttered in your chest.

---

Later, you were walking together toward the compound’s garage when he offhandedly said,

“I used to have this thing for Liz, but that feels like… forever ago.”

You nodded casually, but your smile dropped half a centimeter.

Used to. Past tense. Cool. Why did that sting?

“...She’s not you though,” Peter added quickly, without even looking at you.

You stopped walking.

“What?”

He blinked. “What?”

You squinted at him. “Did you just compare me with her?”

Peter turned crimson. “NO I—well—I mean yes? B-but I didn’t mean it like that, I just—I mean you’re—you’re you, and she was—wasn’t.”

You stared at him for a second. “That was maybe the dumbest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

He buried his face in his hands. “I deserve that.”

You smirked. “Yeah. But… thanks. I think? ”

You kept walking, but now your heart was doing that stupid flutter thing and you had to pretend you weren’t smiling like an idiot.

----------

Final day of the project.

You sat in the back row of PDHPE, arms crossed, watching another pair present their “reflection” with forced smiles and robotic delivery. You and Peter were up next.

Your brain was not focused on the assignment. It was spinning with the emotional chaos of the past week, the “practice” holding hands, the late-night texts, the jealousy, the way Peter looked at you like you were the only person on the planet.

Which, rude, because he wasn’t supposed to make you feel like this.

Feelings? For Peter Parker?? That was so not in your schedule.

You cleared your throat. Time to deploy your defense mechanism: Sarcasm, Stark-style.

“You ready, Fake Boyfriend?” You whispered, elbowing him.

Peter looked nervous but smiley. “Only if you’re ready, Fake Girlfriend.”

God, he had the audacity to look at you with those soft brown eyes and mean it.

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s get this cringe-fest over with.”

---

The two of you stood in front of the class. Your slideshow behind you was mostly Peter’s doing, because let’s be honest, you were good at many things, but formatting Google Slides without adding memes of your dad or the Avengers in pajama pants was not one of them.

Peter started off with the basic summary:

“Over the last seven days, we explored different aspects of relationship-building like communication, empathy, and conflict resolution—”

You cut in, deadpan:

“—And somehow didn’t kill each other. A modern miracle.”

Everyone laughed. Peter blushed. You smirked.

Then came the reflection part.

Peter shifted awkwardly. “Um. So. Personally… I learned that sometimes, pretending something is real can accidentally, maybe, kinda… feel real.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You glanced sideways. He wasn’t looking at the class. He was looking right at you.

You blinked and whispered, “Is that in the notes, or are you just going off-script?”

He shrugged, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “Off-script.”

Your heartbeat was not listening to you anymore.

You turned back to the class with a too-casual shrug. “Well. I learned that boys who bring you boba and blush a lot might actually be tolerable.”

More laughter. But your voice cracked a bit, just at the end.

---

After class.

You bolted down the hallway, trying to collect your thoughts, only to hear sneakers skidding behind you.

“Y/N—wait, hey—can we talk for a second?”

You turned, arms folded, doing your best impression of Not A Girl With Feelings.

“About what? Our fake relationship? Or the part where you made it all confusing by being, like… weirdly sweet and real boyfriend-y and—ugh—nice?”

Peter blinked. “You thought I was sweet?”

“Don’t push it.”

He stepped closer, looking a little breathless. “Okay. I know we were supposed to be pretending. But I wasn’t pretending when I said it felt real. Because… it did. You feel real.”

You stared at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He swallowed. “I mean… you’re always sarcastic and you act like nothing phases you. But I see you. You take care of people. You remember the tiny stuff. You roll your eyes, but you never walk away.”

Your wall cracked, just a little. “That’s......dumb. You’re dumb.”

Peter laughed, a little shy. “I know. But I like you anyway.”

You blinked, heartbeat absolutely feral now. “You do?”

“I-I do.”

He stepped a little closer. His voice lowered, nervous and hopeful.

“Can I kiss you? Like… for real?”

You bit your lip. “For the assignment?”

He smiled. “No. For me.”

You hesitated for a breath. Then whispered, “Okay. But just so you know… It's my first kiss but I'll still grade harshly.”

He leaned in. Gentle. Warm. Soft like a secret.

And fireworks. Literal brain static. You barely registered the way your hand reached up and grabbed his hoodie to pull him a little closer, just to be sure this was real.

When you pulled back, both of you were blushing messes.

Peter grinned. “So… real boyfriend now?”

You smirked. “Guess so, Parker. Don’t screw it up.”

-----------

Peter didn’t think the day would end like this.

Standing in the Tower kitchen. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Lips slightly swollen. Heart? Absolutely sprinting.

You were sitting on a stool across the island, trying (and failing) to hide your smirk behind a mug of tea. Because, well… your dad had entered the chat.

And he did not look thrilled.

Tony Stark stood there, arms folded, brows raised in that very I’m not mad, just… disappointed. And maybe preparing to nuke your soul kind of way.

“I thought,” Tony said slowly, “this whole ‘pretend boyfriend’ thing was for an assignment. You know. Educational purposes. Graded participation. Harmless simulation.”

Peter swallowed. “It—uh. It was. Originally. I swear.”

Tony raised one brow like he was about to pull up a PowerPoint labeled LIES.

“So when exactly,” he asked, voice dangerously calm, “did this turn into my daughter shoving her tongue down your throat on my security footage?”

You choked on your tea. Peter looked like he might faint.

“Mr. Stark, I swear, it wasn’t—like—planned, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what? Fall head-over-webs for Stark Baby #1? Accidentally catch feelings during a state-mandated fake dating project? Grow up, Parker. That’s literally the plot of every romcom ever.”

Peter blinked. “So… you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” Tony said, sipping his espresso. “I’m furious. Because I trusted you to be an awkward little nerd with no game. And here you are. Pulling moves.”

You leaned forward, grinning. “Dad. Chill. It’s not that deep.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Y/N, sweetheart, I love you. I do. But you have the worst taste. First you had a crush on Draco Malfoy when you were ten, and now this—”

“Draco was misunderstood!” You snapped.

“Yeah, well so is Parker,” Tony said, glaring at him. “Misunderstood until he’s grounded for life.”

Peter looked pale. “Am I grounded?”

“You? ” Tony snorted. “Kid, you’re not even my kid. I can’t ground you. I can just… make your life extremely inconvenient.”

You laughed. “He’s bluffing.”

“I invented bluffing,” Tony said.

Peter raised his hands, sheepish. “Look—I know this is… not ideal. But I like her. A lot. And I promise I’ll never hurt her. I mean that.”

Tony stared at him for a long, quiet moment.

Then he sighed. “Great. Now I gotta threaten a teenager with a vibranium wrench. Happy Tuesday.”

You jumped off the stool and kissed Tony on the cheek. “Love you, Dad.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll see how much when your monthly allowance suddenly evaporates.”

Peter grinned nervously. “Mr. Stark, sir? Please don’t evaporate anything. Especially..... me.”

Tony gave him a long, thoughtful look.

Then—

“Alright. Fine. Just… no funny business under my roof. And if I see you sneaking into her room again, I’m replacing your web-shooters with electric hand belts.”

Peter turned white. “Y-Yes sir.”

You blinked at Tony, all wide-eyed innocence. “Define ‘funny business,’ exactly?”

Tony groaned into his espresso.

-------

Extra: Stark Baby Got A Boyfriend

You weren’t trying to cause a scene. You really weren’t.

But you were also very much not sorry that Peter Parker—newly promoted boyfriend and your favorite fake-to-real love story—was kissing you like the world didn’t exist.

Right in front of your locker.

At 8:02 a.m.

On a Wednesday.

You were the one who pulled him in, hands in his hoodie, heart in your throat.

He stiffened for half a second, then melted. Melted like butter. His hands found your waist, hesitant but warm, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.

Your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie as he leaned in, lips warm, kiss a little messy and rushed, like he was still getting used to the whole "dating a Stark" thing.

Which, let’s be honest—he was.

And then:

“UH—EXCUSE ME??”

You both jerked apart.

Cue MJ, coffee in hand, eyes wide like she just saw a UFO.

And Ned, frozen mid-step, mouth open, brain totally buffering.

They stood there like they’d accidentally stumbled onto the craziest scene in the universe.

“You guys are—? Since when are you—??” Ned flailed his arms, “I knew something was up during that mock conflict resolution session!”

MJ pointed dramatically. “You rolled your eyes at him too affectionately. That’s how I knew.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “It’s… recent?”

“Understatement,” you muttered, smirking. “About sixteen hours recent.”

“Wha—?!” Ned shrieked. “I’ve been manifesting this since sophomore year and I still didn’t see it coming?!”

Peter chuckled, pulling you closer by the waist. “I think it surprised us too.”

And then, as if summoned by Devil himself—

FLASH THOMPSON WALKED BY.

He froze mid-strut.

Blink.

Blink blink.

Error 404: Brain not found.

You could hear his brain combusting.

“WAIT. WAIT. WHAT—WHAT IS HAPPENING—” Flash pointed. “YOU’RE—SHE’S—PARKER?! YOU’RE DATING Y/N STARK?!”

Peter blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

Flash did a double take so violent he almost tripped over his own Air Jordans. “WHAT DIMENSION IS THIS. WHAT DO YOU MEAN PENIS PARKER GOT THE STARK HEIRESS??”

You tilted your head sweetly. “Aw, Flash. You jealous?”

He sputtered. “Of—of him?! No way, I just—like—seriously?! You’re a Stark! You could date anyone! You could date, like, a Hemsworth or someone!”

You shrugged. “Yeah, but Peter actually knows how to use a brain cell. And, y’know, he doesn’t speak in protein shakes.”

Ned wheezed. MJ snorted her coffee.

Peter was still red in the face, but the smile he gave you?

Yeah, worth every second of hallway gossip.

Flash, meanwhile, walked off muttering to himself like an NPC in total glitch mode.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[tsutsumi-kurose]

god… new timeline mitsuba looking at dead mitsuba and supernatural mitsuba and being so sure that those are both the real mitsubas… feels like such an echo of supernatural mitsuba watching alive mitsuba in picture perfect... which feels like such an echo of alive mitsuba trying to be a person who will be seen and loved, who will make friends, even if that wasn’t his real self... only to realize as a ghost that his real, genuine self was already a person that someone out there could befriend and love. is there any version of mitsuba who’s not chasing some other version of himself? mitsuba is remade over and over, each time looking back at the previous version of himself and going oh, he was real.

[missmargomuse616]

Margo took him for his word about the lifespan they had and continued to in awe at the idea of that. Something told her it was more to that and wonder about his true heritage since he mention that he wasn't truly thorns brother. Maybe she would get the chance to ask loki about that another time once they get to k ow more of each other.

" the green beast? Oh you mean the hulk aka Bruce banner right? I guess the saying is true then, that he wouldn't like when he's angry huh?" Margo asked while trying to hide the smirk from her expression. She could only imagine the scene of how that whole exchange must have went down and it was a bit humorous honestly. Yet it must have been terrible for loki to go through that type of beating from someone like the hulk. However her expression also changed of worry when she noticed that haunted look. " I understand, I can't even imagine going through that..I will be sure not to bring that particular topic again. Not unless if you ever wanted to talk about that it will be of your choice."

She felt herself becoming better physically and the tea that he had was working wonders. It was her mental state that she had to have a grasp on. The feel of loki rubbing her back in a calm soothing way was nice. She never thought that this was happen. That the god of mischief offering comfort would be real.

" of course I didn't forget about that. So I guess that makes us even? I help you and you help me right?" She asked half teasing a bit. As he stood up she accepted his hand to stand up as well. " yeah I would like to watch.." her eyes look up and she had to tilt her neck at an angle cause he was taller than her. When her brain caught with her she quickly added. " I'll gladly watch how you work your charm..I mean in magic that is." She flustered after realizing how that most sound.

Margo lifted her eyebrow in shock at the mention of his age. " wow, I never would've guessed that. All those things you most have experienced in your lifetime. And to think when I first met you i thought you were in your 30s." She replied with an amazed look as her eyes did a quick once over at him. Well he was a god after all so it would make sense that he would in a way stay looking youthful.

For herself she couldn't imagine living that long if she were lucky to reach at least 90. " I have always wondered about that when the invasion happened. As much as the avengers seems like a strong capable group, i sort of thought it would be impossible to stop someone as powerful as you. With thor being involved in completely understand now. What ever it was that took control of your mind or had you go crazy must be stopped as well. Maybe by some miracle there would be a way to stop that particular being. Either I agree that staying anonymous is the best thing for you."

When loki tilted the book for her to see she gave him a small smile. Looking over the page it was still quite difficult to fully understand but there some bits and pieces that were still interesting to go through. It wasn't like she need to know any spells or anything, just to absorb the book and how different it was in comparison to what books were like here on earth.

Seconds after her looking through the book, while she had her moments of flashback to the accident they had earlier. Margo did notice loki trying to comfort her, her eyes closed as her body slightly shook. Listening to his words as he promised her that she will never safe. So wanted to believe him, had too for the sake of her family and friends as well as for herself. Taking a deep breaths, her arms crossed over herself. Margo looks over at loki.

" i really appreciate that loki..im sorry, I didnt mean to freak out like that. Its just been a crazy night and im just so thankful that things didn't get worse. Having a protection charm sounds good. Thank you."

[rafesangelita]

♡ when rafe accidentally snaps on bambi!reader

warnings: a little bit of crying, hurt + comfort

a/n: thank you so much to the anon who sent in this link <3 this little drabble is inspired by it!! i might open up req’s soon because even though i have prompt ideas already, lately i’ve just felt uninspired to write them out..

“are you almost ready?!” rafe called out from the front door, his truck keys hanging from his fingers. you didn’t respond, instead you panicked once you realized you weren’t even close to finishing your makeup. “oh, god..” you whimpered, scrambling to your feet to try and put a quick outfit together while you patted in your blush.

at your lack of response, rafe cursed under his breath before slamming the door shut and making his way to your room. “are you fucking serious?” you jumped when you heard his voice, your head shooting in his direction as you stood there, dumbfounded. your hair rollers were still wrapped tightly in your hair, your robe hanging haphazardly off your shoulders. it was needless to say you looked far from being ready.

“son of a bitch—” rafe’s eyebrows knitted together as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh falling from his lips. he was already irritated upon arriving to your place. rafe had spent all afternoon arguing with ward over some ‘cameron development’ stuff, he had deadlines he already accepted he wasn’t going to be able to meet, it was like a thousand degrees outside and to top it all off; he was hungry.

“we’re just getting something to eat, bambi. you could honestly just leave the house like this.” rafe grumbled, already moving to get ahold of your elbow and drag you out. “what?! no— ray, can you please just give me ten minutes? all i have to do is put on some clothes and finish my makeup real quick. i’ll even take my rollers out in the truck, okay?” rafe studied you for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he let out a deep breath.

“fine,” he nodded, “i’m gonna go turn the ac on in the truck, then. please try to make this fast.” you muttered an ‘okay..’ before spinning around and taking a seat at your vanity. you worked as quickly as you could, only getting as far as putting on some lip liner and lipgloss before you heard a honk outside. curling your lashes hastily, you wasted no time in slipping on a dress you hadn’t worn in a while.

grabbing your purse on the way out, you skipped down the stone walkway just in time for rafe to roll his window down. “do you have everything? your phone?” you paused. your phone was on your bed last time you saw it. “uhm, i’ll be right back..” you apologized when you saw the scowl on rafe’s face. your boyfriend shook his head when you tripped, nearly sending yourself on the ground as you rushed to go back inside. setting your purse down on the couch, you grabbed your phone and walked back out, your chest rising and falling as you tried to remain calm and collected.

“did you lock the door?” oh, you could just cry right now. “no..” you winced, walking up to the truck so rafe could give you his key. “my, god, what the hell is going on today? it’s like everyone is trying to piss me off.” you ignored his words, quicky making your way to the front door so you could lock it shut. it wasn’t until you were halfway down the driveway when you realized your purse wasn’t on your shoulder. “wait, i forgot one more thing—” that was it. you had definitely pushed rafe past his limits now.

rafe snapped, the vein in his forehead bulging out of his skin as he shouted. “holy shit, just get in the fucking truck!” he waved his hands in the air as if you couldn’t see him standing right in front of you, his volume alone making you jolt. you stared blankly at him, your chest caving in on itself as rafe blinked, both of you sharing a knowing look. rafe watched your face morph as your chin wobbled and your eyes welled up with tears.

“i’m sorry—” he exhaled, instantly wrapping his arms around you, “i’m so sorry, baby, i won’t do that again.” you sniffled, letting him embrace you. it took you having to cry to make rafe realize he’d been acting like an asshole since he got here. “you know that scares me!” you cried, the velcrow of your rollers tickling his neck. “i know, i know,” he cradled your head, pressing kisses along your cheek, “here, we’ll just order something instead, yeah? we don’t have to go anywhere.” he turned off the truck, guiding you inside by the small of your back.

[mariasont]

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life. 

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil. 

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer. 

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption  my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair. 

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near. 

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale. 

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date. 

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before. 

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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[himbosandhardwear]

Steve is rifling through Eddie's collection of magazines, while he's waiting on Eddie and Wayne to get done fixing the dryer(Wayne's fixing, Eddie's getting in the way it sounds like), when he realizes how insane the assortment is; Heavy Metal, Car and Driver, Rolling Stone, National Geographic, OMNI, MAD, even a copy of Good Housekeeping. It's all so Eddie though, to have so many varying interests. He's a little jealous, if he's being honest with himself.

"You have a lot of stuff," he comments when Eddie comes back, closing the copy of Rolling Stone.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, let me just..." He starts kicking a pile of clothes under the bed.

