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daryltwdixon · 3 months ago

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Summary: Cracks begin to show in the life you were building with the Miller brothers, the weight of the third trimester pressing down as Tommy lashes out in a way you didn’t see coming. Seeking comfort and clarity, you leave with Joel—where tension, tenderness, and long-buried feelings finally surface behind closed doors.

|| smut MDNI 18+, arguing, Tommy is an ass, pinv, fingering, pregnancy kink?, dirty talk obvi, breeding kink, possessive joel, some longing and angst, no outbreak, they still cant f'ing communicate ||

notes: I promise I actually like tommy in the show / game lmao. sorry this took me so long! was traveling to see family and literally had no downtime. enjoy!!!

The nursery was only half finished.

The bassinet was still in its box, unopened, up against the wall. Paint cans were stacked in the corner, samples painted haphazardly on the walls that had been dried for weeks. It was like dust had settled over everything—over the plans, the promises, the parts that were supposed to come next.

You sat in the recliner, the one meant for late-night feedings and early-morning lullabies. One hand rested on your belly, your thumb moving in slow, steady circles— something to do, to keep your breath even.

You were supposed to be building the crib today. Joel had followed Tommy home from the job site, both of their boots still dirty with sawdust, just to make it in time. They’d barely stepped inside before it was clear something was wrong.

Tommy stood by the window, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked like he might splinter from the pressure. His jaw was locked, shoulders coiled. Joel mirrored him from the doorway—hands tucked under his arms, weight leaned against the frame like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go.

Whatever was between them wasn’t being said, but you felt it all the same. Thick in the air, pressing down like humidity before a storm. Crawling across your skin, making you itch in places you couldn’t reach.

It had started weeks ago. Subtle, at first. Tommy pulling away in small, quiet ways—forgetting appointments, brushing past you with less warmth, keeping his kisses chaste and short. The bigger your belly got, the more he seemed to disappear.

Maybe now that it was real—your body changing more by the day, the shape of this future becoming something tangible—he was seeing it differently. Maybe he was seeing you differently.

You hadn’t wanted to believe it at first. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was stress. But as your due date crept closer, it became harder to ignore. He barely touched the baby clothes, the packages that came for the nursery. Or you.

Something had cracked, and no one wanted to look at the pieces. Now, whatever this was—this silence, this standoff—it felt like the final leak in a dam. Like the whole thing was about to burst open.

You tried to ease the pressure. Something small. Something safe.

“Have either of you thought more about names?” your voice came out lighter than it should. Like a peace offering. “We should probably decide before he gets here.”

Tommy didn’t even look at you. “You mean you and Joel should decide.”

You exhaled. Of course.

“Tommy… you’ve been avoiding every conversation about the baby lately,” you said gently. “For weeks. Can’t you just…talk to us? To me?”

“Maybe that’s because every time we talk,” he snapped, “I’m the one who’s unreasonable. I’m the one who’s supposed to suck it up and smile.”

“You are being unreasonable,” you said, too fast, too sharp. Then, softer—more careful. “You keep shutting Joel out of everything. You won’t let him have a say in any of the decisions or plans. He’s supposed to be part of this.”

Tommy laughed—a short, humorless bark. “He was part of this. We needed him to help. That’s what this was. A favor. You and me—we were gonna raise this baby. He’s not—” he shook his head, letting the end of his sentence hang between the three of you.

You rose from the chair slowly, pressing your palm into the armrest as you shifted your weight, the other hand supporting your swollen belly. Joel moved instinctively, ready to help, but you lifted a hand without looking at him. I’m fine.

Your knees ached. Your back pulled. The baby shifted under your ribs, like he knew something was wrong.

You crossed the room, stopping just a few feet from your husband. “Tommy,” you said, voice calm but full, “we agreed he would be part of this. We agreed to try it this way. We’re supposed to be a team. He’s not just some uncle. He’s the baby’s—”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

His voice cracked halfway through the word, and for a second you saw it. The grief. The way it was wrapped around his anger like barbed wire.