Steve huffs a laugh. "No, I meant you have a lot of interests." He waves the magazine. "Hobbies and stuff."

Eddie nods, continues to shove piles of stuff under the bed anyway. "I guess, yeah. I tend to jump from thing to thing though. Last night it was painting miniatures, tonight it could be writing a song. I don't really get a say in which one. Oh, nice, I've been looking for this," he says, holding up a random T-shirt.

He watches Eddie get distracted by the new discovery and leave the rest of the pile where it's at, smiling to himself as Eddie goes on a tangent about merch vendors at concerts being the real enemy of the people.

"How do you know what you like?" Steve inadvertently blurts out during a gap in Eddie's tale.

He turns toward Steve. "What do you mean?"

What does he mean? "I guess... It's just, I like cars and sports and girls. That's, like, kind of it. And since I started being friends with Henderson and Robin and you I've figured out that's, like, the most basic shit a guy could be into. Level One Dude Interests. So, I guess I just want to know how you find other things? And how will I know if I'm interested?"

"Hmm." He frowns softly. "I've never had to think about it before. I kinda just...fall into things. I like it or I don't."

"Okay, but what's it feel like?"

Eddie puts the shirt down, forgotten again in a moment, and sits. "What does it feel like when you think about cars and sports and girls?"

Steve really thinks about it. Nothing is as consuming as when he was younger, but he does remember a vague sense of excitement, a feeling of connection with the people he surrounded himself with, who shared his interests. But he hasn't felt that in a while. Maybe he wasn't as into those things as he thought, was only into the connection.

"You're having very deep thoughts over there," Eddie points out with a grin.

"Shut up." He grins back. "I think maybe I don't actually know what it feels like to like something because I like it, not just because everyone else likes it. You know what I mean?"

"Well, yes but no." He waves both hands to indicate his person and also the chaos of the room around them.

"See? This is why I'm asking you. If anyone can help me figure out what I like it's you."

Eddie slaps both hands together and rubs. "A project! Excellent idea!"

Wasn't his idea but sure.

"First we have to get you exposure to new things. Movies, TV, music, culture. Then we'll rate how you feel about each demographic. Your music taste is already improving so that's good. Movies, I'm thinking 12 Angry Men to start. Food? Authentic Mexican. We're gonna get you excited about shit!" He seems excited enough for the both of them, which is great. "Excitement is key! You want enthusiasm, yearning even. Your interests should consume your every waking thought. When I'm consuming a new hobby, I'm focused like a shark, I'm obsessed. I go to bed thinking about it and wake up thinking about it. Excited to get back to whatever it is. I wanna talk about it, share it with other people. Complete and total immersion. You wanna marry that interest. You know what I mean?"

Steve blinks at him, stunned into silence. Eddie's just described how Steve feels about him...

Oh.

Oh.

[satorena]

#INTRO2MUNCH101

summ. when suguru “eat it off the bone” geto actually turns out to be suguru “flaps the left lip until she calls it a night” geto, he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew about his skills. . . talk about a rude awakening.

cw. explicit content. foul language. fem!reader. college!au. eventual smut (but not in the way you think. . .) mild modern lingo. allusions to music artists. cunningulūs. male masturbation. reader has a belly piercing. she’s also depicted mean by the boys. gojo cameos bc i can’t not mention him. tattoo artist!geto. substance consumption. lowkeyyy self-indulgent reader. 10k wc.

rena's note. this is a spin-off to p power, so i’d suggest reading that first to understand the correlation! & shoutout to @yung-notorious for the idea <3

suguru geto is a simple man.

your pleasure is his pleasure. he’s always prided himself on being a pro at the art of cunningulus. honest— he’s always left with swollen lips, a heavily sprayed face and a solid five star ratings at the end of his work. his jaw feels tired out, scalp burning from consistent hair tugs, and his breathing uneven from lack of oxygen. but at the feel of plush thighs squeezing his face and the repetition of his name flowing into the air before getting squirted on, he remembers it’s always worth it.

no pain no gain, right?

wrong.

because here he finds himself, a hefty hour in since he first dove in between your soft legs, and there’s been absolutely no development. sprawled on your back on his sheets, arm slung over your eyes, and your breathing even. you look fucking bored, and his heart is sinking to his ass.

geto will use every trick he has in the book. he’s noticed overtime that girls have different bodies, therefore he needs different tactics to stimulate those bodies. he nips at your puffy bud, sucking on your clit for external pleasure. no use. fine, then he’ll push your thighs up some more for a deeper penetration of his fingers in your cunt— still no use. the only sounds being produced are his mouth slipping against his own saliva at your pussy because he can’t even get you wet enough.

the pit in his stomach grows larger. he wonders if maybe you’re just the silent type? he’s come across those before.

he’s getting nervous out of his mind, so shaky and uncoordinated that his hand slips and meets your lips for the umpteenth time— and only then do you release a guttural groan, the very first sound you’ve made in a long ass time. wait—

“did. . . did you cum?” he pants, pulling his sticky lips away from yours. his face feels moist, blood rushing all in his head and he’s lightheaded. but still, he has to know.

you push yourself up to your elbows, annoyance clear as day. he’s yet to seen this look on a girl after pulling every card known on the table, “yeah. . . to the wrong fucking house.”

oh fuck.

☆ ☆ ☆

he first spotted you chatting it up with your friends on the school’s soccer field, on a random tuesday afternoon, and he’s been hooked on you ever since.

the universe played a funny game, and he realized university truly is a small ass world. amongst your friends, he noticed a familiar face. one he’s been hearing and seeing of one too many times lately, on multiple separate and traumatic occasions— gojo’s girlfriend. suguru found himself bonding with her due to their familiar point of interest— that being gojo— and believes he can now make of her a friend.

geto watches his best friend’s eyes shimmer and he flashes his infamous million dollar smile. he really is obsessed with his girlfriend and she doesn’t even know— and geto finds himself wishing he had somebody he’d be this ecstatic over. must be nice.

“i’m gonna go say hi to my girl real quick,” gojo taps at his shoulder, and geto nods. he’s cool on it, he’ll wait back here until he’s done, or can make his way to his next class depending on whatever gojo and his girlfriend arrange. “you comin’?”

“i’m probably gonna head to our next lecture.” geto voices out, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time. he feels gojo peeking over his shoulder, in which he assumes to verify if that would be necessary.

over forty-five minutes. damn it.

“that’s mad pointless, class doesn’t start till more than half an hour,” gojo says, and geto doesn’t see himself waiting around that long for a lecture. no way, “just come— her friends are chill.”

fuck it, he goes. naturally, gojo is all over his girl and her friends expect it. geto does give them a little wave when gojo introduces him. one of the girls mention having heard of him through a friend— something about a failed talking stage. mad federal, and the sheepish chuckle geto offers when you give him an unreadable look makes him want to crawl into a ditch.

so now you think he’s a whore. awesome.

and gojo’s smirk definitely doesn’t help him out. he doesn’t help out at all actually, so enamoured by his girlfriend that he leaves geto to fend for himself against a pack of wolves (read: nosy girls). he replies only when spoken to, nods when necessary and throws in a few “that’s crazy,” to which the girls fail to pick up he’s out of words to say.

well, everyone except you.

you’re quiet. in fact, the whole time, you haven’t said shit to him. you sit back and observe, occasionally typing on your macbook, or reapplying your lip combo. you didn’t have any words to say to him. even when your friends would talk to you, you gave them short answers and went back to listening to whatever was playing in your airpods. he could tell from that small interaction alone, you were the mean one out of your clique.

and fuck if that didn’t make him want you more. there was just something about mean women that made him want to break through their fake ass exteriors and watch them turn all soft and chummy for him.

blame it on his corruption kink.

gojo confirms his thoughts when they’re finally on their way to class. he kissed his girl goodbye and waved off her friends, to which they all (minus you) collectively cooed, “byeee gojooo!” which he found odd, but kept silent. he gave them a small nod before following his best friend.

they’re a few steps in the science building when the words slip before he can help it, ultimately cutting gojo’s rambling off, “yo, who was that girl?”

gojo glances at him before chuckling, “there was like seven of ‘em. which one?”

“the quiet one.”

it throws him off guard when gojo laughs hard. like, really hard. it attracts the attention of bystanders, who give him a crazy look but gojo ignores. as if they’d try to press him about his volume— the two were pretty adored around campus.

geto does find his reaction quite interesting, to which he cocks a brow and offers a chuckle of his own, “what?”

“oh, you definitely mean y/n,” when his laughter dies down, he finally answers. he lifts his shades to his hairline to swipe a tear. “she’s mean as fuck, bro.”

“right?!” geto laughs, tapping at gojo’s shoulder. it only charges gojo’s laughing fit back up, “i could tell from her vibe. she gives off those ‘men ain’t shit’ girlies on twitter. whole time, she’s probably laid up in bed with one.”

“you don’t even knowww,” gojo holds his shoulder and shakes him a bit. geto does in fact know, because he’s dealt with girls like her before. they’re always a good ass time. “she does men dirty. like, absolutely dogs them. heard one phone call too many.”

oh? even better than he expected. she’s probably the type that used to love hard before getting her heart trampled on and decided to seek revenge on all men. like, on some jennifer’s body shit. geto can’t help but smirk, “lemme see for myself. put me on.”

gojo falters in his step. his grip on geto’s shoulders loosen and his expression changes— not by much, but the once lighthearted smile switches to a skeptical one, “you serious?”

geto lets out a soft sigh, shrugging gojo’s hands off his shoulders. “don’t start asking too much. i did a favour for you and your girl, didn’t i?,” well, technically speaking it wasn’t like his comment had been the deciding factor for the two, but it did open gojo’s eyes. “you owe me one.”

“i don’t owe you shit,” gojo laughs, throwing his arm around geto anyways, “buuut you’re my boy and i’m not stingy. i’ll see what i can do, i know you’ve been getting a lil jealous of wifey and i.”

“shut the fuck up.” geto’s chuckles contradict his statement.

from that point on, it’s smooth sailing. gojo texts his girl asking if she’s seeing anybody. they have a little back and forth because his girlfriend assumes he’s asking for himself— which gojo gets all dramatic and throws geto under the bus for free. welp! it all worked out anyway since after he and gojo parted, you’d thought he was fine shyt. judging from your character, he doesn’t exactly take gojo’s words for what they are.

but he’ll take the opening, it’s as good as any.

time to plot.

☆ ☆ ☆

the second encounter was purely coincidental. and simultaneously embarrassing.

see, geto prides himself on his mysterious act— granted he was anything but. people see all that is gojo and automatically assume that geto has to be the cool one. it creates a perfect balance, no?

haven’t people heard of birds of a feather flock together?

so yes, he’s also a nerd. he typically enjoys spending his wednesday afternoons at dice board cafes because why not. it’s a chill, lowkey joint right off campus and not a lot of people gravitate towards, therefore the perfect spot to camp out before his evening lecture.

besides, his buddy choso works there and it gets him discounts. it isn’t the only reason he shows up, but it does help a lot on his pockets. being a student is awful, financially.

geto sips on his choco latte through a straw, browsing through the board games pamphlet as he decides what he’s going to play today. most of these games are pretty pointless if he doesn’t have an opponent, but he likes to think it helps develop his iq. he hears avenoir playing through the cafe and knows choso’s on aux.

who else could be playing this toxic ass shit?

he’s torn choosing between snakes and ladders or chess when he hears chimes at the front door, signalling somebody’s entered the establishment. he doesn’t think much of it, going on about minding his business when he hears choso say your name.

the latte enters the wrong tube and he chokes.

geto collects himself quickly, wiping any stray liquid past his mouth as his head snaps up. you’re propped up against the counter, and though he can’t see your face, he definitely recognizes your build. . . okay, yeah that sounds fucking pervy but if he stalked your page a few times, who’s business is it but his own? it’s not like you’d know. granted, he had got caught up liking one of your older photos but he took the like right back!

he debates on walking up to you. how would that even work without seeming desperate? you’ve been checking out all of his boxes so far— your face, body and attitude (question mark) are all tens. he does want to get to know you— at least be somebody in your life. but damn, why is he overthinking this? all he has to get up there and sweet talk you. he’s done this shit before.

“yo, suguru!”

shit.

purple orbs shift towards where his name was called, and lo and behold, there stands choso. and naturally, you look back to who was summoned, but god— social media does not do your face justice. he last seen you about a week ago, and had nothing but your instagram and his memory to rely on.

he makes his way to the counter and ignores you. doesn’t spare you a glance once— though he stands right at your side and watches you watching him through his peripheral. he nods at choso, “what’s up?”

choso, ever the genius, flicks his eyes between geto and you, before clearing his throat, “shoko just texted— somethin’ about a new client. how’s the studio looking?”

“booked all week,” geto answers truthfully, and he notices you’ve shifted your gaze, “little to no openings. why though?”

choso hums, jolting down online orders into a little notebook, “not even for a special friend?”

geto squints his eyes at that. there isn’t anybody he’d call a special friend that hasn’t already been booked or wouldn’t have his number to squeeze in an appointment. granted, he is a dnd warrior but even his friends know of that quirk of his, “depends. who’s the special friend?”

“me.” and he feels his heart skip a beat. fuck. he tilts his head over to the side, and good lord, your face card gave every girl on campus runs for their money. seriously, your facial features complimented you in a way that told aphrodite— the textbook definition of beauty— to go fuck herself, and hard.

“oh?” geto cocks a brow, and lets his eyes roam up and down your frame. shameless, yes, but he has a reputation to uphold. your rest in face makes his own look like child’s play, “didn’t realize we were on special friends basis.”

you click your tongue, “didn’t realize we were on lurking spam accounts but pretend we don’t exist the next day basis either,” you quip right back, picking at the white bow glued to your acrylics.

sassy. geto chuckles, now fully turning his body around to face you. you match his movements, and he toys with a ring on his middle finger, “guess you got me all figured out,” he pauses, shifting his gaze to choso, who’s already eyeing him. “sounds like you wanted me to reach out.”

“boy please,” you scoff, pausing your nail inspection. you let your hand hang, “you choked earlier because you heard my name. that corny nonchalant act isn’t the flex you’re thinking it is,” a huff escapes your lips, and geto feels blood rushing to his face. “your lurking ass was months deep into my page just a week ago— did you find any men ain’t shit vibes from the photo dump?”

choso stifles a laugh, and when geto looks at him, it dies into a cough. well damn, you really didn’t hold anything back. read him like a book actually— and it doesn’t help that gojo can’t keep his mouth shut for shit. it widens the grin on his face. he thinks he likes you.

“well,” geto smirks, “can’t say i have— means there’s still an opening.”

you furrow your brows, “oh? an opening to what exactly?”

“an appointment, of course,” he shrugs, running a hand through his hair. his locks are getting in his face, but the messy look always gets him compliments. might as well shoot his shot, “you know. . .” leaning his chin into the palm of his hand, “for a special friend.”

his double entendre definitely doesn’t go unnoticed by you. he watches how, despite the mean mugging, there’s a glint of mischief in your eyes. you’re squinting just slightly, almost as if you were weighing out the pros and cons. geto won’t break the eye contact first— he’s on a mission. he hopes the tired eyes look will be on his side this time.

tattoo or dick appointment— he would one hundred percent make an opening for you. anything to get his hands on your body.

“are we still talking about the tattoo parlour or . . .”

both you and he turn to choso, who’s watching the situation unfold. just count on him to ruin the mood, whether the obliviousness was feigned or not. choso tightens his brows at the look geto shoots him, “what?”

“i’m gonna head out,” you grab at your handbag, hopping of the seat. nicely played choso. you gather your items and slip them in your purse, sliding a few bucks across the counter. choso grabs the bills and stick them in the tip jar, nodding at her. “catch you in poly sci?”

“if you don’t skip again.” choso snorts and you flip him off, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you turn on your heel and make your way towards the exit, ultimately dismissing geto. that doesn’t feel too nice, he should probably stop that bad habit.

he rises to his feet before he can help it. his hand grabs at your wrist and notices how much smaller it seems in comparaison to his, and he hates the next words that leave his mouth, “what about me?”

you glance down at his hold on you, before looking back up at him, “what about you?” your face says everything your lips haven’t— you’re getting the ick.

he wants to wince. okay, yeah that was corny, “when do i get to see you?”

you drag out a mini hum, your gaze dancing over his silver chain around his collarbone, “dunno. you have my socials so i assume in the next hour.”

he tilts his head to the side, and the pad of his thumb grazes over your smooth skin. he doesn’t fail to notice the way your hand stiffens under his touch, “so if i slide in your dms in the next hour, i can expect an answer?”

a snort leaves your chest, and he can’t tell if it’s a condescending one or an amused one. what he does know, however, is that he’s going to be seeing you sometime soon. you take your hand back into your possession before laying it in the dead centre of his chest, pushing him back just slightly, “i’ll see you around, geto.”

his eyes trail over your figure, every step you take out of the establishment, slightly starstruck by the entirety of you— your boldness. the thrill he was beginning to feel felt like a high. he hasn’t met anybody this entertaining in a while.

“you’re so fucking corny.” he thinks he hears choso insult him from behind. he doesn’t pay him any mind, despite the middle finger that tips towards the ceiling. partynextdoor blasts in the cafe, specifically freak in you, and he hates how he finds himself relating to the lyrics,

room full of beautiful women but he only wants one.

☆ ☆ ☆

“you stalking me, pretty?”

“sure,” you nod your head, raking through the items on the clothing rack. you don’t spare him a single glance, picking a top off the rack and inspecting it, “if stalking means visiting the busiest thrift store on the busiest hour in the busiest city.”

geto lets out a small laugh, shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargos. you make him feel like a nuisance, like he’s a pest wasting your time. ironic, seeing as he wasn’t that much of a bother just last night, when you’d been indulging him in your inbox, “of course you’re the thrifting type.”

you pause your actions, price tag in your fingers as you side eye him through locks of your hair, “and you’re not?”

“didn’t mean it in a bad way, sweetheart.” geto shrugs, pulling off a cropped baby tee and bringing towards you. it has sequins sewn in the material, the gems writing out juicy couture. “this would suit you— belly piercing and whatnot.”

the top is cute, there was no denying so. a pretty shade of pink that suited your complexion, but letting his ego inflate bigger than it already was out of the question. he could tell your thought process from the judgmental look you offered, “oh god—you’re one of those fake ass, streetwearing fashionistas, aren’t you?”

geto blinks a few times, before letting out a sincere laugh. he’s been called a multitude of things before, but that one was new, “you got all that from me suggesting you buy this juicy couture tee? don’t all girls fiend over this vintage shit?”

“it’s that corny ass personality of yours,” you grab the shirt, throwing it in your cart. he wants to make a comment on that, but you beat him to the chase, “the phoney nonchalant act, the streetwear, your insta aesthetic— you’re so scripted.”

“my insta aesthetic?” he repeats, and doesn’t miss a step to catch up to you. your hands are back on the handle of your shopping cart, and if the way his elbows bump into your shoulders bothers you, you don’t make point in commenting on it. “who’s the lurker now, hm?”

you roll your eyes, pushing the strolley ahead, “don’t let it get to your big ass head. your feed screams you’re those toxic ass brent faiyaz wannabes,” he watches your fingertips rake through more clothings that pass your way, before you shoot him a glance, “let me guess— he showed on your spotify wrapped.”

his silence speaks volumes, and you click your tongue, “see? scripted.”

“and what about you?” geto counters when you make a pit stop. you pull away from your cart when a denim skirt catches your eye. you lift the skirt up to your eyes, before looking over your shoulder, cocking a brow.

“what about me?”

“the tweet reposts, the song choices for your highlights, the whole spiritual baddie persona,” he presses behind you, his chest meeting your back. he rests his chin atop your head, purple eyes landing on the clothing article that’s lowering in your hold, “if my page gives brent then yours definitely gives jhene.”

you’re mute for a second, and you chuck the skirt into the cart. you pull away from beneath him, spinning on your feet to face him, and you’ve got a scowl on your lips, “what’s wrong with jhene?”

“and you call me the toxic one.” geto pokes at your cheek. you swipe his hand away, and he laughs, “don’t get me wrong though— she makes good music. but let’s not act like she’s all innocent either,” his gaze lowers to your glossy lips, the fullness of the pair hypnotic, “a real freak. should i call you my pussy fairy?”

“do not,” you reply, weaving around him to make your way back to your cart. geto laughs, snatching a few things of the racks before dumping them in your stuff. you give him a deadpanned look and he whistles it off, feigning ignorance. “jhene’s a lovergirl. thought i was part of the men ain’t shit community.”

“you’re not gonna let that go, are you?” geto sighs. he owes gojo another thump in the head.

you roll your eyes, “thank your homeboy for that.”

“two things can be true at once,” geto fiddles with the hem of his jacket. he’s back at walking step by step with you, and you haven’t told him to fuck off yet, so he’s going to milk the opportunity out. “you’re mean but a lovergirl. you hate men but a real freak with them. right or wrong?”

you halter in your steps, and geto’s now a few steps ahead of you, so he looks over his shoulder to meet your bored expression, “i know you’re not trying to read me in the middle of value village.”

“no better time than the present,” he smiles, one that creases a dimple in his cheeks. “come on up— what are you waiting for?”

you stare at him some more, inhaling sharply, “mind you, i never invited you to join me,” you shake your head but comply regardless. cute, looks like you’re enjoying his company more than you’re letting on.

so he graces you his presence some more. he shops along with you, sneaks clothes into your cart when you’re distracted and asks you stupid questions. it’s a good time— to him at least, being able to get to know you some more without interruptions. naturally, you feign that his company is the bane of your existence, but he doesn’t miss the twitch of your lips when he taps his card into the reader at the check out.

hell yeah he’s got money to spend and is willing to show off if it means getting on your good side.

it’s only after he helps you bag your shit into your car, that he realizes this is where the both of you part ways. it annoys him slightly, but he doesn’t need to overstep his boundaries. he closes your trunk and makes his way to the driver’s side, where you’re already buckled up.

he taps at your window and the glass rolls down all the way, to which he leans forward. he’s in your line of sight now and you sigh, tilting your head sideways, “what?”

“do i get a goodbye kiss?” geto teases, honest, the boyish smirk he offers accentuating the playful undertone. the last thing he expects is you shifting in your seat, pushing yourself up and peaking your head out the window.

his smirk drops, brows jumping to his hairline. you’re really fucking close now, and for a split second he thinks you’re actually going to do it. he can see the flecks of colours swimming in your orbs, the tip of your nose bumps into his and your breath fans his cupid’s bow.

fuck, you smell really good. he bets you taste even better. his mouth is running dry, mindlessly darting his tongue out to wet his own lips. he doesn’t realize he’s let himself lean into your space, eyes narrowing on your mouth parting over his.

he’s pulled out of his trance when two fingers press at his forehead and push. he blinks his lashes, snapping back to reality as you sit back into your seat. you look amused— as if you’d played the funniest game right in his face and he’d been the star player.

“i’ll see you around, geto.”

and you drive off.

☆ ☆ ☆

“come back in a few weeks for a checkup. we’ll make sure the healing process is running smoothly. i’ll catch you soon.”

he lets out a tired sigh when the door finally closes, slumping into his seat and shuts his eyes. he’s exhausted— having woken up early for lectures and labs to back to back appointments with clients. this time around, the parlour is always booked and busy. students find it the perfect timing to get tatted to let it heal before showing it off in the summer.

it’s smart for them but idiotic for him. midterms are up, and the only time he has to study is in between appointments. he slides off his gloves and drags his seat towards his desk, redirecting his attention focus towards the blinding screen.

he feels a headache building at his temple, sipping at his iced coffee to keep him energized. contradicting, sure, but you didn’t have the luxury to be a beggar and a chooser when you were a full time student. the parlour he ran resided in his loft apartment, on the second floor. he enjoyed the comfort of his own home, spacious room and wide windows compared to outside stores.

his cat, nanako, purrs at his feet and he feels his heart swell. if there was one weakness he had in this world, it’d be her. he picks her up from the floor, presses her at his rib cage and nuzzles his nose in her fur.

“hi baby,” geto coos, and nanako lets out a sound. he continues to coddle her, fluffing her fur and rubbing at her ears, “it’s been pretty lively in here, hasn’t it? i knowww,” he coos, and as if nanako understands his words, she makes a pitiful sound that slightly shatters his heart.

geto decides to place her on his lap, her company serving plenty of motivation as he rolls back to his desk. he grabs the remote to his built-in speakers, turning the volume higher, before locking back in. exams are full of crap, and words are starting to jumble on his screen— he’s beginning to contemplate if this education shit is even worth the stress.

he’s an hour deep in jolting notes down on his ipad when he hears a knock at his front door. he scrunches his brows and glances at his agenda— he isn’t due for an appointment until another few hours. he sits it out, starting to believe he’d maybe imagined the sound. he knows it isn’t gojo since he’s celebrating an anniversary with his girl, and any other friend would’ve called to let him know they’re outside.

probably some jehovah witness shit, he thinks to himself, fingers hovering over his speaker remote to crank the volume back up. he turns back to his laptop screen, petting nanako mindlessly when his ipad flashes an instagram notification.

yourstruly.yn: open up

he jumps to his feet, chair rolling back. nanako flies to his desk, landing on all fours as she hisses at him for his suddenness. geto grabs her and kisses her ear, “sorry baby,” before sitting her on the floor. she walks off to her mini bean bag right at the foot of his desk, and he senses an attitude coming from her.

damn, he’d forgotten he squeezed you in last night in the midst of his sweet talking. that was truly a stupid move, he was already behind on studying, and because he likes to think with his head instead of his actual head, he’d fall even further behind.

he checks around the flat— picks up stray wrappers and fixes throw pillows, arranges his sheets. he was a clean man for the most part— he had been so distracted with his studies that there wasn’t much to dirty in the first place. his candles had already been lit so he knew the place smelled fine. he’s pretty positive his loft is clean enough to leave a good first impression.

he fixes loose hairs and straightens out his hoodie and sweats. thank fuck he’d showered not too long ago— he’s beginning to understand why his mother was always so insistent on being clean in case of random pop ups.

when he does finally open the door, there you stood. it was pretty chilly outside this time around, so he wasn’t surprised by the harsh wind flowing in and the clutch of your coat in your hold. your nose began reddening, and you sniffled, scowling from the cold.

you’re so cute, he sends you a smile, “hey.”

“hi,” you replied, sniffling again. “you ever planning on letting me in?”

“dunno,” he crosses his arms over his chest. he leans against the doorframe, ignoring the way he was starting to feel the frosty wind setting in his bones, “maybe if you ask nicely.”

you shoot him a deadpanned look, “move.”

“no.” geto smiles, “try again.”

“move, now.” a small pout is starting to form on your lips. he really liked testing your patience, since it always seemed to run low. you must’ve met your match— because geto always had time to fuck around.

“close, but not quite.”

“oh my goddd,” you groan, and that’s when he decides to let up. it really is colder than a bitch outside and he’d already kept you waiting while tidying up. he lets out a chuckle when you turn to the side, “i’m leaving— too damn cold for this.”

“alright, i’m playing,” geto widens the door. you stop your movements and glare at him. he aims an arm towards the inside of his loft, “don’t go, come in.”

you grumble something beneath your breath but comply, walking right past him. he follows behind you, shutting the door close and is immediately greeted back with warmth. you slip your shoes off and place them on the rack, before stepping in further into his apartment.

he slides his hands into his sweatpants’ pockets, catching up to you in the living room. your head is tilted upwards as you inspect the place though you remain in place. he stands beside you, bumping his shoulder into your arm, “so? up to your standards?”

you’re quiet for a while, letting your eyes roam around as the words build in your mind, “it’s typical,” you shrug but don’t elaborate. you’ve been staring at an art piece he’d done first year when he was fried out of his mind. you shift your gaze back to him, “where do i put my shit?”

“you can leave it in my bedroom, if that’s fine.” geto suggests and you nod wordlessly, to which he leads you to the second floor. he’s walking up the stairs and prays he doesn’t fall flat on his face— his socks can be a real bitch sometimes.

you both make it to his bedroom, with you trailing a little behind. he grabs a hanger from his mobile clothing rack, stretching an arm out to you, “i’ll hang your jacket here.”

you slide off the coat from your frame and hand it to him, to which he hangs on the rack. you circle around his bedroom with your tote on your shoulder, while he makes his way back to next to his desk. it’s pretty quiet for the most part, besides the music playing gently in the background.

your gaze lands on the cluttered items on his desk, noticing the half empty cup of coffee, notebooks and ipad on display, “did i catch you at a bad time?”

“honestly? yeah,” geto shrugs, before motioning at your tote bag. you slip it off and hand it to him, to which he sits at his nightstand, “but it’s my fault anyway, i squeezed you in a busy time. you know how exam season gets.”

“i can always reschedule,” you offer, checking your phone screen for the date, “it’s not that deep.”

“i don’t want you to leave,” geto slumps back into his seat and heaves out a sigh. he spins the chair around to catch you giving him a flat look. he leans back in his seat and spreads his thighs, smirking, “would you stay?”

“depends. are you going to be studying?” you quip, crossing your arms back to your chest.

geto ponders on what to say next. it’s not like he doesn’t want to tatt you up, but he really is caught in a bind. he also doesn’t want you to leave— not when he’s been wanting to see you since the last time he’d seen you. does he prioritize his wants or his needs?

he hums, “i’ll do whatever you want me to.”

you roll your eyes, scoffing as you make your way to his nightstand. for a second, he thinks you’re getting ready to leave and a weird feeling of disappointment settles in his gut. instead, you grab the bag and sit on the edge of his bed, pulling out your macbook and crossing your legs.

he smiles at that, “attagirl.”

“corny.” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip as you begin typing away.

there’s a comfortable silence that fills the room. he’s back to browsing through his lecture notes, noting down valuable information and memorizing terminology. you don’t say anything either, but the sound of your nails typing at your keyboard blends well with his r&b playlist playing. sounds like you’re writing down an essay or report, depending on whatever your major is.

about half an hour into the silence, does he decide to break it. he looks over his shoulder to where you’re settled on his bed, “you good?” he checks up on you, and you let out a burnt out sigh. he knows exactly how you’re feeling.

“i guess,” you huff, twirling your necklace. your eyes are stuck on your screen, brows creasing into a scowl, “this shit is frying my brain though.”

“what are you writing?” he indulges, dropping his apple pen back onto his desk and spins in his seat to face you. maybe he’s also in due of a break— he’d rather be talking to you anyway.

“this crim report,” you answer, picking at your nail, “it’s not exactly hard but mad lengthy. i have to write a ten page report based on this article and how it contradicts societal norms.”

“ten pages?” geto whistles, rubbing at his chin. he’s settled deeper in his seat, naturally manspreading. you’re much better than him, he would’ve given up before even starting— reports were not his thing, “how far are you in?”

“i started this morning,” you hum, “so i’m four pages in.”

geto nods, “and when is it due?”

“tomorrow night.” you push your laptop off your lap. you close the screen shut and stretch out your legs, releasing a breathy moan as you relax your thighs. “i’ll do this shit later— my head’s starting to hurt.”

geto swears he’s never been so in sync in thought. he dismisses the idea of studying the second you had closed your macbook. probably a bad idea but at the moment, he couldn’t care any less, “want some entertainment?”

you cock a brow, “don’t say no stupid shit.”

“twenty one questions,” geto speaks nonetheless and finds himself beaming brightly when you scoff, “can’t a guy want to get to know you better?”

you ease yourself on his bed, slumping into his sheets as you exhale. you shift onto your side— a sinful curve at your side— tucking your knees and lean your head into your palm, “oh fuck off,” a breathless laugh and nanako makes her presence known, hopping right by you in the space between your body and the edge of the bed, “didn’t know you had a cat. she’s cute.”

“how’d you know she was a she?” geto wonders, surprised just slightly by how welcoming nanako was around you. she purred when you stroke at her fur, nuzzling further into your chest. nanako hated everyone— especially gojo, who unironically visited the most.

“instinct,” you shrugged but there’s a faint smile on your lips. not directed towards him, but his baby, “i also have a cat— he’s a fucking menace though.”

that’s one thing in common already, “like mother like son,” geto grins lazily when you flip him off mindlessly, and when you raise nanako in both your hands, he’s ready to warn you she isn’t a big fan of sudden movements— but when she mewls, the same sound she makes when geto brings home a new toy, the words die down in his throat.

he observes you both silently. you cradle nana as if she were a newborn infant, adoring and loving yet simultaneously careful and steadily. you’re cooing, calling her a sweet girl and rubbing at her ear, and nanako accepts you rather easily— too easily.

“woah.” was this those non-sexual turn ons people spoke about? for somebody so mean, you were oddly gentle with pets. he liked that— really liked that, so much that he pulls his phone out and snaps a photo of you two. but of course, because the universe loves to see him fumble, the flash goes off.

your head snaps to the side and he freezes. you narrow your eyes at him, slowly lowering nanako, “did you just—”

“so!” geto cuts you off, chucking his phone back onto his desk. it makes a loud cluttering sound, damn near knocks his drink all over, but ignores it, “my turn. what’s your cat’s name?”

“milo. and don’t cut me off—”

“milo the menace,” he cuts you off regardless, not wanting to have to decipher just what exactly possessed him to do that. he’s never done so, and he wasn’t about to explain why he’d done it just now. deflecting king! “i need to see the little guy. got any pics?”

you huff, extending a hand behind you to find your phone. when you clutch onto the device, you swing your legs off the bedside, always careful with nanako clinging to your lap. you lay her down on the floor, much to her dismay, before making your way towards him.

his eyes are stuck on your body before his mind can tell him to stop. not like it mattered much, your own eyes glued to your phone screen as you searched for the pictures he’d asked. you’ve got a matching tracksuit on— though the hoodie is cropped, thus exposing your navel piercing. he’d always had a thing for those, the pretty good jewel dangling below the button.

it didn’t help that your thong straps sat atop your waist.

he spreads his legs further open, and you stop right in between. for a moment, you’re stuck on your phone, and geto really wants to get those thighs straddling him. you look delectable— he’d pin your knees to your damn ears, sprawled on your back, and eat you out until you pleaded him to stop.

your hair was pulled back into a bun, and from this angle, he spotted scripture at the column of your neck. there was wording inked in arabic, and he made a mental note to ask you what it meant later.

geto leans back into his seat when you fold forwards, and he gets a good whiff of your vanilla scented perfume, tingling his senses in the best way, “found it?”

you nod your head, swiping through your gallery, “yeah, my bad,” you have a folder named ‘mimi’ and as expected, was filled off candid photos of your cat. he pays attention as you slide your finger on your screen, selfies of you both in the morning passing by.

“cute,” he isn’t talking about the cat, and his gaze flicks from the screen to your face. there’s still a considerate amount of space between you both, but he can see your eye colour much clearer this close up. you blink your lashes at him and he smirks, “anything else you wanna show me?”

you sniff, “don’t be gross.”