Joel pushed off the doorway. “Then what the hell am I, Tommy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel under it. “What, just a stud you called in when things didn’t go your way? You think I’m gonna stand here and act like none of this matters?”

Tommy scoffed as he looked at his brother. “You think it does matter? What—you catch feelings after a couple fucks and now you think she’s yours?”

Your heart lurched at the venom in his words. Joel stepped even closer, his voice low and even and deadly calm.

“I think I was there when she couldn’t stop throwing up for three days straight. I think I was the one bringing her crackers and Pedialyte at two in the goddamn morning. And where the hell were you? Out with Frank again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes locked on his brother.

“I was there when she had those dizzy spells. When she got scared something was wrong. When she cried through the whole damn glucose test because you were too busy to answer your phone.”

He stepped forward in front of you. Steady. Final. “So yeah. I think I’ve earned the right to stand here. And I think you better watch your damn mouth when you talk about her like that.”

You stood frozen, heart in your throat, Joel’s words echoing louder than the silence that followed. You hadn’t expected him to speak—not like that. Not so plainly.

But maybe what scared you more was how much it meant to hear someone fight for you.

And then Tommy looked at Joel. Really looked at him. “Tell me the truth. You wanted her the whole time, didn’t you?”

Joel’s voice was tight. “That’s not fair.”

“Answer me.”

Joel looked down, breathed once, then met his brother’s eyes. “It didn’t start like that.”

“But it is like that now, huh?” Tommy’s voice broke. “You think you can just stand in my house, in my life, and pretend this is yours now?”

Joel’s voice cut in, sharp. “That’s enough.”

Tommy shook his head, face red. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I’m not leavin’ her,” Joel said. “Not when you’re actin’ like this.”

“You don’t get to—”

“She’s pregnant,” Joel bit out, stepping into Tommy's space. “And you’re standing here yelling like she hasn’t been carryin’ all this on alone for weeks.”

“Alone?!” Tommy exploded—but you stepped between them before either could say another word.

“He’s right.” Your voice wavered, but it didn’t break. “That’s enough.”

You pressed a finger into Tommy’s chest, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.

“You’re the one who asked for this, Tommy. You’re the one who said you could handle it. And now you want to punish me–what? For trying to make this work even when you barely look at me anymore? I’m trying, Tommy.” You shook your head, blinking back tears. “Don’t rewrite this like I betrayed you. I already took the blame for my mistakes. We moved forward, we agreed this would be the three of us.”

Tommy stared at you like he didn’t recognize you.

“You want him here?” he asked, voice hollow. “Playin’ daddy, picking names for our baby in our house? Fine. But don’t act like I’m crazy for wanting my wife back.”

He didn’t stop when you called his name. He turned, shoved past Joel—hard enough to make it known—and stormed out.

The door slammed.

And just like that, the nursery was silent again.

Before

Joel never had a party phase.

He never did the college thing. No keg stands, no spring breaks, no waking up in someone else's dorm bed not remembering how he got there. Never packed into a room with three roommates and a GameCube. By the time most guys his age were skipping class and shotgunning beers, he was knee-deep in diapers and formula receipts.

He graduated high school, married his pregnant girlfriend, and tried to do the right thing. And within a year, Sarah was born—and Jess was gone. Real gone. Not a slow unravel. More like a door slamming and a trail of dust behind her.

He told himself she was never meant to be a mom. Hell, they were both still just kids at the time.

But that didn’t make it right. Didn’t make it easier, either. She left the baby. Left him. Just checked out and never looked back.

So when one of Tommy’s friends invited them to some frat party, Joel didn’t see the point. He tried to beg off, mumbled something about Sarah needing him, even as valid as that was. But Tommy had already lined up a sitter and wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“You need a night, man,” he’d said. “Just one damn night to remember what it’s like to have a pulse.”

So Joel went.

And now, he stood just inside the front door of a house packed with strangers, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

The place smelled like beer, sweat, cheap cologne, and microwave pizza. Every surface was sticky. A girl brushed past him, laughing too loud, perfume trailing behind her like cotton candy and alcohol. Guys with shaggy hair and flip-flops shouted over the blare of some terrible pop track, slapping each other on the backs like they’d just survived war.

Joel felt old. Not in years. In miles.

These kids weren’t that much younger than him, technically. But they weren’t people who'd held a screaming newborn at 3 a.m. They weren’t worried about overdue bills or busted radiators. These were the types who’d call home if they overdrew their account and had money wired to them in an hour.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and slipped through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone. A couple was making out against the fridge in the kitchen as he grabbed a red solo cup of beer. Someone was throwing up in the sink. There were Doritos crushed under his boots.

He needed air.

The back door stuck a little when he pushed it open. He stepped onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him with a squeal. Out here, it was quieter. Cooler. The music still thudded through the house like a pulse, but it was distant now—muted by the walls and the steady hum of crickets in the yard.

A few people lingered at the far end of the porch, passing a joint back and forth, slouched on the railing and talking low. One guy stood off to the side with a cigarette between his fingers.

Joel walked over, nodding once.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I bum one?”

The guy didn’t say anything, just held out the pack and a lighter.

Joel took both. Lit the cigarette and handed them back with a quiet thanks.

He hadn’t smoked since Jess told him she was pregnant. He quit cold turkey that day—barely even missed it. But tonight? He needed something to bite back the tightness in his chest. Something to ground him. He’d shower the second he got home anyway, throw his clothes straight in the wash before checking on his sleeping toddler.

God, he wished he was already there.

The smoke burned a little as it hit the back of his throat. He exhaled slow, watching it curl up into the porch light.

Time passed. People wandered back inside. The weed-smokers disappeared. The porch emptied out until it was just him.

Joel leaned against the railing and let his shoulders drop. He pulled out his old blocky cellphone, flipped it open with a quiet snap. No missed calls from the babysitter. No voicemails.

He stared at the screen a second longer than he needed to. Just making sure.

He almost wished there was something. A reason to leave. A reason to get the hell outta here and go home. But everything seemed fine. He closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket, jaw tightening as he took another drag of the cigarette between his fingers.

Just as he was settling into the quiet, the back door creaked open again. He didn’t look to see who it was, just figured it was some more potheads needing to get their fix. But he was surprised when he looked up, that his sudden gravitational pull felt off balance.

You stepped outside, fingers gripping the neck of a beer bottle, bringing it to your lips that shined in the moonlight from whatever gloss you had swiped across them tonight. Your black tank top clung to every inch of your chest and your mid-drift peeked below until your jeans that hung low on your hips, hugged you perfectly.

When you made your way out onto the porch, you looked like you didn’t owe the world shit, that you didn’t give a shit if anyone noticed you. But he noticed you. Everyone probably did.

Joel couldn’t stop staring.

When your eyes met his, it was like the world blinked. Just a beat—long enough to catch, short enough to question. And then you didn’t look away.

You tilted your head, your eyes glancing down at the beer and cigarette in his hand.

“That cheap stuff tastes like shit,” you said, “Like it came outta someone’s shoe. You’re better off with the good stuff.” you dangled your beer bottle up, shaking it just a little to show off you weren’t drinking from the keg.

“Not really one to drink it for the taste,” Joel said. You moved forward with a small smile.

“Mind if I take a hit off that?” you said smoothly, pointing to the cigarette.

He handed it to you wordlessly, and watched, entranced despite himself as your glossy lips wrapped around it, the ember burning at the tip.

“Told my parents I quit,” you said, blowing out the smoke, “Which is true. But nights like this make me a liar,”

Joel liked the way you talked. Dry, confident, like you were letting him in on your world. You weren’t fawning, weren’t giggling. You were sharp. Maybe a little reckless. Probably younger than him by a year or two, but smarter than half the house of partygoers combined.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around,” you said, handing him back the cigarette.

He shrugged. “That’s probably a good thing.”

You sipped your drink. “So you don’t go here?”

“Nah. Not exactly the academic type. Friend of a friend invited us out.”

You nodded, still watching him. The cigarette passed quietly between the two of you.

“And by ‘us,’ I’m guessin’ you mean...?”