“i meant of milo,” geto definitely didn’t mean of milo. you cock a brow skeptically, and he mirrors the look, though the smile on his face grows, “what a cute lil thing,” his voice lowers and his words trail off. there’s a beat of a pause for a while, and his gaze falls on the plumpness of your lips, “you gonna let me pet your kitty?”

another beat of silence. you’re staring at his lips, and he wonders what you’re thinking. he can tell you’ve picked up on what he’s laying down (hopefully you in the next few minutes) but he can’t tell what your next move will be.

“depends. . .” a soft whisper, and he feels your breath fanning over his cupid’s bow. you flick your eyes back at him, and he finally understands the whole siren eyes shit. through lidded eyes, your stare is intense— simultaneously pulling him in closer while pushing him back. you’re toying with him, and the hand he slides up from your thigh to your ass is enough fuel. “you any good?”

he brings a second hand to the other ass cheek, and urges you onto his lap. you comply, looping your arms at the back of his neck. he feels your nails grazing at his scalp and he holds back a lethal shudder. your weight feels amazing against him— his hard on poking and making its presence well aware.

“i’d like to think i am,” he knows he is, but playing humble always goes a long way. he lets his hands run over the cup of your ass, trails back up to your hips, and slides a finger beneath the thong strap. when he snaps the material at your skin, your back arches and you press your chest against his own.

“well,” you exhale when he noses into the crook of your neck, right above your tattoo. he’s littering wet kisses at your hot skin, your taste ever so sweet against his tongue. god, you must taste divine. at your jugular, he’s able to imprint your perfume into his mind. “only one way to find out.”

geto hums at that, relishing in the way you moan at a particular suck, and focus on nibbling at that spot once more. you’re tilting your head for easier access, hips grinding against his own for better friction. your hands are soft and cautious— they trail from his nape down to his chest, and further down to his waistband.

he’s on go, ready for whatever timing you’re on. though, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out by the way your fingertip traces right above his pelvis, that you’re both on the same page. he drags his lips from the column of your neck up to your jaw, and stops right above your parted lips.

he has another cocky remark on the tip of his tongue, in typical suguru fashion, but you beat him to the chase, glossy lips pressing against his. the kiss is short and definitely leaves him wanting more when you pull back as soon as you’d leaned in— but you’re a mere centimetre away.

you whisper, not before another kiss, “don’t disappoint me, suguru.”

and he’s never ran into bed so fast.

☆ ☆ ☆

the door slams shut.

he’s left with a painfully hard reminder in his sweats that he fucked up bad. he thinks he dissociated a little between the labia flapping to the coat zipping. it’s only when he notices that instead of hearing lip smacking sounds, he hears bryson tiller’s lame ass (no shade, his ego is simply wounded), that you really left.

fuck.

geto rushes back to his bedroom, the walk of shame up the steps enough to make him want to jump off— as he takes out his phone, immediately goes through his contact list and presses on the name. it rings twice before the call gets picked up.

“yooo!”

“you still busy?” geto asks, voice hoarse as he flops down on the edge of the bed— his now empty bed. damn.

“nah, just dropped off wifey,” gojo replies. he hears music playing faintly in the back, as well as the sounds of honking. he must still be in the car, “why, what’s up?”

“i fucked up.” geto sighs, running a hand over his face.

“oh?” he isn’t surprised to find out gojo’s surprised. he’s still surprised by how the events turned out and it’s barely been ten minutes, let alone five. “say no more, i’m on my way.”

geto hangs up. he throws the phone away, before falling flat onto his bed. he picks up your scent on his sheets, your warmth slowly disappearing— another painful reminder he messed up. where he’s expecting a wet patch of anything on his duvets, he finds nothing. zip. nada.

his eyes fall shut, “shit.”

☆ ☆ ☆

“and that’s pretty much the gist of it all.”

he exhales a cloud of smoke. more silence. geto’s starting to get sick of all this silence. it was radio silence with you and now even more radio silence from gojo. his hand never stops to rub at nanako, who’s been serving as a cuddling partner in this grand moment of crisis. the only person to ever have his back.

so, geto knew that confiding in his best friend this secret of his would be risky for a multitude of reasons. for starters, geto never fucks up. this would be ultimate blackmail content for him, and geto honestly doesn’t blame him. for two, he was just giving gojo shit about never having eaten pussy. that’s just downright humiliating. and for three, he has a girlfriend who he doesn’t keep anything from. on top of that— his girlfriend is friends with the main culprit here.

overall a bad idea. he does it nonetheless, because satoru is his best friend despite it all. he isn’t too shocked when the silence is filled with bellyaching laughter, though.

“wait— i’m cryinggg,” more laughter. gojo’s now kicked his feet off the couch and is doubling forward. his shades bounce off his head and hit the leg of the coffee table. he doesn’t pause his laughing fit one bit, not even when geto throws a throw pillow his way.

it bounces off his big head and geto scoffs, bringing the joint back to his lips, “oh fuck off.”

“my fault man,” gojo apologizes though he doesn’t sound apologetic. he’s leaning forward to grab his shades back, and he’s back to swiping stray tears. “that was a good laugh— shit.”

geto hums at that, extending the blunt towards him,“glad to hear my misery has brought you entertainment.”

“see, you get it!” gojo jokes, welcoming the joint. seems like he got cocky, however, his laughing mood not quite over as he inhales. he quickly chokes on the smoke, which fades back into cackling, “oh shit—”

geto sneers, annoyance quickly rising, “quit fucking around or pass it back.” he was being pissy, yes, but his pride had been curb stomped. and it hadn’t even been an hour ago!

“nah, nah, i’m good,” gojo waves him off, despite his free hand tapping at his chest. he collects himself soon enough, and takes another hit. this time it’s successful. geto lowkey hoped it would get caught in his throat again.

“sooo,” gojo drags out, melting into the couch, “what now.”

“what now?” geto parrots.

“what’s the next move?” gojo elaborates, fingertip tapping at the blunt, and ashes fall into the tray. the end of the stick crumbles in the same way geto’s ego had earlier. “you’re gonna keep letting her think you suck at giving head?”

geto throws his head back and sighs tiredly, “what else is there to do?” he hears the sound of sizzling in the background, “i fumbled bad, bro. you don’t think she already posted about me in her girls’ private story?” more sizzling and exhaling, “i’m the storytime of the day!”

he feels gojo nudge his thigh with his foot. he looks back and the joint is presented to him. he gladly accepts it.

“what even happened?” gojo wonders. and oh boy, if that isn’t the question of the day. geto is still trying to find the answer to that. had it been out of nervousness? had he gotten too cocky? had it been her?

“i honestly wish i could answer that,” geto slips the roach into his mouth. “i didn’t feel nervous until after i realized she wasn’t fazed,” he drags out a hit and ghost inhales, “maybe it was a sign from above— to shut the fuck up sometimes.”

“maybe,” gojo snorts, throwing his legs over geto’s lap. nanako hisses at the intrusion, but the white haired man ignores her, “don’t let yourself go out sad like this. hit her back up— whatever happened to loving challenges?”

“what kind of fucked up ass challenge is this?” geto mumbles, mainly to himself.

“if i was in your shoes— which i’d never be,” because he’s gojo, he feels the need to add, “i’d put my pride aside and talk to her. like no homo shit, but you’re a great eater— yeah, no, i’m taking that back instantly.”

geto looks as horrified as he feels, “quickly, even.”

of course, gojo laughs but proceeds, “the point is, you know you’re good at it. everybody fucks up once in a while— don’t let it define you though. think of it as a minor setback for a major comeback— if you care enough, you’ll put your pride aside and do something about it. if you’re this down about it, then it must mean something to you.”

geto can’t tell anymore whether gojo’s talking about the failed pussy eating attempt or you. regardless, he knows there’s truth to his words. has to be the weed talking.

“and who made you the pussy connoisseur?” geto snorts, pressing the bud of his joint in the tray. it sizzles weakly as he kills it, starting to feel that high course through his veins.

gojo sighs dreamily, “why my lovely lady, of course.”

“looks like she taught you well,” geto relaxes himself into the tight space of the couch, settling nanako on his chest. it’s now his turn to nudge gojo with his foot, his sock-cladded toe digging at his jaw. “woulda never expected this from a rookie just a few months ago.”

“well duh,” gojo swipes his foot away, “i aced that course. got my phD in cunningulusophy and all. even won valedictorian.”

geto laughs, resting his lids. he was starting to feel sleepy, indica will do that to you, “enroll me in whatever class you took— i may need to slut myself out for extra credit. my prof’s a tough nut to bust.”

“intro to munch 101,” gojo nods his head, shutting his eyes close as well. there’s a comfortable silence that fills the air for a while. and despite the fact that his sight manipulated, he could hear the smirk dripping off his tone, “if you ever need a letter of recommendation, i got you— alumni’s honour.”

“oh fuck off,” a mixed harmony of laughter and vibrating chests.

☆ ☆ ☆

fun fact: suguru geto loves showers.

the aroma of cleanliness enhanced by thick fog. the scorching water droplets trickling down his skin, the vulnerability of his nakedness inside these four walls. he strangely feels most at ease, most raw in this moment of solitude.

he’s able to gather himself too. there isn’t much to accomplish in a shower once you’ve gotten rid of the day’s dirt. so, he likes to take the opportunity to think. to think deep and hard.

his mind’s all scrambled up. it’s been about three days since you were last in his apartment, two days since he’d thought about it, and a day since he last seen you (granted it’d been on your story, virtually, but still).

this has been the biggest feat he’s faced in a while. if he recaps it, this is what’s he gotten: he invited you over. you came the next day. he didn’t cater to you the sole reason you came. you didn’t mind. you both studied for a bit. he asked about your cat. you ended up on his lap. he ended up in bed with you. you ended up leaving with a chunk of his dignity.

that didn’t explain shit, but it did remind him of his failure. it reminded him that he’d finally met his match. it reminded him he needs to start backing his shit up. it reminded him of how good you smelled and tasted down there. it reminded him of how pretty you looked.

his cock twitches and he glances down. it also reminds him he never ended up cumming, too engrossed in his anxiety to jerk one out.

he feels as though the glass doors of his shower protect him from reality. he’s hard, though mortified, but still hard. he’d spent a long time (two days) suppressing the memory away, but there was no way to mistaken your taste on his tongue. how sweet you smelled. how soft you felt—

geto fists at his dick before he can help it. his free hand plants at the wall before him, and he works his wrist. he twists at his shaft slowly and closes his eyes— behind his lids are photographic memories of you on his lap. memories of you on his bed. memories of the scent of your panties. memories of your tits in his mouth.

sure, you’d made more sounds off the foreplay for the foreplay— but that didn’t take away how turned on he’d been. how his dick twitched in his boxers. how he’d humped the mattress. how he’d moan in your cunt.

“y/n,” geto moans your name, sinful yet hushed, his hand working faster. his thumb grazes his over slit and his gut drowns in heat. he wants a redo. he deserves a redo— you deserved a redo. “fuckkkk,”

next time, he’ll get it right. and if he doesn’t, then he’ll want to try again and again and again— until it ends with your cunt clenching around his tongue and his face sprayed vigorously in your essence. until your thighs tremble around his face, your hand clawing at his hair and your back arched off his bed. until his name bounces off his walls and echoes so loudly his neighbours complain.

he wants a redo.

he jerks back as he paints the tiles white. the joints in his hand ache, the water from the shower head getting colder. geto pants heavily, chest heaving as his load is released from him. his cum drips from the wall and into the drain at his feet— but his dick is far from well spent. if he spends another hour in the shower, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

suguru geto loves showers.

☆ ☆ ☆

“oh. you actually showed.”

“redo,” geto pants, having sprinted from his apartment. he’d spent the next three days after his shower incident wallowing some more— at some point, it just annoyed him. though slightly underwhelming, he was on his phone in bed a few minutes ago, going through his camera roll when he’d seen that picture he took of you and nanako. his feet guided him to his car before he could help it. choso helped him out with the address.

“redo?” you parrot his words, leaning against your doorframe. you crossed your arms over your chest, and it’s only then he noticed your appearance— flimsy camisole and pink lace panties. fuck, he wants a redo now.

“i want a redo.” geto repeats, but is quickly hit with a gust of wind. he hadn’t brought a jacket with him in the midst of his impulse, and goosebumps were beginning to form at his skin. he shoots his shot, “you ever planning on letting me in?” talk about deja vu.

“dunno,” you play along, eyes narrowing. “maybe if you ask nicely.”

swallow your pride, he hears gojo somewhere in the back of his mind. he shakes that thought off quickly. this desperation had to be bigger than a pride issue— he was ready to get on his knees and beg her to let him in. pride? that had been drained to the sewers the second he busted all over his shower days ago.

“lemme in and i’ll make it up to you,” geto tries instead, taking a step closer, “please?”

that seemed to be the correct answer as you push open the door to your apartment further. you turn your back and geto lets himself drink up your backside— he hadn’t seen it last time but you had dimples sitting right above your perky ass. he watches your hips sway left and right, and even tilt your head back, a smirk etched on your face, “you comin’?”

you will be, “cute.” his lips twitch into a small smile, and closes the door behind him.

☆ ☆ ☆

fool him once? shame on him.

geto doesn’t allow himself to make the same mistakes twice. if one fuck up is enough to tear him down for a week straight then why the hell would he do it again?

you’re sprawled on your back, legs spread with enough space to fit his body in between. his hands plant on either side of your face, his bulge pushed up against your core. he feels your warmth through these layers of clothes, and he rolls his hips greedily, feeling himself already grow addicted. your chin is raised high, lids blown open as you stare at him all doe-eyed.

his brows pinch in the centre of his forehead. that faux look of innocence you’re offering is doing wonders to his dick. your tits sit beautifully beneath your top, arms back on him as you pull him in closer, and he lets himself fall prey to you. for a moment, the tip of his nose bumps into yours, lips ghosting over the other, hips colliding to meet yours.

“mhm, that’s it.” you let out a sigh, throwing your head back into your pillows. there’s an opening to your neck calling his name, and geto wastes no time to latch his lips there. he slips a hand beneath your tank top, fingernails grazing over your skin to creep up to your mounds. he flicks a thumb over the bud and you sigh blissfully again— he then cups the flesh.

he loves the way you squirm when he kisses down your body, “i got you, pretty,” stripped from your cami, his lips leave open mouthed marks all over your skin. from the column of your neck, to your breasts, down your torso and past your navel, “let me take care of you.” the lower he gets, the more intense your rawness reeks— and it’s a damned good smell.

he lands right above your clothed pelvis, and he inhales sharply. he won’t make the same mistake this time, he can feel it. there’s something lingering in the air, something indescribable— but he’s confident he won’t. because when he skips your cunt in favour to pamper your inner thighs, dragging his wet tongue all over erogenous zones, he spots dampening right where your clit would be.

bingo.

your hand cradles his hair, and the other props your body up by the elbow. he glances up at you, cock throbbing against your mattress. your beauty still renders him speechless— runs his throat dry and makes his tongue feel heavy. he doesn’t want to decipher what this means either, and decides to conclude he’s simply thirsty for you.

“suguru,” you call at him. he blinks and the hand in his hair snakes down his neck, and pushes him deeper. his nose nudges at your throbbing clit, and his tongue peeks out of his mouth to lick at the damp material before he can help it. two fingers hook at your panties and push them to the side, revealing glistening folds. your slick drips between your crack and stains your sheets. he thinks he hears his stomach growl a little.

another swipe of his tongue, this time in contact with the raw you, and a breathless moan rips from you, “don’t disappoint me this time.”

and he feasts.

☆ ☆ ☆

gojo’s woken up to a notification from his phone.

it’s still pretty late— or maybe early, and his pretty girlfriend is miles away in lalaland. she snores softly, cuddling into his side, and gojo’s ready to cuss out whoever dares potentially meddle with his girl’s sleep. he’s starting to get grumpy.

when his phone undergoes face recognition, he lowers the brightness immediately. he swipes through his notification center and notices an attachment sent by geto.

now that peeks his interest. he presses on the message.

suguboo: [1 attachment]

suguboo: passed intro2munch101 with an A+ 🫡

gojo can’t help the laugh that leaves him, though is quickly quieted down when he feels stirring at his side.

“well i’ll be damned.”

yes, gojo is obsessed with his girlfriend. also 10k words on geto???

[nochepsicodelica]

"All those drinks are gonna do you dirty, ma. You're gonna throw up if you don't get some food in your system, so eat," Toji says, pushing the box closer to you.

You giggle at his serious face, before standing up from your chair for the fourth time, trying to go around him. Toji's used to this by now and stands up, bringing you back down to your chair.

"Stop getting up and eat your food. You literally begged for this. Why aren't you eating it?"

"Why aren't you eating it?" You return, raising your brows at him, seductively. It doesn't come off too sexy when raising your eyebrows makes you immediately squint because of the light going into your sensitive eyes, but it does lure a chuckle out of Toji.

"I'm ignoring that. Just eat. I don't wanna hear you upchucking in a couple hours."

"You won't hold my hair back?" You pout. Your feigned little flash of sadness produces real tears in this state, so it's a little confusing for Toji when you start giggling while wiping at your reddened cheeks.

"Your food's getting cold. I know how you are about reheating fast food, so eat it before it goes to waste."

You smile at him, your eyelids almost completely shut in your drunken daze. Toji can't even lie, it's cute. It's the only reason he's not up the wall about this little situation. Then you decide to drop a bomb on him.

"I'm not hungry anymore. Too tired to eat." You rest your chin on your palm, shutting your eyes. It feels nice. It would take less than thirty seconds for you to fall asleep.

Fuck. Think, think, think...

"Hey." Toji pokes your forehead, lightly, earning a hum and a furrow of your brows. "What if I feed you?"

You laugh, giddily. "Ooo, you trying to romance me?"

"Sure, if you eat."

You laugh again. "Toji, you dog, you. I'm not putting out." You shake your head, eyes closed with a dumb grin on your face. "No, sir. It's food and then goodnight for me."

"You already put out for me, earlier, doll." He smirks at the way you blush, clearly having an 'oh, yeah...' moment. "Eat some more so we can go to sleep."

"Hm?" You hum, rolling your eyes open after your blink of sleep. You crack a grin as soon as you look at Toji. "You wanna kiss me sooo bad. Look at you."

"I'm not gonna kiss you. You're not listening. You think you deserve kisses for that?"

"Uh... yes? I mean no. Pshhh, nooo. Of course, not."

"That's right. So eat, or you'll go to sleep without kisses, tonight."

"Noooo," you whine, dramatically. "Wait! Fine, fine. Look." You take a huge bite of your sandwich, your cheeks puffing up as you chew. "Oh, this is really good," you say, muffled by your mouthful of food.

"Don't choke, doll. Small bites are fine," he says, picking up a napkin and wiping the excess condiments off your face.

You push through it and gulp down the bite. "That was a lot. Got bread stuck on the roof of my mouth." You take a sip of your drink to wash it all down. "Did I look so pretty for the party, today?" You ask, your lips curling as you put the cup back down.

"You did, mama. Stunning. Swept everyone there, off their feet."

You smile, the gesture transitioning into a giggle. "Even Shiu?"

"Yup. Even Shiu said he wanted a piece of you."

You gasp. "No... Did you fight him?"

"Nah, I wanted to, but I kept my cool. If he had put his hands on you, then I might have, but I had my eye on you all night, to make sure nobody did more than look at you."

"I wouldn't have followed him anywhere, anyway." You roll your eyes, suddenly so hostile against the host of the party. "Probably would've kicked him in the nuts and gone to find you."

"Yeah, that's a smart idea, doll."

Toji's elaborate answers to your questions kept you awake long enough for you to mindlessly eat while he talked. You were at the end of the sandwich when you realized how much you had eaten and how full you were.

"Can't... do it..." You groan, lying on the arm you have extended on the table. "Too full." You sigh, heavily, setting the rest of the sandwich down on the scattered fries in its box.

"That's good, ma. You don't have to eat it, anymore. We can go to bed, now."

You let out another heavy sigh, sluggishness washing over you before you force yourself to stand up from your chair, this time with Toji's 'okay'. He looks at your little belly as it protrudes from your dress, proof of how full you actually are, and pokes at it. Your usually soft tummy is temporarily stiff and it's adorable.

You grab Toji's hand so that you don't stumble as you walk. Before leaving the table, he finished the remainder of your sandwich in one bite and threw out the container with the remaining cold fries.

"Damn, you were right, baby. That was good."

"Mhm," you mumble, waiting for him to lead you to the room.

Toji helped you brush your teeth and wash your face, and when you finally made it to the room, he helped you dress down into comfier clothes. Now, you're in bed together and you're in his arms trying to doze off, but you can't with the way he's smothering your face with kisses. It's just kiss after kiss with him and you can't focus, but it is what you wanted. After all, you stuffed your face for this.

[motorsportbarbie13]

One New Voicemail (Max's Version)

your relationship with max as told by his voicemails.

(no warnings. one angsty one but it's fine. extra credit to @lestapiastrisgirl for helping me with the last few ideas.)

Your First Date 

“Hi.” He clears his throat. 

“Its Max.” Pause.

“Verstappen.” 

Well. This was going splendidly. 

He chuckles. “You probably know that though, right? I didn’t quite plan this out.” 

He shakes his head. Whispers: clearly not you idiot. 

“Um. So. I just wanted to say thank you. For tonight. I mean, I planned everything and paid for it  all so I’m not thanking you for that…” Max winces. 

“Just…for being you. I don’t think I’ve ever had a first date like that. It felt like we talked for hours, which I guess we did, didn’t we?” 

He laughs again and you can almost see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at you. 

He hums “I liked it. I like you. When can I see you again? You said there was that Degas exhibit at the Louvre you’ve been wanting to see. We could go tomorrow? I’ll have Frank file flight plans first thing tomorrow morning.” 

Oh he was in so much trouble. 

“Okay. Bye.” 

Click. 

Your First Kiss 

“Hi.” Max is breathless, in awe of what just happened. 

“I know I just left but I can’t stop replaying that kiss in my head. I almost walked into a light pole your lips had me so distracted.” He shakes his head, head swiveling back to look at the offending pole. That would have been a fun black eye to explain.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for...” 

He pauses, like he’s remembering the first time he ever imagined pressing his lips to yours.

“God. For the longest time. Since I saw you that first night at that dinner party.” 

Mutual friends he’d have to thank tomorrow morning for giving him what felt like a turning point in his life.

“You had the same lipstick on tonight and I just…had to know how your lips tasted.” 

It had been slow, dripping through your closely pressed skin, sticky-sweet as honey. Max would never forget it for as long as he had breath in his lungs.

“You’ve ruined me, schat.” He accuses but there’s no fire in the words. No real accusations, just statement of facts. “Ruined.”

He shakes his head again, reaching for the car key in his pocket.

“Can we do it again tomorrow? And the next day?”

And forever?

He leaves that part out. For now. 

Click. 

He Wonders If He's Worth It 

“Are you…sure?” He’s anxious, you can tell by the way he breathes on the other end of the line.

“I just wanted to ask again because I can’t quite believe I got you to agree to be my girlfriend” His laugh is anything but humorous. It’s dry. Brittle. 

“Being with me is a lot. I know it’s a lot and it’s a lot to ask of someone.” He thinks he might be able to let you go now if you walked away. He’s scared you’re going to. 

“If you don’t want to be involved with me, I’d understand.” 

The fear of losing you grips at him like ice. You can hear it in his voice and your heart shatters because he doesn’t realize how badly you’re falling for him too. 

“It’s just…I feel like I can breathe around you. I don’t have to wear a mask or be Max Verstappen, 4 time world champion. I can just be Max.” 

A pause. As if he’s gathering the courage to choke out the last words on the tip of his tongue.

“Your Max. If you’ll have me.” 

The last bit is whispered, like he doesn’t want the world to hear how weak he is for you. How easily he’d follow you anywhere. 

“Okay. Bye.” 

Click. 

He Wins The Championship

“Baby!!!” He shouts, laughter filling every corner of his voice. 

“We won! The championship they said I couldn’t win!” Around him, champagne drips and gin flows.

“Where’d you go? I just saw you and then you vanished!!” 

You had told him ten seconds before he had pulled out his phone to call you. A trip to the Ladies Room was required and he knew that. But the 5th gin and tonic robbed him of his memory. 

“Can you believe I’m a FIVE TIME world champion?” Max’s shouts turn watery, like the emotion is hitting him like a freight train. 

“I’m so glad you were here to be with me. I never want to win without you ever again.” 

He’s getting sentimental. It used to be a rarity with him, the Flying Dutchman trained up to be a champion by Jos. But now? Now he was soft. So soft. But only for you. Always for you. 

“I miss you.” He pouts. 

The music thumps in the background, causing Max’s head to spin. 

And then, you. Across the room, returning from your trek to the restroom. He spots you and his entire face brightens. 

“There you are!” He coos into his phone. “Fuck, you’re so pretty. Did you know that? You’re so fucking beautiful and I can’t wait to marry you.” 

He doesn’t realize the weight of the words falling from his lips. But he means every syllable. 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now because I want to go make out with you. Bye.” 

Click. 

You Two Fight 

“Liefje, please.” Max is panicking. 

“It’s the middle of the night and it’s raining. It’s not safe for you to be out right now, I don’t care how mad at me you are.”

It had been stupid, the fight. It had spun out of control too quickly, whipped up out of thin air thanks to too many nights on the road and too little time spent together.  

“Please, for the love of God come back to me.” The tears fall freely now, he’s never seen you this angry. 

He’d neglected you, gambled away the love that you so freely give him without complaint. And now you had walked right out as easily as if you were going to the store. It was just another day to you.  

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ve never raised my voice at you ever, I don’t know what came over me. I…” He shatters around the words. 

“I don’t even know why I was angry anymore.” It was the truth. He didn’t know why he had snapped, why he exchanged soft whispers for barbed shouts, sharp around the edges, filling his mouth with glass. 

“We’ve never fought like this and now your car is gone and it’s one in the morning.” He’s desperate now, breaths coming quick and shallow. 

His vision blurs. Is this what it feels like when you die? 

“Please, baby. I don’t care if you’re still mad at me, you can be mad at me for the rest of your life but I need you to be safe.” The thought of anything happening to you because of his stupid anger had Max swaying beneath the lights of the living room. 

“Please.” 

He begs. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He sobs. 

Click.  

You’re pregnant 

“Liefje. My Wife. Love of my life. I am concerned.” Max sounds slightly scared to be making this phone call. 

“These requests…” He squints at the handwritten list you left for him on the back of an envelope. “Grape jam, not jelly? Pickles? Pistacio ice cream with chocolate ribbons?” 

This list had to be a joke. 

“Are you filming me? Is this going on TikTok?”  He glances around at the store, half expecting to see you hiding in a corner with your phone out. 

What the fuck was a ‘chocolate ribbon’ anyway? 

“Pebble ice? Baby, should we call your doctor in the morning?” 

He knew he was asking for trouble, calling into question the validity of your pregnancy cravings but Max was getting concerned. He’d even called his sister on the way to the store. Victoria had insisted it was normal. 

Max wasn’t convinced. 

“I love you, you are the love of my life and I’d do anything for you, you know that. I just don’t know if I can purchase pickles and ice cream knowing that they’re going to be consumed together.” 

An image of what your pan you might choose to swing at his head if he came back without everything on your list flashes through his mind. 

Max pulled every jar of grape jam off the shelf. 

“I’ll be home in 10.” 

Click. 

You’re in labor 

“Your sister called!” Max’s voice is panicked, out of breath. “She said you’re in labor but didn’t want to bother me in my meeting!” 

“Your contractions are 5 minutes apart and you didn’t think you should call me for that?” The anxiety in his voice creeps in, despite him desperately choking on his tone. 

“Thank God I’m close by but liefje, please!” He heaves a sigh. 

A car door slams. Engine fires up, purring to life.

“You know you can bother me about this.” 

“Oh my God.” A pause. Like the gravity of the situation just hit him square in the jaw. 

“You’re in labor. Like labor labor.” He’s awestruck now.

“We’re going to be parents soon, aren’t we? Are we ready? I mean, I know you’re ready but am I ready?” There isn’t a doubt in his mind that you’re going to be an amazing mom. He’s known that since the day you found out you were pregnant.  

“Holy shit I’m going to be a dad. This is…this is fast.” You’d later tease him that he’d known about this moment for almost nine months now. It wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“Jesus. Okay.” 

Deep breath. 

“I’m just leaving the office and I’m on the way to the hospital now. Are you okay? Why am I asking your voicemail this? Why aren’y you picking up?” 

He’s totally panicking.

“I’ll be there soon. I love you.” 

Click. 

Your Toddler Steals His Phone. 

“MAMAAAAAAA!!” A small toddler-like squeal follows your favorite name you’ve ever been called. 

“Mama I miss you! Where’d you go, Mama?” The question is stilted, the baby still learning how to move his mouth around the proper words. 

“Schatje! Where is my phone?” The question is muffled, like Max is far away. 

Tiny footsteps clatter against the hardwood floor of your Monaco home. 

Peals of giggles and breathless gasps are the only thing you hear in response. 

“Mama save me! Save me from Daddy!” Your little boy giggles, squealing in delight. 

Louder footsteps sound behind your baby, who is surprisingly fast despite his stubby little legs. “You get back here right now!” Max orders, but there’s laughter at the edge of his voice.

This is a game. 

A game neither Max or your baby want to lose. 

“Daddy says he’s going to tickle me if he catches me!” 

Another squeal. 

Giggles. 

One voice high pitched. One lower pitched, your husband finally catching up to the speedy toddler. 

“Give me that. Who are you…oh you managed to call your Mama?” 

A pause. Your toddler nods. “Didn’t want a bath! Mama will rescue me!” 

Max chuckles, prying little fingers off of his phone. “She will not. She’ll say you’re stinky too! You need a bath!” 

“Noooo!” He howls but it’s too late. 

“Sorry, liefje. He’s fine. Bath time is going well! Enjoy your time with your sister! Love you.” 

A pause. 

“Tell Mama you love her.” 

“Save me Mamaaaaaaaa!” 

Click. 

[dearlenore]

ARREST ME BUT MAKE IT SEXY • S.REID

SUMMARY: The team successfully arrests a murder suspect—only to realize they’ve just taken down a highly respected FBI agent from another unit. Furious that they’ve blown her undercover mission, she decides to make their mistake their problem. After all, if they’ve already ruined her op, she might as well have a little fun with it.

PAIRING: agent!fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a lil shit lmao, season12!spencer, use of y/n, heavy flirting, criminal activity, dirty jokes, use of my love, baby, sweetheart and cutie, bauteam is kinda stupid (sorry lol)

a/n: rushed + editor is occupied for the foreseeable future</3

w/c: 0.8k

THE INTERROGATION ROOM was unbearably tense, but not for you. You sat comfortably in your chair, wrists still cuffed to the table, fingers idly tapping out a rhythm. Across from you, the BAU team filtered in and out, their patience wearing thin with each passing minute.

Hotch was the first to take a crack at you.

“Do you know why you’re here, ma’am?” he asked, voice as steady and unreadable as ever. He leaned against the table, watching you like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

You blinked up at him, then let a slow grin spread across your lips. “No idea, sir,” you responded in an exaggerated, mocking tone, leaning back in your chair to mirror his stance.

He exhaled sharply, sliding a set of crime scene photos in front of you. The images were gruesome—bodies left in precise, calculated poses, signs of struggle, but no obvious traces of the killer. You studied them, but only for a moment.

“Tragic,” you mused. “But what does this have to do with me?”

“You were at the scene,” he said.

You tilted your head. “So were a lot of people.”

“An hour before the body was found.”

“Maybe I was just getting coffee.”

Hotch narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. He was looking for cracks, a sign that you were lying, but all he found was amusement. You were enjoying this.

A minute later, he sighed and pushed back from the table. “I’ll give you time to think.”

“Oh, how generous,” you cooed, watching as he left.

“Bye handsome!”

Next was Morgan.

He didn’t even sit down. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking you up and down with the kind of exasperation reserved for people he really didn’t have the patience for.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.

You grinned. “I just love a good misunderstanding. It’s like a game except you’re waisting my time. Then again I’m a salary employee soooo…”

“This ain’t a game,” he said. “You were at the crime scene. You have connections to known criminals. You disappear off the grid for weeks at a time. And you expect us to believe you had nothing to do with this?”

“Connections to criminals?” You gasped dramatically. “You wound me. What next? You’re going to tell me Santa Claus isn’t real?”

Morgan let out a long sigh. “Man, I really don’t like you.”

“That’s okay,” you replied easily. “Not everyone has good taste.”

Morgan gave you one last irritated glance before pushing off the wall. “I’m done here.”

Emily took a turn after that, but she only lasted ten minutes before giving up, muttering about how you “liked messing with them too much” and “needed to be someone else’s problem.”

And so, that’s how you ended up with Spencer.

He was quieter than the others. He sat across from you, his fingers tapping against the table, observing rather than accusing.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, finally, he said, “You’re making a lot of references that only someone with a specific academic background would appreciate.”

You tilted your head. “And you caught them. Very impressive, Dr. Reid. I knew someone would appreciate my sense of humor someday.”

Spencer didn’t react to the compliment. “You want us to doubt our conclusion, but you haven’t provided a solid alternative explanation.”

You leaned forward slightly, tilting your head. “Maybe because it was super obvious and all of you have college degrees..”

He frowned. “Then tell me—what were you really doing at the crime scene?”

You sighed, pretending to think. “You’re the profiler, you tell me.”

“Seriously?” he sighed.

You grinned. “Oh, come on, doctor. You of all people should appreciate a good intellectual challenge.” You dragged out his name, watching with satisfaction as his ears turned a little pink.

“You’re trying to manipulate the conversation,” he said slowly.

You let out a laugh. “Manipulate is such a strong word, I just like hearing your voice.” You coo.

Spencer swallowed.

Before he could respond, the door swung open.

“Hotch,” an analyst panted, holding up a phone. “We, uh… just got a call from her unit chief. And he is furious.”

A pause.

Hotch took the phone and pressed a button, putting the call on speaker.

“Are you all out of your damn minds?!” a voice roared. “Do you have any idea what you just ruined?! She’s one of ours! Let her go. NOW.”

The room went silent.

Morgan groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You stretched your arms out dramatically. “Well, this has been fun.”

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple. “Uncuff her.”

The moment your wrists were free, you rolled them, wincing slightly. “That was so unnecessary.”

Morgan shook his head. “You should’ve just told us.”

You scoffed. “Please! Your work was lazy at best, I even looked like a federal agent. Damn that dress code…”

As you stepped past Spencer, you leaned in just enough for only him to hear.

“Thanks for the chat, genius,” you murmured. “I would say next time we won’t need the handcuffs but what’s the fun in that.”

Then, without another word, you walked out, leaving behind a stunned team and a very, very flustered Spencer Reid.