“My brother,” he answered, “He’s around here somewhere. He’s better at this kinda scene than me.”

“I don’t know,” you said. “You seem to be doing just fine.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked—and felt something low in his chest shift, just slightly off-center. Your hair was pulled back in a pony-tail, big eyes that had no business looking at him like you were.

He huffed, barely a smile. “Don’t know about that.”

You shrugged, but didn’t look away. “You’ve got that whole brooding-loner thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mhm.” You took another sip of your beer, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been out here, what—five minutes? I can already tell. Not even trying, and yet you look like you’ve got some kind of tragic backstory.”

He snorted, caught somewhere between amused and flustered. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” you said, leaning in a little, just enough that your voice dropped slightly. “You wear it well.”

Joel swallowed once, felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. You were watching him like you already knew how he’d taste. Like you were just deciding whether or not it’d be worth the trouble.

He cleared his throat, looked down at his boots for half a second, then back up.

“What about you?” he asked. “You come to these things just to psychoanalyze strangers with your imported beer?”

“No, silly.” You smiled, slow and confident. “I come for the free cigarettes and hot strangers to psychoanalyze.”

Joel huffed a soft breath, smirk faint but real. He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette, not quite looking at you when he said, “Don’t know if I fit the bill on that second one.”

Your eyes didn’t leave him. “On the contrary, mystery man, pretty sure you’re tickin’ all the boxes.”

And Joel—God help him—he forgot his own name for a second.

He leaned a little closer, felt the pull of you like gravity. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch your waist, to tuck a piece of your hair that fell from your ponytail back just so he could feel what it was like between his fingers. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever.

You were about to say something else, he could sense it, that moment between beats when something clicks open, but then a girl stumbled out the back door, making you turn as she grabbed your arm.

“Hey!” she slurred, glancing between the two of you before locking eyes with you. “I need you—seriously, Stacey’s throwing up and she just called freaking Mark, and she��s, like, sobbing—please come help.”

You looked over, face twisting with reluctant affection. “Shit. Yeah, okay.” you turned back to him, apology written all over your face, handing him back the nearly burnt out cigarette.

“Duty calls,” Joel said with a short nod.

“I’ll find you later?” you offered, a little breathless, and before he could reply, you were gone–swept back into the house, the music blaring for the moment the door was open, then leaving him out in the quiet again.

He stood there like a damn idiot, heart still pounding. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to you—just a blur of cigarette smoke and smart little smiles.

You didn’t ask his name.

He didn’t ask yours.

But you’d looked at him like you already knew him.

The porch felt quieter now. Emptier, somehow, like you’d taken the oxygen with you when you left.

He took one last drag from the cigarette, flicked it into the yard, and let the silence wrap around him. Music still pulsed faintly from inside, muted now, swallowed by the thick summer air. A few fireflies blinked out by the fence. The sky above was dark and low, stars peeking through the haze of humidity and porch light glow.

He braced his hands on the railing and stared out at nothing for a long minute.

Eventually, he straightened up, ran a hand down his face, and turned back toward the house. He hadn’t seen Tommy in a while, and if he didn’t check in soon, he might completely lose track of his little brother.

Still… he glanced at the door once more before heading inside, like maybe you’d reappear if he looked hard enough.

You didn’t.

So he opened the door and stepped back into the noise. The music hit harder now—bass thrumming straight through his chest, like it was syncing up with his pulse. Everything felt louder, warmer, just a little off-kilter. The crowd moved in flashes—glimpses of faces, glitter, teeth, hands in the air—and Joel moved through it like he wasn’t fully there.

Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was you.

He made his way through the crowd slowly, eyes skimming over the living room couches, checking the faces of couples tangled together, wondering if Tommy was caught in some sort of lip lock with a random girl by now.

“Joel!”

He blinked and turned toward the sound.

There was his little brother, shoving his way through the crowd, hair messy, cheeks flushed from beer and the thrill of whatever he’d been up to. He looked like he’d just won a bet or found twenty bucks on the sidewalk.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

Tommy grabbed his arm, grinning like an idiot. “Better than good.”

Joel gave him a look, dry. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love,” Tommy announced.

Joel snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m serious, man.” Tommy’s eyes were gleaming. “I just met the girl I’m gonna marry.”

Joel shook his head, a smile creeping over his face. Only his little brother.

“Where?” he asked, playing along.

Tommy spun, rising on his toes to look above the crowd. “She went back that way. Wait—hold up—there.” He pointed past the kitchen, toward the hall that led to the bathrooms and the back patio.

Joel’s eyes followed his hand.

And landed on you.

You were standing beside your drunk friend, your brows knitted as you held a water bottle to her lips, gently brushing hair back from her face. Still impossibly beautiful. Still glowing in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting or the beer or the gloss on your lips.

And Tommy was pointing at you.

Joel didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“D’you see her?” Tommy said. “Little tank top, high ponytail—God, man, she’s—fuck. She smiled at me and I swear I felt it in my spine. I’m gonna find her after her friend’s chill. She said she’d come back.”

Joel’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Because what the hell was he supposed to say?

Joel nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I see her.”

Tommy clapped his back. “She’s everything, man.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just took a long drink of his beer.

And said nothing at all.

Present Day

You were silent as you climbed into Joel’s truck, his hand reaching for yours—rough, steady, warm—lifting you carefully onto the bench seat with your full belly.

Tears still clung to your lashes, blurring the view out the passenger window as you looked up at the house. At the window just above the garage. The one that led into the nursery.

The one where it all fell apart.

Your heart ached—not just from the fight, but from the truth in it. The worst part was… you understood Tommy. You couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. Maybe not about everything, but enough. Enough to leave a sting that wouldn’t fade anytime soon.

But that man inside the house—yelling, jealous, eyes full of something that looked too much like hate—he didn’t feel like the Tommy you knew. The man you married filled the house with music and laughter, who sang off-key in the shower and danced you around the living room with a beer in one hand and your waist in the other. He made late-night grilled cheese and kissed you with his whole heart, like he couldn’t believe you were real. He was your best friend. The one who stayed up with you talking nonsense into the middle of the night. The one who brought you coffee just the way you liked it. The one who made everything feel like the two of you were in it together—always.

He used to listen. Really listen. He was open. Curious. Soft where you needed softness and strong where you didn’t even realize you needed strength.

Where had that man gone?

Where had you gone?

“He just needs some time,” Joel said softly as if hearing your thoughts as he started the truck. It rumbled to life, and all you could do was bluntly nod, your throat too tight.

“Thanks–” you choked out, “For…I don’t know.” You shook your head. What the hell were you thanking him for? Sticking up for you to your own husband? Getting you out of your own house? Sitting beside you like the only steady thing left while everything else went to hell?

Maybe just… being here.

Joel didn’t answer. He just kept driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-down on the bench between you. Like if you needed it, his hand, his steadiness, his silence…it would be there.

You sat in it—the hum of the engine, the wind coming through the windows, the muffled ache in your chest—while familiar streets gave way to unfamiliar ones. Houses changed. Yards grew wider. You passed the sign for Joel’s neighborhood, only a few miles away, but it felt like crossing a border into a different world.

“Do you remember,” Joel said, breaking the silence, “when we first met?”

You blinked, looked over at him, trying to come back to the present. “Huh?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was warm and comforting. That southern drawl like velvet. “You were in school. Tommy and I got dragged to some party by a buddy of ours.”

“Oh… right.” You blinked through the cobwebs of the memory. “Back when I thought I was cool for liking even grosser beer.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh at that. Just a puff of air through his nose, but it softened the edges of the truck’s cab.

“Yeah.” he sighed heavily, hand coming up to his chin as he leaned against his side door.

“What about it?”

He shook his head a little, jaw working, his fingers regripping the wheel. The leather creaked.

“Just funny how it all…” He trailed off. Exhaled. “I don’t know. Nevermind”

You studied him, brow furrowing. “What were you gonna say?”

At the next red light, he finally looked over.

His eyes met yours across the bench seat—deep, quiet, and full of something raw. Something you had been seeing more of since whatever this was had started.