[grimeshound]

UNDER YOUR SPELL.

masterlist.

word count: 4,329 (someone got a little carried away...)

pairing: in-ho x you.

summary: you haunt in-ho’s every thought, an obsession he can’t shake no matter how hard he tries—you have no idea the hold you have on him. when you get drunk for the first time, in-ho seizes the opportunity to show you just how deeply you’ve affected him.

cw: 18+, age-gap, dubcon (forced intoxication), mirror sex, first time, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, stomach bulge, semi-public sex, dirty talk, corruption, manipulation

a/n: i’ve had this plot simmering in my head over the past few days ever since i wrote my in-ho hcs and it was practically begging to be written … manipulative in-ho my beloved

title from ‘under your spell’ by snow strippers, everytime I see an edit to him with this song it always eats so hard

---

Ever since he first laid eyes on you, In-ho thought you were the prettiest little angel to ever step foot in this hellhole.

You were nothing like the others. Kind, wide doe eyes, sweet smile that radiated innocence. He wondered how a pretty thing like you had ended up in a place like this. In-ho always did pride himself in his appreciation for the arts, all things with beauty. The moment he took notice of you, it didn’t take long for him to wonder what it would take to make you his.

You had joined a small group, after having met a kind man named Jung-bae who graciously let you in. Everyone shared their names, and that’s when you learned his. Oh Young-il. Except, of course, that wasn’t his real name. Just a guise, a character to play during the time he spent amongst the players. That didn’t matter, though, since you rarely used his name. 

“Sir,” you’d say. The times you did call his name, it’d be “Mister Young-il.”

The first time you spoke to him, you were nervous. It was hard not to be, something about his piercing gaze had a hold on you. Yet, you couldn’t help but admire him. The way you looked up at him, your voice so soft and deferential, made his pulse quicken. He’d do anything to protect you, and he did. Each time the games forced you apart, you’d come running to him the moment you returned to the main hall, your face lighting up with relief.

“I’m so happy you’re okay, sir.” You’d smile at him, and he’d smile back, gentle and reassuring.

You hadn’t realized it, but your attachment to him was carefully orchestrated, a product of all the high-risk situations In-ho would engineer to put you through. He’d swoop in at the perfect moment to save you, it made you trust him, made you depend on him more than anyone else. It also nurtured the little crush you were already dewasveloping, and he noticed. You couldn’t help it. He  kind to you, protective, and so devastatingly handsome.

Behind the scenes, he dug through your file. Orphaned from a young age, too naive to understand the world’s cruelties. Trusting the wrong people, you had fallen into debt, landing here. The more he learned, the more he was convinced—You needed someone to take care of you. Someone like him.

One night, In-ho just couldn’t take it anymore. After hours of keeping up his cold, calculated facade, he found himself teetering on the edge of his own sanity. The stress of orchestrating the games was always a burden he bore in silence. But lately? It wasn’t just the carnage and strategy that weighed on his mind. On top of all that, now there was you. Every stolen glance, every soft word you uttered, every moment in your presence had burrowed under his skin. You consumed him, invading every thought until there was no room for anything else.

He knew he was losing control.

When the last murmurs of conversation faded throughout the main hall and the players around him drifted into an uneasy sleep, he finally gave in to his impulses. He had a guard sneak him a bottle of soju, not caring how inappropriate or risky the request was. Rank had its privileges, and he wasn’t above abusing them.

Even in the dim light he spotted you, laid in your bed not too far from his own. All curled up and completely unaware of the monster disguised as your guardian angel watching over you. He swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing. 

He listened to the sound of your breathing as a guide, the quiet rhythm of inhale and exhale filling his ears before finally pulling the bottle from its hiding place beneath his pillow. With a sharp twist, he uncapped it, the faint scent of alcohol wafting into the air around him. Sitting up in his bunk, he took a long, deliberate swig. The burn of the soju as it slid down his throat was a welcome distraction, albeit temporary. He exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair.  

The alcohol dulled the edges of his stress but sharpened something far more dangerous, far sicker. Desire. Thoughts of you came to surface before he could resist, vivid and unrelenting. He thought of your wide, trusting eyes looking up at him, the way your voice wavered when you spoke his name. He didn’t stop his thoughts when they turned more and more depraved. Your quiet utters of his name turning into obscene moans, innocent brushes of skin escalating into him fucking you like a madman into the crummy bed he sat beneath. The way you clung to him, so innocent, so naive, so completely unaware of just how sick his thoughts would turn because of you. 

He took another long swig, his grip tightening around the bottle as his frustration intensified. How could you do this to him without even realizing? Without even trying? It was maddening, the hold you had over him. And now, with the liquor loosening his usually taut held control, he found himself wondering how much longer he could resist. How much longer he could keep his hands to himself.

And then, as if summoned by his desires, your voice broke the silence.

“Sir?”

He turned to see you turned towards him, rubbing your eyes like a sleepy child. He softened instantly, smiling lazily as he called your name. “You’re awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” You climbed up to his bed without hesitation, settling beside him. “What about you?” 

“Me neither,” he murmured. He thanked whatever god there was that you couldn’t read his mind, couldn’t take a peek into the sick fantasies that had clouded up his thoughts just moments ago. Even now, when sat face to face with you, they played in the background— like a channel he couldn’t turn off no matter how hard he’d press the remote. Only, he didn’t make much effort in stopping them. If anything, the fantasies only shot up with you now in front of him. 

Your attention was soon drawn to the green bottle in his hand. “Is that… soju?”

He chuckled at your amazement. “It is.”

“Wow,” you breathed. “I’ve never had any before.”

His heart skipped. You really were too good to be true, weren’t you? He feigned surprise. “Never?”

You shook your head. “No. But..” You hesitated for a bit. “I’d like to try, if that’s okay.”

How polite. How trusting. He handed the bottle to you, hiding his smirk beneath a kind, patient smile. “Of course. Go ahead.”

You took it with both hands, your fingers brushing his briefly. There was a moment of hesitation, a fleeting glance at him as though you were silently asking for reassurance. He gave you a small nod, his expression warm and encouraging. Uttey deceptive. The thought of getting you completely wasted, rendering you impossibly dumber and even more impressionable than you already are rang like music to his ears. You tilted your head back as you gulped down more than he expected. He didn’t stop you, though. Simply watching with quiet satisfaction as you drained a sizable amount.

The first sip had your nose scrunching up, the bitter taste of the alcohol overhwleming you. Instead of backing out, you pressed on, curiosity and his approving gaze egging you on. With each gulp, you felt your body tense slightly at the unaccustomed burn that slid down your throat.

In-ho watched you intently, his dark eyes locked on you as the bottle tipped higher and higher. You were drinking far more than he expected, but he made no effort to stop you. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into a faint smile. Quiet satisfaction flickered in his eyes as he watched your determination to please him override your inexperience.

When you finally lowered the bottle, your lips were shiny from the liquid, your cheeks already beginning to flush, something In-ho was quick to take notice of. Whether it be your inexperience, the quickness of which you downed the Soju or the fact that you haven’t really drank or ate much prior. The alcohol had hit you harder than you anticipated, working its way through your system with worrying speed. Your head tilted back slightly as you tried to regain focus, blinking up at him with worried, glassy eyes. 

“Sir,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “I feel…so funny.”

He stepped closer, his hand moving to steady you by your waist when your knees buckled slightly. “Funny how, sweetheart?” he humored you, the concern in his tone carefully crafted.

“Dizzy,” You clung to him instinctively, your hands gripping his arm like a lifeline as you specified. “I feel lightheaded, mister Young-il. M’scared.”

“Shh,” he murmured, pulling you closer against his chest. His hand slid to your back, rubbing soothing circles as he held you steady. “It’s okay. You’re just not used to it, s’all.”

Your forehead rested against his chest, your breath uneven as you tried to make sense of the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at you with something twisted in his gaze, though his voice remained tender and reassuring. “Poor baby,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. His hand stroked your hair, the sound of his words soothing you. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

You were too drunk to notice the dark glint in his eyes or the way his smile lingered just a little too long. Too naive to realize how tightly his grip held you, as though he’d never let go.

Young-il led you to the bathroom, steadying you with a firm grip as you clung to him for balance. Every touch, every reassuring glance he gave you was planned down to the last detail, feeding into the web he’d been weaving since the moment he first laid eyes on you. You were his perfect little pawn, and now, more than ever, he could see his plan falling into place. 

When he knocked on the bathroom door, you were already bracing yourself for the usual bargaining and desperate pleading that so often accompanied requests to use the facilities. But to your surprise, the guards let you both pass without hesitation, a testament to the sway your knight in shining armor seemed to hold.

He guided you inside, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. Leading you to the sink, he turned on the faucet, letting the cool water rush out. “Here,” he said softly, his voice calm and soothing. “Let’s wash your face. It’ll help.”

You nodded, leaning over the sink and splashing the water onto your flushed cheeks. The cold sting sent a brief jolt through you, though it did little to clear the fog in your mind. When you blinked your eyes open and straightened, you nearly jumped at the sight of him standing right behind you, close enough that you could feel his presence like a weight against your back.

Your wide-eyed gaze flicked up to the mirror. He stood there, his expression as unreadable as ever, but the intensity in his eyes made your stomach twist. Despite yourself, you wiped your face with your sleeve and offered him a sheepish smile.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, stepping closer. His hand brushed your damp hair back from your face, the gesture tender in a way that made your breath hitch.

“Good,” you mumbled, though the truth was far from it. The alcohol swirled in your system, leaving you dizzier than before. But the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, it sent a warmth through your chest that was impossible to ignore.

“Yeah?” he hummed, his tone low and velvety, each syllable wrapping around you like a shackle. You hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten until now, his chest pressing lightly against your back.

Your breath hitched as something firm brushed against you from behind, and you let out a small, involuntary whimper. “Sir Young-il…?”

“In-ho,” he rasped, cutting you off. “My real name, it’s In-ho.” His voice had dropped even lower, and there was something raw and possessive in the way he said it. You blinked, confused, his real name rolling off your tongue before you could even think twice to question him.

“In-ho,” you repeated softly, as if testing the weight of it. “What’s going on?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, his hands settling firmly on your waist. “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered, his eyes meeting yours through the mirror. “I’ll take good care of you. You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded too quickly, too eagerly, the alcohol and your long-brewing crush on him clouding your better judgment. “I trust you,” you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his grip tightening slightly as he trailed his fingers along your waist, his touch deliberate and possessive.

He leaned in, closing the already small gap between you two as his lips found yours in a kiss—the first one you’d ever shared. Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly how you’d imagined it to unfold. You pictured your first kiss with a high school crush, maybe some boy your age who’d take you out on an innocent date. But all those dreams faded the moment you met In-ho, and now, all dreams you had were consumed by him.

You pressed against him, letting him take control as his kiss deepened, hungry and intense, like a man starved for more. You followed his lead instinctively, trusting him—because you always knew, deep down, he knew what was best. So when he raised his fingers to your lips, you hesitated for only a moment before parting them, allowing him to slip two fingers inside. His dark eyes gleamed as you sucked obediently, your cheeks flushing deeper under his watchful gaze. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, and his breathing grew heavier.

Pulling his fingers away, he wasted no time in hooking them into the waistband of your sweatpants, tugging them down in one hasty motion. His lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing kisses up to your ear as his right hand skimmed the sensitive skin of your neck.

You grabbed his wrist suddenly, your touch light and hesitant. “Wait, In-ho—” you murmured, your voice trembling with embarrassment. His dark eyes met yours in the mirror, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“I… I’ve never done anything like this before,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He wasn’t surprised; he had suspected as much. But hearing it from you, seeing the vulnerability in your gaze—only stoked the fire burning within him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice deceptively gentle, though there was an unmistakable tension in his tone.

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip. “I trust you. Just… be gentle. Please.” 

He smiled at that, a flicker of something darker hidden beneath the curve of his lips. “Of course,” he murmured, his hands resuming their slow exploration. But in his mind, he knew the truth: restraint was never his strong suit. Especially when it came to you. 

And with you—so soft, so eager, so completely his, he doubted he could hold himself back for long.

His fingers, still slick with your saliva, trailed down to your entrance, brushing over it with deliberate precision. The touch made you jolt, a shiver running up your spine as you gasped. In-ho groaned low in his throat, his eyes fixed on your reflection in the mirror. “Fucking dripping,” he mused, his voice a sinful rasp. Slowly, he slid a finger inside, the intrusion making your thighs instinctively part.

A soft moan escaped your lips as he pressed deeper, his touch firm but unhurried. This wasn’t the first time you’d felt something like this, but the last time had been your own doing—fumbling, desperate, and entirely unremarkable. That had been just days ago, tucked away in one of these very bathroom stalls, shamefully thinking of him. Now, with his hands where yours had been, the stark difference had you feeling light-headed. 

His fingers were thicker, rougher, impossibly skilled. The sensation left you trembling, your legs threatening to give out as he worked you open. His other arm snaked around your upper chest, holding you close, his grip firm yet possessive. The position bordered on a chokehold, but instead of fear, it only sent another wave of heat coursing through you.

Your breath hitched as a soft, broken “Ohmygod,” fell from your lips. He didn’t pause, didn’t falter. His finger curled just right, hitting a spot that made you see stars. Your hands gripped on In-ho’s forearm, knuckles white as you bit down hard on your lower lip, trying and failing to stifle your moans.

“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice was like velvet, roughened by desire. He pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. His other hand released its hold on your chest as it moved lower, settling on the curve of your ass. He squeezed firmly, eliciting a high-pitched mewl from you.

You nodded weakly, barely able to form words. “Uh-huh… feels so good, sir,”

That made him chuckle, a deep, dark sound that reverberated through your body. The honorific sent a thrill down his spine, his cock straining against the confines of his sweatpants.

“You’re ready,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he pulled back just enough to tug his waistband down. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes wide as you took him in, the sight was intimidating, your head reeling. 

"In-ho, I–I don’t think I can take that." Your voice faltered, a hint of shame creeping into your words. He laughed, a sound so familiar it sent a chill down your spine. It was the kind of hearty laugh you'd grown so used to hearing from him. But now, there was something different—something darker layered beneath it, like a cruel mockery. "Course you can, angel," he said, his tone smooth but laced with an unsettling edge. "I know you can. Let me take care of you."

“H-Here? Like this?” you asked, your voice small and unsure, referring to the state he had you in—bent over the sink and in front of the mirror. utterly at his mercy.

He leaned in, his hand gripping your chin and forcing your gaze back at your reflection. “Right here,” he confirmed, his voice a low growl. Want you to watch yourself while I’m fucking you open.”

The vulgarity of his words sent a shiver through you, your body instinctively arching for him. You nodded, too dazed and drunk to do anything else, and he didn’t waste another second.

He slid inside slowly, the stretch making you cry out and grip the sink tighter. The initial sting was sharp, but it quickly gave way to something deeper, something so intense it left you gasping. Your legs wobbled beneath you, and you leaned harder against the sink for support.

“In-ho… In-ho,” you whimpered, his name falling from your lips like a chant. “Sir… I— I feel you in my stomach.”

The confession had him groaning, a sound so guttural it made your knees weak. “Yeah? Fuck, baby.” He babbled as he moved closer, his body pressing against yours as his hand trailed down with deliberate slowness. When his palm flattened against your stomach, his fingers brushing over the faint outline of him inside you, your breath hitched. 

“Feel that?” he murmured, his composure slipping as he began to move. His hips snapped against yours, each thrust deliberate and punishing. You nodded frantically, a whimper escaping as he pressed down, sending a shockwave through your body. “In-ho, nngh!—“ 

You were completely out of it, your thoughts a tangled haze, your body slack and pliant in his hands. The alcohol coursing through your veins had stripped away every layer of hesitation, leaving you wide open to his manipulations. And In-ho, oh, he reveled in it. The way your voice slurred when you called his name, the way your movements were unsteady, dependent on him for every step and touch—it all fueled his sick delight. You were better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

As he pulled you closer, pressing into you from behind, your gaze flicked to the bathroom door, a flicker of worry breaking through your drunken stupor. “In-ho…” you mewled, voice soft as you felt your body jerk with each rough thrust he made.. “What if–ah!—someone walks in?”

He paused, his hands resting possessively on your hips, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Don’t worry about that,” he said, his voice low and soothing, though there was an unmistakable edge of amusement in his tone. “The guards won’t come.” His confidence sent a shiver through you, but you weren’t entirely convinced. “But… but what if another player—”

“No one’s going to interrupt us,” he said firmly, his dark eyes boring into yours before you could finish your sentence. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. “You’re with me. They wouldn’t dare.”

Something about the absolute certainty, the power in his voice—had your anxiety ebbing away, replaced by a strange sense of safety. You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch, your inhibitions melting once again under his spell.

“You trust me, don’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Mmhm,” You squeaked out through laboured breaths. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you back against him. He watched your reflection as his fingers dug into your soft flesh, relishing the way you gasped and arched into his touch.

Your head lolled slightly, your body swaying under his hold. “Mmmh…I feel so dizzy,” you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

In-ho chuckled darkly, his hands moving to steady you. “That’s just the soju, sweetheart,” he said, though he didn’t bother hiding the smirk on his face. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He loved seeing you like this. Drunk, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. Every soft whimper, every stumble, every little movement that showed how completely you relied on him only fueled his desire. You were his, whether you realized it or not.

As his fingers grazed your skin, he couldn’t resist pushing you further, testing your reactions as he pushed your buttons. “You know,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along the curve of your neck, “Y’look so pretty like this. All fucked out and needy. Just for me.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, pressed against him. “Y-you think so?”

“I know so,” he replied, his voice a velvety purr. His hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming. “Just look at yourself, baby. See how perfect you are for me?”

Your hazy eyes flicked to the mirror, taking in the sight of the two of you. His dark, piercing gaze met yours, his expression raw and predatory. The way he looked at you—it was almost too much. Your cheeks burned, and you averted your eyes, biting your lip.

He wasn’t having that. His hand left your waist, fingers gently gripping your chin and turning your face back toward the mirror. “No,” he said firmly. “I want you to watch. Watch yourself while I take care of you.”

The authority in his voice sent a thrill through you, your body trembling as you nodded weakly. “O-okay—ah, fuck!”

“Atta girl,” he chuckled, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

As his hands roamed lower, teasing and exploring, you couldn’t help the soft, breathless moans that spilled from your lips. Every touch, every word, every look from him pulled you deeper into the fog of your drunken desire, leaving you utterly helpless in his grasp.

And In-ho? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room filled with the lewd sounds of skin meeting skin, your muffled cries, and his filthy murmurs. “Thaat’s it, there’s my pretty girl.” His hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, his lips brushing against your ear. “Fucking take it. Just like that.”

Every thrust sent you higher, the alcohol in your system amplifying every sensation, every nerve alight with pleasure. Your mind was fogged, the world around you turning into nothing but a senseless blur. And yet, you felt every little sensation In-ho fed you, each rough snap of his hips driving you closer and closer to the edge.

You felt your climax building, overwhelming and unstoppable. Your eyes fluttered shut, ready to let go—but his hand suddenly cupped your cheek, a sharp slap bringing you back.

“I told you,” he growled, his voice authoritative. “None of that. You keep your eyes on me when I fill you up. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, gasping as you forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze once again through the mirror—the sight was enough to send you over the edge. Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you cried out his name.

The sight of you coming undone beneath him was his undoing. With a few more erratic thrusts, he followed, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. A deep groan tore from his chest, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he rode out his high.

The room fell into silence, save for the sound of your labored breathing. In-ho steadied you, his hands gentle now as he helped you stand. He brushed your hair back, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“If we get out of here alive…” A sheepish smile spread across your face, “Let’s drink again sometime?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “When we get out,” he corrected, his tone laced with quiet determination. He kissed you once more, sealing the promise. And he meant it. If it meant keeping you by his side, he’d kill every last player in the game with his bare hands.

[rhaenyraeri]

Co-Star Tensions - Jack O’Connell

based off this behind the scenes picture hehe

minors dni!! 18+ only!!

Part 1, Part 2, Interlude, Part 3

Summary: You and your costars were called back for some reshoots, and one night after a long day of filming, something unexpected happens.

Pairing: Jack O’Connell x fem!Reader (and technically Remmick x fem!Reader?)

Warnings: it is filth y’all, oral (m receiving), thigh riding, there be’est role play involved, some swearing, i’m not great at writing smut unfortunately

Note: this is an rpf (real person fic) so i encourage that if you don’t like that, please keep scrolling. i’ve never wrote one of these before but i felt compelled to lol. also if there are any mistakes pls let me know 🫶

The tension could, almost literally, be cut with a knife on the set. Everyone could tell, but no one would say it. They wouldn’t speak about how you and Jack had scenes just barely near each other, but you both gravitated closer. No one would dare mention how hard you locked in on him when filming the scene with vampire Burt, how he sat in the rocking chair covered in fake blood.. there was something about it. Something, dare you say, carnal, was awakening in you.

The nights you yearned to touch him, yearned to just have your hands on him, sexually or not. The nights just hoping he felt the same way. Just watching him in his element, such a talented actor and great man, having the honor to work alongside him. He just had that charm about him, and that charm resonated into Remmick. You wanted him, and you wanted Remmick. Two birds, one stone.

There were just a few nights of filming left, and the two of you had spoken earlier in the day about how sad it was to say goodbye to a wonderful cast and to people you’d grown to call friends. Some scenes needed some touch ups, and others need reshoots due to new ideas flourishing from the director.

—————

Walking past the set to your makeup artist’s camper, you noticed a figure in the dark. Leaned back in the rocking chair, in the corner of the darkened room used for a reshoot earlier that day. The light in the corner cast a slight shadow onto the figure and you stopped to get a better look. It was Jack, still dressed in the bloody Remmick costume from the scene filmed earlier with Joan and Burt. The way he looked at you after ran chills up your spine. He caught you staring from the sidelines of the crew. Tensions were already high due to your character and Jack’s being romantic partners, and having to say filthy shit to each other had you reeling, yearning for it to have meaning behind it.

“Hey baby,” he spoke, that thick southern drawl that Remmick had came out. Your mouth dropped slightly, your hands holding your belongings slowly lowering. He was staring right at you, that was meant for you. He slowly began rocking, eyes never leaving you. “You gonna come on over here, darlin’? I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

Oh, what the southern drawl did to you. You didn’t think it’d corral you into him like this but it did. That thick accent made you swoon, in and out of character. Seeing him calling out to you, and you alone, warmed you up.

“Come on now, lass. You just gonna leave ol’ Rem hangin’?”

Ah. So this is how he’s gonna be. Jack wants you, and he’s going to do it in true vampiric Remmick nature. He’s luring you in.

Realizing you’d better play the part, you close your eyes and get into character. You dropped your items and starting making your way to him.

“There she is… there’s my girl. I’ve missed you,” shaking his head slightly, still rocking in the chair. Your feet clicked against the concrete floor almost antagonizingly slow, your eyes never left his, and you felt your body heat up. Crossing onto the wood, the change of energy set the mood. There he was, still covered in that fake blood from earlier, dripping right over his face and down his neck. The lights of the set were all either off or dim, save for this one hanging overhead. Just enough to hit him like a spotlight.

“I’m sorry, Remmy. I didn’t mean to make you wait on me. Are you upset at me, baby?,” you spoke to him. You could watch as those words made every hair on him stand up, the gulp traveled down his throat, and his hand gripped the armrest. His foot started to shake a little. You put on those big puppy dog eyes your character has when she looks at her lover. Slowly, you stepped closer and closer to him, walking behind the chair and putting your hands on his shoulders. You leaned down to his neck, right beside his ear and said, “I’m here now, baby. Did you need somethin’?”

“I just missed you, darlin’. Missed your touch, your voice… your face. Lord, that face of yours,” he admired as a hand reach beside him and held your cheek. The tension you two had all lead up to this moment. You took your hand and ran it up his arm and over his that was placed on your face, locking your fingers into his. Taking your other hand off of his shoulder, you walked in front of him, and used your free hand to touch his face in return.

“You’ve made a mess, Rem. But you look just as handsome as always.”

“Nah, darlin’, this ain’t no mess. A mess is what you’ve made me into, and I think you know just how to clean it up.”

Did you? Did he want you to touch him? Fuck him? Be with him? This is all new to you, this role playing thing. Not to mention it being with a man you’ve admired for so long, and just hoped that one day you’d be able to have him this way. This was your chance to finally have what you wished for.

Your eyes left his, scanning down his body in that outfit that made you an unstable wreck, and stopped at his pants. Smirking, you nodded, and stood between his now open legs. He took his free hand and grabbed your waist, bringing you closer to him. His body was practically calling out to you, you could feel how badly he wanted you, and he could feel you the same way. You bit your lip, and got on your knees.

“Oh, Rem. You got this worked up over me? I can’t just let you suffer, can I, my love?”

He gulped hard, biting his lip and hardening his lock on you.

“Nah, I don’t think that’d be very kind of you.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

Your hand left his face, running down his neck, chest, then stomach, and finally ending at his suspenders and pants. Your fingers got to work fast on his buckles and buttons, as you wanted him more than you could imagine. You wanted to taste him. You were going to. That was certain between the two of you.

Pulling off his pants and underwear in one movement, they fell to his ankles. He was hard for you. Thinking about how you walked on the set each day, head held so high and you were so passionate about your work. So passionate about the project.. about your characters. About him, he wished.

You kissed his tip, making sure to keep that eye contact. A guttural moan left him and you felt your heart flutter with pride, excitement, and admiration for the man in front of you. Your right hand came down to wrap around him, moving it up slowly, taking in what you’re about to do to him. Stroking him for a few more moments, you grew impatient. You wanted the taste of him, and you wanted the feeling of having the man you’ve pined over for months in you finally. Leaning back down, you opened your mouth and ran your tongue down the length of his dick. Stopping at the top after a few times of going up and down, you sucked, letting your tongue roam around him. You hummed against him, the sensation making him let another low, sexy moan out. Your head began to bob up and down, and your cheeks hollowed out as you went as far as you could. Your eyes closed, humming as you sucked on him. You felt his hand trace your jaw and entangle itself into your hair, grabbing a loose fist full of it and guiding you.

Deciding it was enough, he used his grip on your hair to pull you off him, and got a good look at your face. Your eyes filled with lust met his eyes, matching the same level of desire that you had.

“Stand up, I want you to try somethin’ out for me,” he said, breath shaky, as he ran his hands up your costume dress, and pulled your underwear down, “good, now we’re even.”

He put a hand on your waist, guiding you down to his thigh, using his grip to rock you back and forth over it. You grabbed his shoulder with one hand, and the top of the chair with other, now guiding yourself across with his assistance still being used.

“Oh, yeah. You like that, huh? Grindin’ on my thigh all desperate like. ‘Cause that’s what you are, desperate, right?” That drawl invoked a loud and, like he said, desperate moan from you, right into his ear. The hand on his shoulder now gripped his hair, holding him closer to you.

“I saw you watching me from the sidelines. You wanted me so bad, now you’ve got me. This is what you wanted, right? You’ve made me a damn mess, girl.”

His façade as Remmick was now gone, and it was his pure intentions coming out of him. That accent change damn near made you release then and there, but you were too lost in the feeling of his warm thigh against your pussy as you took out your sexual yearning on it. His other hand ran between your body and his, rubbing your clit, and he took his fingers to his mouth. He made sure to get your eyes to look into his as he savored your arousal. The fake blood mixed into his mouth a little as he finally got a taste of the beauty before him.

“You couldn’t be the only one that got a little taste, huh, darling?”

That was enough to get you off, and you came hard onto him. His moans from seeing you getting yourself off to a part of him that wasn’t even sexual filled your ears as you moaned into his ear, wrapping your arms around his neck as you came down from your high. You stayed like this for a few minutes until you both calmed down. You raised up, running a hand over his chest before placing it around his heart.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you. Not even just like this, you know? You’re special, you’re beautiful. Absolutely perfect. D’you want to go out sometime? Properly get to hang out?”

You smiled, nodding along with the idea.

“I’d love to. I hoped for so damn long that you felt that way, too, you handsome devil.”

“Handsome vampire, get it right.”

You giggled, leaning in to give him a kiss.

“Oh, and for future reference, just know that was hot as fuck.”

“Duly noted, love.”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 2: April 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

...I am definitely blown away by the reception this story got. I did not expect that AT ALL, so thank you very much...and here you have Chapter 2! Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Bad Real Estate decisions, Max being a simp for his girl, discussion of former toxic relationships...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

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

"Isabelle," Max murmured against her lips, his hands firm but steady on her waist.

She barely heard him. Not when he kissed her like this—slow and deep, his thumb brushing over her hip, his body warm and solid against hers. She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer, tilting her head to kiss him harder. When he groaned softly, she took it as encouragement, pressing up against him and reaching for the hem of his shirt.

But just as her fingers grazed the skin of his stomach, Max caught her wrist, pulling back slightly.

"Wait."

She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. "What?"

His hands slid from her waist to her arms, a soothing touch. "We don’t have to rush."

Isabelle frowned. "I know we don’t have to. But I want to."

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I don’t want you to think this is just about that."

She froze, her mind stuttering over his words. "What?"

He studied her carefully, thumb rubbing small circles into her skin. "I like you. A lot. And I want you to know that I’m serious about this."

Isabelle stared at him, something in her chest tightening. No one had ever said that to her before. Every other boyfriend had been eager, had expected, had—

She swallowed. "You don’t… want me?"

Max’s expression softened, his grip on her tightening just slightly, like he wanted to anchor her in place. "Of course I do," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "I just don’t want you to think that’s all I want."

Her breath hitched.

She had never been anyone’s priority. Never been someone who wasn’t easy to forget, easy to leave behind. But here was Max, the most wanted man on the grid, telling her he wanted her—but not just her body.

Something like disbelief flickered in her chest. "You’re serious."

Max huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his nose against hers. "Very."

Isabelle swallowed again, her throat tight, and let herself relax into him. She let herself believe him.

"Okay."

Max smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Good."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Max.

Max:  Good morning, Schatje.

Isabelle: Don’t start. Did you actually buy that penthouse?

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: And did you demand that I be the only architect allowed to work on it??

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: Do you have any idea how bad this looks?

Max: What’s bad about wanting the best?

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: Do you know what people at work are saying now??

Max: That I have excellent taste in architects?

Isabelle: They think I got this project because of Charles.

Max: … What?

Isabelle: Oh yeah. The rumors are great. Apparently, I’m here because I’m a Leclerc, not because I actually worked for it.

Max: … That’s stupid.

Isabelle: Tell that to my coworkers.

Max: You think I’d let Charles pick my architect?

Isabelle: No, but they don’t know that.

Max: Then tell them.

Isabelle: Oh sure, that’ll go well. “Actually, my brother had nothing to do with it, my boyfriend just demanded that I be the only one allowed to work on his project.” That sounds so much better.

Max: Ok, maybe that doesn’t help.

Isabelle: You think??

Max: I just wanted to work with you.

Isabelle: Yeah, and now people are whispering about nepotism and favoritism and how I’m only here because of my family name.

Max: They clearly don’t know you.

Isabelle: I KNOW. But it’s still frustrating. I’ve worked my ass off, Max. I didn’t want my name getting me jobs. I wanted my work to.

Max: And it has. That’s why I picked you. Not because of your name. Because I trust you.

Isabelle: You could have given me a heads-up, you know.

Max: And you would have said no.

Isabelle: That is not the point.

Max: But would you?

Isabelle:: …

Max: That’s what I thought.

Isabelle: You really bought that penthouse just so I could design it?

Max: I bought that penthouse because I liked it. But I only wanted you working on it.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: And you’re brilliant.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: Always.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe what Max did.

Emilie: That sentence could mean literally anything.

Isabelle: He bought the penthouse. THE penthouse. The one we talked about once in passing.

Emilie: …Okay, that’s insane, but also, congrats? You love that place.

Isabelle: THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is.

Isabelle: He also demanded that I be the architect working on it. Wouldn’t sign anything unless my name was on the project.

Emilie: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Isabelle: It’s not funny!

Emilie: No, it absolutely is.

Isabelle: People at work are already saying I only got the project because of Charles!

Emilie: Oh. Yeah, I can see that.

Isabelle: Which is wrong. Because I didn’t get it because of Charles. I got it because of my boyfriend, which is somehow worse.

Emilie: You say worse. I say deeply, deeply romantic.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Isabelle. 

Emilie: Your rich, lovesick boyfriend is out here spending millions just to have an excuse to see you every day, and you’re MAD?

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: He is trying to wife you.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now tell me—when’s the housewarming, and how much champagne should I bring?

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: You CANNOT keep doing this.

Max: Doing what?

Isabelle: Abusing your “professional client” status to drag me to fancy lunches.

Max: I’m not abusing anything. We have important business discussions to conduct.

Isabelle: You mean the penthouse where you’ve approved every single one of my plans without question?

Max: Exactly. We need to make sure I have no doubts.

Isabelle: You just want an excuse to take me to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Max: And?

Isabelle: That’s not how professional client-architect meetings work.

Max: It is when I’m the client.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: You don’t have to say yes.

Isabelle: …

Max: But you want to.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: Just think of it as me paying you for your excellent work.

Isabelle: That’s what your actual payments are for.

Max: But those aren’t fun.

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. Now you’re making it worse.

Max: First of all, you got this job because you’re brilliant.

Max: Second, if they think that, they’re idiots.

Max: Third, I booked a table with a view.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Don’t pretend you don’t want to come.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: You didn’t say no.

Isabelle: …

Max: I’ll see you at one.

Isabelle: I officially regret ever mentioning my favorite restaurants to you.

Max: That was your mistake, not mine.

Max: But I’ll make it up to you with dessert.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You will not believe what Max is doing.

Emilie: Oh, this is already good. Go on.

Isabelle: He’s using the penthouse project as an excuse to take me to fancy lunches.

Emilie: …And the problem is???

Isabelle: Emilie. People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. If they find out I’m going to Michelin-starred restaurants in the middle of the day with a client, I will NEVER hear the end of it.

Emilie: Okay, but is he actually talking about the penthouse during these lunches?

Isabelle: He pretends to for about five minutes. Then he just orders my favourite foods for me and acts like we’re on a date.

Emilie: …So you’re saying you’re mad because your boyfriend is taking you on nice dates and feeding you good food?

Isabelle: THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is the point.

Isabelle: I just—he’s impossible!

Emilie: What restaurant was it this time?

Isabelle: Le Louis XV.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle:

Emilie: You are sitting here complaining to me after being wined and dined at ALAIN DUCASSE’S RESTAURANT???

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: Shut up and tell me what you ate!

***

Isabelle laid out fabric swatches on the table, neatly arranging them in rows. “These are the options for the curtains,” she said, keeping her voice professional. “I’ve chosen materials that complement the lighting and textures in the space while also being durable.”

Max picked up a swatch at random, turning it over like he’s actually considering it. “Yeah… so which one do you like best?”

Isabelle sighed. “That’s not the point, Max.”

“But it kind of is,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “You know what looks good. I trust you.”

She exhaled, trying to keep the conversation on track. “My job isn’t to pick what I like, it’s to give you the best options based on your preferences and the space—”

“My preference,” Max interrupted, “is to not think too hard about curtain fabrics. So, tell me, which one would you put in your own place?”