A part of Joel no one else ever saw.

Your heart kicked at the look on his face. Like he was standing on a ledge and just now realizing how far the drop really was.

“It’s just…” Joel’s voice dropped. “I knew you first.”

You blinked, your brow furrowing deeper. “Tommy introduced us that night.”

Joel shook his head, eyes back on the road now, but there was a small smile twitching at his lips. “Nah, if I remember right, you bummed my only cigarette off me on the back porch. Spent ten minutes tryna figure me out like some sort of shrink.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, the corner of your mouth lifting. You didn’t fully remember it, not clearly—but it felt right.

“Sounds like me, I guess.”

Joel’s fingers drummed once against the wheel, then stilled. “I just… I wonder sometimes.”

“Wonder what?”

The light turned green.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped on the gas. The truck lurched forward.

The golden hour light slanted across his face, catching the hard lines of his profile, the scar at his temple, the way his jaw twitched like he was biting down on something he’d been holding back for years.

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.”

You didn’t say anything.

There wasn’t anything to say.

The cab filled with silence. The kind that settled in your chest and turned tides in your stomach. The kind that said more than words ever could.

Outside the window, the trees blurred past in a haze of dying light.

And neither of you reached to turn on the radio.

When the truck pulled into the driveway, the sky was streaked in burnt orange and lavender, the last light stretching long across the hood. Joel was quick to hop out, moving around to your side before the engine had fully ticked quiet. He opened your door and held out his hand without a word.

You took it gingerly, wincing as your body shifted with effort. Six months in, everything took a little more.

He helped you down slow, steady, his hand catching at the crook of your elbow before it slid down to the small of your back as you found your footing. He kept it there as you walked toward the house—not holding you up, not rushing. Just… there.

When you stepped inside, you blinked at the silence.

“No Sarah?”

“She’s studyin’ at her friend’s. They got their exams comin’ up now,” he said, pulling the front door shut behind you. He toed off his boots near the mat, and you followed suit, groaning as you kicked yours off. Your feet were beyond swollen.

“Can we order a pizza or something? I’m dying,” you muttered, pressing a hand into the small of your back and arching until it cracked. The relief was minimal, but it was something.

Joel glanced over. His eyes skimmed your face, down to your belly, then back again. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll make somethin’. It’ll be quick.”

You hovered near the table, one hand resting on the slope of your belly. The house was quiet. You hesitated, unsure.

“I don’t mind,” he added. “Just relax a minute.”

You wandered to the table and eased down into a chair, the weight of the day heavier now that you weren’t pretending it wasn’t. The silence of the house pressed in at the edges. You stared at the wood grain in the table. Breathed in the faint scent of garlic still lingering in the air from whatever he was fixing up. It all felt… normal. Which made it worse.

Joel moved around the kitchen, pulling things from the fridge. A box of pasta. A jar of sauce. His movements were easy, practiced.

You didn’t speak until he was chopping something—onions maybe, the soft rhythmic knock of the knife filling the space.

“I don’t know what happened,” you said quietly.

He glanced up.

You weren’t even sure where the words had come from, but they were out now.

“Things were okay. Good, even. Me and Tommy. Me and you. It felt like we were getting into a rhythm. But the last few weeks…”

Joel didn’t say anything. He just kept chopping. Listening.

You pressed your hand over your belly. “Feels like the closer we get, the more he pulls away. Like he’s finally seeing what this is gonna look like and—” Your voice cracked. You swallowed. “—and I don’t think he likes it.”

Joel set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel. He didn’t push. Just looked at you across the counter.

“You don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he said. “You can stay here, if you want. I’m not sure when Sarah’s gettin’ home, but… we can watch a movie or somethin’. Just… take your mind off it.”

You nodded slowly, eyes burning. “I’m just really tired, honestly.”

He understood, turning back to his cooking on the stove. You sat there, eyes unfocused, listening to the low simmer of the sauce, the clink of dishes, the soft scrape of silverware being laid out. So domestic and easy.

Before long, dinner was ready. Nothing fancy—just pasta with a little garlic, some toasted bread, and water poured into mismatched glasses.

You sat across from each other at the table, the kitchen bathed in that soft in-between light, not quite night yet.

The food was warm. The silence was easy. Neither of you said much, and that was fine. Joel wasn’t the type to fill quiet just to hear himself talk, and you didn’t have the energy to pretend you were okay. So you ate. Slowly. Each bite keeping you tethered to reality a little more.

He looked up once, just briefly, like he was checking on you without making a thing of it. You caught it but didn’t say anything. Just kept eating, your hand resting against the curve of your stomach.

By the time your plate was mostly cleared, the exhaustion was creeping back in full force—behind your eyes, in your limbs, settling deep.

Joel stood and grabbed your empty dish without a word. Washed it. Dried it. Set it aside.

Then he turned to you, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

You didn’t argue. You just stood, slowly, your joints stiff from sitting too long. His hand found your back again, that same steady pressure, guiding you through the quiet house like it was muscle memory.

When you reached the bedroom, you sat on the edge of his bed, the familiar scent of his cologne and detergent wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. Usually, it stirred something electric in your blood—lit a fuse that burned hot and fast. But tonight, it was grounding. Comforting. A balm for something deeper.

Joel gave you the softest smile, the kind he rarely let anyone see, then knelt in front of you and began to pull your socks off—slow, careful. His hands were warm, calloused in all the familiar ways, but his touch was gentler than usual. Reverent, even. He slid your pants down next, then your shirt, peeling each layer away without rush or heat.

This wasn’t the same kind of hunger he’d shown you before—wasn’t the fierce, consuming need that usually lived in the space between these sheets. This was something else. Something quieter. Worship without fire.

He stepped away for a moment, grabbed one of his sleep shirts from the dresser. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with care, letting it fall over your bump and thighs. It smelled like him. Made you feel like you were wrapped in him.

Then he started to undress—slow and casual, unbothered by your gaze—and turned toward the bathroom as he unbuttoned his jeans.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said softly, voice low and rasped from the day as he shucked off the last of his clothing. “You go on and get comfortable.”

You nodded, watching him go.

And God, that view.

Joel’s bare back was broad, solid, built like it belonged to another time—hewn from marble and made to be seen on Greek statues of Achilles or Aries. You couldn’t help but stare at his tight, perky ass that always looked like it was made just for your hands.

He was so thoroughly masculine. So undeniably made from earth and sweat and quiet strength, it made something low in you ache—blood warming, mouth going dry. Even now. Even after the day you’d had.

That pull toward him never let up these days. Not really. It just shifted, simmered, and waited.

After a moment of sitting in patient silence, you eased yourself into the bed, shifting slowly beneath the sheets until the pressure on your hips and back lightened. You reached for the remote and turned Joel’s TV on low—just enough sound to fill the quiet without pulling you in. A dull hum. Something to keep the thoughts from circling too tight.

You pulled your phone out, thumb hovering before you typed the message. A small knot formed in your stomach, tight and uneasy.

I love you. I still want this with you. Can we talk in the morning?

You stared at it for a second longer than you should’ve. Then you hit send.

With a quiet sigh, you turned the phone face-down on the nightstand. You weren’t sure if you expected a reply. You weren’t even sure if you wanted one. But he deserved to know where you were, even if probably already assumed. You didn’t want him thinking you’d just given up or disappeared.

The door to the bathroom opened a few minutes later, a wave of steam curling into the bedroom as Joel stepped out, toweling off his hair. A dark towel hung low on his hips, drops of water trailing down his chest, catching in the lines of muscle carved from years of labor.

He moved toward his dresser, rifling through a drawer for something clean to sleep in.

You shifted onto your side, the tension in your belly easing with the change in position. One arm tucked beneath your bump, the other bent under your head. You watched him move, quiet and unbothered by your gaze.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” he asked, not even looking up, his voice thick with amusement.

You heard the smile in his voice before you saw it, that boyish grin flicking over his shoulder as he turned toward you.

His eyes caught yours from across the room. Your smile mirrored his.

“Definitely,” you said, voice soft but sure.