She pressed her lips together but eventually pointed to a light cream fabric with a soft texture. “This one.”

Max immediately nodded. “Perfect. We’ll go with that.”

“That’s not how this works,” Isabelle protested.

“It is now.” He grinned, tapping the swatch like the decision is final.

She gave him a look but moves on, pulling out samples for the kitchen backsplash. “Alright, for the tiles—”

Max smirked. “What do you like best?”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You are impossible.”

Max chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I don’t see the problem. You have good taste. I want my place to look good. This seems like a win-win situation.”

Isabelle lifted her head, giving him a flat look. “Max.”

“Yes?”

“You are literally paying me to make these decisions for you based on your preferences, not mine.”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, but my main preference is trusting you.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is when I’m the client.” His grin was infuriatingly smug.

Isabelle sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn’t quite hide the small smile creeping onto her face. “Fine. But if you hate something later, I’m telling everyone this was your fault.”

“I won’t hate it,” Max said easily, glancing at the tile samples. “So… which one would you use in your own kitchen?”

Isabelle groaned dramatically. “You are impossible.”

Max just smirked. “You already said that.”

Isabelle rubbed her temples like she’s trying to ward off a headache. “You know, most clients want a functional, cohesive design that suits their lifestyle.”

Max leant back against the kitchen island, watching her with amused eyes. “And I want a functional, cohesive design that you think looks good.”

“That’s not—” She exhaled sharply. “Okay, fine. I’d go with the marble option for the counters. It’s classic, it won’t date badly, and it works with the natural light in here.”

Max nodded like that’s exactly what he was going to pick anyway. “Perfect. Marble it is.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re just agreeing with me so I stop arguing with you.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Or maybe I actually value your opinion.”

She huffed, flipping through the fabric swatches again. “Alright, what about your bedroom curtains? Darker shades are better for blocking light in the mornings.”

Max hummed, looking over the options. “Which one do you like?”

“Max.”

“What? You just said you’re designing for functionality. You clearly think one of these is the best choice.”

She muttered something under her breath, then points at a deep navy fabric. “This one. It’ll keep the room dark, and it’s not too heavy for the space.”

“Done.”

Isabelle levelled him with a suspicious look. “You’re making this way too easy.”

Max shrugged. “I told you. I trust you.” He gestures around the penthouse. “Besides, I plan to spend most of my time here with you. Might as well make sure you don’t hate it.”

She stilled for half a second, but then rolls her eyes like she’s not affected. “Professionalism, Max.”

Max just smirked, reaching for another set of samples. “Alright, Miss Leclerc, what’s next?”

Isabelle pointedly ignored the way her stomach does an annoying little flip at his words and refocuses on the task at hand. She flipped open her notebook, determined to keep things professional. "We still need to finalize your living room furniture. You said you wanted a sectional, right?"

Max nodded, leaning slightly over her shoulder to glance at her notes. "Yeah, something big enough to stretch out on. And for the cats."

She glanced up at him. "And for guests?"

Max blinked. "I mean, sure. If I have guests."

Isabelle sighed. "Do you ever think about designing your space for other people?"

"I am thinking about other people," he countered easily. "I’m thinking about you. You like to sit in the corner with a book, so we should get one with a deep chaise. And you like soft blankets, so whatever fabric we pick needs to feel nice."

She stared at him for a beat too long. "You—" She shakes her head. "You notice a lot more than you let on."

Max shrugged. "I like watching you."

Isabelle blinked rapidly and turned back to her samples before he could see the flush creeping up her neck. Professionalism. She needed to focus.

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat. "Fabric choices for the sectional—"

Max leant forward, already grinning. "Which one do you like?"

Isabelle groaned, slamming her notebook shut. "You are impossible."

Max just laughed. "I’m making sure my designer is happy with her work. That’s important, right?"

"That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he said breezily, nudging her shoulder with his. "If you think this place should feel like me, then I think it should feel like you, too."

Isabelle gripped her pen a little too tightly. "You’re insufferable."

Max grinned. "And yet, here you are."

Isabelle exhaled slowly, flipping through the swatches with more force than necessary. “Fine. You want my opinion? This one.” She pulled out a deep green fabric, soft under her fingers. “It’s comfortable, durable, and it won’t clash with anything else.”

Max reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s nice.” Then he grins. “You just like it because it’s your favourite colour.”

She paused. “That is not why I picked it.”

“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “But I remember you said you like green because it reminds you of home. And I want you to feel at home here.”

Isabelle’s fingers tighten around the fabric. “Max—”

“So, green it is,” he cut in before she can say anything else, grabbing the sample and setting it aside. Then he leans back, smug. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like this apartment is for both of us.”

Max tilted his head. “Well, you are spending a lot of time here.”

“That’s because I’m working.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “And when the project is done?”

Isabelle pressed her lips together, not wanting to answer that question. Because the truth is, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about finishing this penthouse and walking away.

Max must have sensed her hesitation because his expression softened. “You know, you don’t have to leave when it’s done.”

She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart pounds. “Max.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice light but eyes serious. “I don’t mind having you around.”

Isabelle forced herself to focus back on her notebook. Professionalism. Boundaries. She had to remember them.

But as she moved on to the next decision—choosing dining chairs—she couldn’t  help but feel like she’s already losing that battle.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is going to drive me insane.

Emilie: What did he do now?

Isabelle: He refuses to make a single decision about the penthouse. Not one.

Emilie: Oh, this is going to be good.

Isabelle: I showed him flooring samples, and he just said, “Which one do you like best, schatje?” I asked him about the kitchen walls, and he went, “I trust your taste.”

Emilie: He’s so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting.

Isabelle: EMILIE, I NEED HIM TO HAVE AN OPINION.

Emilie: He does. His opinion is that your opinion is the only one that matters.

Isabelle: That’s not how this works! He’s the one who has to live there!

Emilie: You will be the one living there with him, if he gets his way. He’s just pretending it’s not obvious.

Emilie: He’s setting up your future home together and letting you build it exactly the way you want. That man would let you paint the walls hot pink if it made you happy.

Emilie: He’s letting you pick everything because he wants you to feel at home.

Emilie: Tell me I’m wrong.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now, if you suggested, hypothetically, that the whole kitchen should be neon green, how fast do you think he’d say yes?

Isabelle: He wouldn’t even hesitate.

Emilie: This man is whipped.

Emilie: He’s so gone for you. It’s actually hilarious.

Isabelle: This is a nightmare.

Emilie: Just be glad he’s not insisting on Red Bull colors.

Isabelle: I take it back. It could be worse.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

****

"I think I’m falling in love with him."

Isabelle hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped out, quiet and uncertain, as she sat across from Emilie at their usual café.

Emilie, mid-sip of her drink, slowly set her cup down and arched an eyebrow. “No shit.”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I mean too fast,” she muttered. “It’s too fast.”

Emilie leaned back, unimpressed. “Define ‘too fast.’”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle exhaled, sitting up and fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “It’s like—I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. For him to change.”

Emilie just stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “Belle. He’s treating you better than your own family ever did. That’s not ‘too fast.’ That’s just right.”

“That’s not—” Isabelle started, but Emilie held up a hand.

“Let’s review,” she said, counting on her fingers. “He listens to you. He remembers things you like. He makes time for you. He prioritizes you. That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve, Belle. And you know damn well you’ve never had it before.”

Isabelle swallowed hard.

Emilie’s expression softened. “Look, I get it. It’s scary when someone actually cares about you, especially when you’re used to being the afterthought. But Max? He’s not going anywhere. And you? You’re not falling too fast. You’re just finally being caught.”

Isabelle exhaled, staring down at her coffee.

“Also,” Emilie added, smirking, “you’re absolutely screwed, because I think you’ve been in love with him for weeks.”

Isabelle groaned again, and Emilie just laughed.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. I think something is wrong with Max.

Emilie: Oh god, what happened??

Isabelle: He just gave me flowers.

Emilie: …And???

Isabelle: There’s no occasion. No reason. He just handed them to me and said, “Thought you’d like these.”

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And then he pulled out my favorite wine. Already chilled. Already opened. Just there.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: AND THEN he sat with me. No phone, no distractions, just me. He asked about my day. Actually listened.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING MY NAME.

Emilie: Because you’re being so stupidly loved and acting like it’s a problem.

Isabelle: I just don’t know what to do with it. I feel like I should be doing something in return??

Emilie: You are. You exist. You let him love you. That’s enough.

Isabelle: But I’ve never—no one’s ever—

Emilie: I know. But this is what it’s supposed to be like.

Isabelle: …It feels weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

Isabelle: Will I?

Emilie: Yeah. And then one day, it won’t feel weird at all. It’ll just feel like love.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: Huh, she says. Like I haven’t been telling her this for years.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Nope. Now go drink your fancy wine and let your boyfriend adore you.

Isabelle: …Fine.

Emilie: That’s my girl.

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? From who?

@/charles_leclerc: Since when do you get flowers??

@/emilie_abadie: 👀👀👀

@/F1GossipQueen: OMG IS ISABELLE SOFT LAUNCHING A BOYFRIEND???

↳@/paddockprincessx: We are watching this situation VERY closely.

@/leclercsiblingtea: The Leclerc brothers seem deeply unsettled by this turn of events. 

@/lorenzotl: Be honest. Did you buy these for yourself?

***

Isabelle wasn’t trying to snoop.

She was just tidying up a little while Max was in the kitchen—because, frankly, he lived like someone who was always on the road (which he was). That’s how she spotted the iPad on the coffee table, screen still on. She had only glanced at it in passing, but then something caught her eye.

French lessons.

Her first reaction was confusion. Then amusement. Then something warmer, something that made her heartbeat do something a little ridiculous in her chest.

“Max?” she called out, picking up the iPad.

“Yeah?” His voice floated back from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the fridge opening. “Do you want some water?”

She walked in, holding up the iPad like it was evidence in a trial. “Are you secretly moving to Paris?”

Max turned around, brow furrowing. “What?”

She waved the iPad at him. “Since when are you learning French?”

His face did not do a good job of hiding his guilt. His eyes flickered to the screen, then back to her, and he shifted on his feet like he was debating snatching it out of her hands. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Isabelle crossed her arms, fighting a smile. “What’s the story, Verstappen? Career change? Planning to start giving post-race interviews in French?”

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I live in Monaco. Figured it was time I actually learned, you know, the main language people speak here.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” He shrugged. “It makes sense.”

“It does make sense.” She took a step closer. “Except you’ve lived in Monaco for years and have never cared before.”

Max glanced at the iPad again, like it would somehow save him. When it didn’t, he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Maybe I had another reason.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “And that reason is?”

His ears were turning pink. “You.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“You switch to French when you’re with your family,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her. “Or when you’re distracted. Or when you get really excited about something. And I—I wanted to understand you better.”

Oh.

Oh.

Isabelle stared at him, warmth flooding her chest. “Max…”

He sighed again, clearly bracing himself for teasing. “Look, if you think it’s stupid—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice soft. “I think it’s… really sweet.”

Max relaxed slightly, still wary. “Yeah?”

She smiled. “Yeah.” Then she nudged him. “Okay, say something.”

He groaned. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Max hesitated. Then, after a deep breath, he said—slowly, carefully—“Je veux tout comprendre de toi.”

I want to understand everything about you.

Isabelle’s breath caught.

She looked up at him, and suddenly, the teasing was gone. Her heart was thudding, her fingers itching to reach for him. “Max.”

He shifted again. “Did I say it wrong?”

She shook her head. Then, without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him.

Max made a startled sound but recovered quickly, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. When she finally pulled away, his grin was dazed.

“So,” he said, slightly breathless. “That was because of the French, huh?”

She laughed, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to keep practicing.”

Max tightened his hold on her. “Done.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is learning French.

Emilie: ???

Emilie: Like YOUR Max? The one who has lived in Monaco forever and has survived just fine with English and Dutch?

Isabelle: Yes!!!

Isabelle: I found his iPad open with some French lesson on it, and when I asked, he said he lives in Monaco so it was about time he learned.

Emilie: That… does make sense.

Isabelle: But then I pressed him, and he admitted he’s actually doing it because of ME.

Emilie: Oh.

Emilie: Ohhhh.

Emilie: Isabelle. He’s in LOVE love.

Isabelle: I don’t even know what to do with this information.

Emilie: Girl, you kiss him stupid, that’s what.

Isabelle: I already did that!!!

Emilie: Good. Keep doing it.

Emilie: Good for him. He’s putting in the effort. He’s out here grinding on Duolingo just to impress.

Isabelle: That’s what’s shocking me the most… Nobody has ever done that for me before.

Emilie: Well, he’s not just anybody, is he?

Isabelle: No. He’s Max.

Emilie: Exactly. And Max Verstappen? He doesn’t do anything halfway.

***

Text Messages:Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Need your help.

GP: If this is about strategy on a Monday at 11 in the evening, I’m hanging up.

Max: It’s not.

GP: Then what?

Max: Isabelle’s birthday is coming up. I need a gift.

GP: …You do realize just because I’m married, I’m not a fountain of romantic wisdom, right?

Max: Who else am I supposed to ask?

GP: Literally anyone else?

Max: You’re the only one I trust not to be an idiot about this.

GP: I feel like that was a compliment and an insult at the same time.

Max: Just help me.

GP: Alright, what are you thinking?

Max: Something personal. Not just perfume or a handbag.

GP: Already doing better than most.

Max: That’s a low bar.

GP: True. Jewelry? Something meaningful?

Max: I was thinking emeralds. Her birthstone. And it matches her eyes.

GP: …Wow. You’re actually in deep.

Max: Not the point.

GP: Sure, sure. Bracelet? Necklace? Something she can wear every day?

Max: Yeah. Probably a bracelet.

GP: Go for it. But just so you know, if you keep setting the bar this high, you’re making the rest of us look bad.

Max: Not my problem.

GP: Yeah, that tracks. Let me know what you pick.

Max: Will do. Thanks.

GP: Anytime. Just remember, I’m charging a consulting fee next time.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: This is Max. Isabelle’s Max.

Emilie: …Hello, Isabelle’s Max. To what do I owe the honor?

Max: I need help. It’s about Isabelle’s birthday.

Emilie: Go on.

Max: I need Isabelle’s wrist size.

Emilie: …What.

Max: Her wrist size.

Emilie: That’s it? No explanation? No context? Just casually asking for her wrist size like that’s a normal thing?

Max: Yes.

Emilie: I don’t trust you.

Max: That feels unnecessary.

Emilie: UNNECESSARY? MAX, I HAVE SPENT YEARS FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST HER FAMILY’S COMPLETE INABILITY TO GET HER A DECENT GIFT.

Max: …

Emilie: Charles once got her a Ferrari-branded umbrella. ”In case you ever come to a race and it rains.”

Max: …

Emilie: Arthur once got her a stuffed animal from an airport gift shop, because he nearly forgot entirely one year. Just straight-up forgot Belle had a birthday.

Max: …

Emilie: Lorenzo got her candle last year. A SINGLE. GENERIC. VANILLA. CANDLE. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE VANILLLA; SHE GETS HEADACHES FROM IT.

Max: That’s actually embarrassing.

Emilie: Thank you. But I’m not done.

Max: Oh no.

Emilie: Their mother gave Isabelle a cookbook.

Max: That’s… not the worst?

Emilie: It was a diet cookbook.

Max: …

Max: What the hell.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: And you’re saying this happens every year?

Emilie: EVERY. YEAR. Max, I have a Google Doc. I have an entire spreadsheet dedicated to “How to Make Sure Isabelle Actually Gets Something Nice.” I am fighting for my life out here.

Max: Not anymore.

Emilie: Wait.

Max: Attachment: Image of three emerald bracelets

Max: I’m thinking emeralds. It’s her birthstone. Matches her eyes.

Emilie:

Emilie:

Emilie: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.

Max: What.

Emilie: YOU ALREADY PICKED OUT OPTIONS???

Max: I was narrowing it down.

Emilie: NARROWING IT DOWN. LIKE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN MAN. LIKE SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY PUTS THOUGHT INTO GIFTS. LIKE SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HER FAVORITE GEMSTONE AND HOW IT MATCHES HER EYES.

Max: …Yes?

Emilie: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INFURIATING THIS IS FOR ME. I HAVE BEEN CARRYING THIS FAMILY.

Max: So you don’t know her wrist size?

Emilie: FIFTEEN CENTIMETERS. 

Max: Appreciate the help.

Emilie: Oh, and just for future reference—her ring size is 50.

Max: …

Max: Just for future reference?

Emilie: Just saying. You never know.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: 🚨 UM. Just saw Max Verstappen in a jewelry store in Miami. He was looking at bracelets and asking about emeralds.

@/OversteerAndTears: Not me immediately googling “Max Verstappen girlfriend emerald jewelry” like I’m gonna find something.

@/SoftForMax: Max Verstappen. In a jewelry store. Asking about emeralds. Who is she.

@/F1GossipQueen: He was so serious about it too. Like asking the salesperson about different settings and cuts.

@/CheckeredHeart: SETTINGS??? DIFFERENT CUTS?!?!

@/F1GossipQueen: Yes!!! And he was like, “She likes emeralds, but I want something subtle.” Like WHO, MAX??

@/FastCarsAndDrama: “She likes emeralds.” SHE??? I’M GONNA THROW UP.

@/MaxIsMyGOAT: So we’re just casually learning that Max Verstappen not only has a girlfriend but knows her jewelry preferences well enough to mention them in a store???@/OrangeArmy82: Maybe it’s for his mom or sister. We don’t know it’s for a girlfriend.