Joel chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough as he pulled a clean shirt over his head and stepped into a pair of loose flannel sleep shorts. He didn’t rush—never did—but there was something different in the way he moved now. Something quieter, like the air between you had thickened just a little.

He turned off the bathroom light and crossed the room, climbing into bed behind you without a word. The mattress dipped under his weight, and then his arm was sliding around your waist, pulling you gently against him.

His chest pressed to your back, one of his legs curling around yours. His body was warm from the shower, and the scent of soap clung to his skin—clean and comforting, with that lingering hint of spice that was just him.

You exhaled slowly, letting yourself sink into the feeling. Into him.

Joel’s hand rested low on your belly for a beat, thumb brushing absent circles against the soft cotton of his shirt stretched over it. It felt instinctual, protective. Like his body had already memorized the shape of yours, the places that needed soothing.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, lips close to your ear.

You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet. “Yeah.” you said, swallowing dryly, “Just… nice to not be alone.”

He hummed in agreement, nuzzling the back of your neck gently. “You’re not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

His hand slipped up beneath the hem of his shirt you were wearing, fingers grazing your bare skin—light, curious, like he was just reminding himself of the feel of you. That he was still allowed to touch you like this.

You shifted slightly, giving him room. The smallest invitation.

Then—he stilled.

You felt it too. A soft nudge from inside, low and to the left. The baby moved again, a firm little kick right against Joel’s palm.

His breath caught. He didn’t pull away.

“Was that…?” he asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t believe it.

You smiled into the pillow. “Yeah. Think he’s saying hi.”

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, hand wide over your belly, chest pressed to your back. You felt him swallow, the rise and fall of his breath slowing as he processed it—really felt it.

“That’s…” he exhaled, the sound brushing the back of your neck. “Wow. He’s strong.”

“Tell me about it,” you murmured with a soft groan, shifting your hips to ease the pressure. Then your hand reached back, finding his cheek, fingers curling gently as you turned your head to look at him. “Those Miller genes must make tough boys.”

Joel gave a quiet huff of a smile, but his eyes stayed on your belly. On his hand, still moving slow under your shirt, like he was memorizing every curve.

“I wouldn’t… this wouldn’t be real without you,” you said quietly, your thumb brushing his jaw. “No matter how messy it gets. You’re part of this. He’s here because of you.”

His gaze flicked to yours then—steady, searching, something unreadable in it. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. His fingers spread wider over your belly, grounding himself in the feel of it. Of you. Of him. The little life shifting beneath his hand.

Then he leaned in.

His lips met yours, slow and sure. The brush of his beard tickled your chin, your lips, your shoulder as he breathed you in. Your mouths molded together easily, unhurried, familiar.

The hand on your belly shifted—sliding lower, then wrapping around your hips to pull you closer into him. His body curved around yours, heat pressing into your back, chest to spine, hips tucked tight flush against yours. You could feel him against you as the moment turned heated, solid and wanting beneath his pants.

Still, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers curled behind his neck, pulling him closer as your tongue brushed his. A soft, low sound slipped from his throat, almost like a whimper.

He kissed you more and more, each second growing a little needier. His hand slid further beneath the hem of the shirt you wore—his shirt—palm grazing your stomach, your ribs, until his fingers found the soft underside of your breast. He cupped you gently, thumb stroking over the sensitive skin, slow circles that made your breath stutter.

“You tell me to stop, I’ll stop,” he murmured against your mouth, but his hands stayed steady and gentle against your soft skin.

Your breath caught, but not from surprise. It was the way he said it—low, honest, a little desperate under all that restraint.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered back.

That was all he needed. He groaned softly, deep in his chest, and kissed you again as you arched into him, pressing your chest against his palm, the ache blooming fast and low inside you. His touch grew firmer, more certain, squeezing and caressing, dragging another soft gasp from your lips.

Joel shifted, rolling his hips against you slowly, deliberately. You felt him thick and hard through his shorts, grinding into the curve of your ass with a low exhale.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with heat. His mouth trailed down the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek, your jaw, your neck as he kissed you slowly. “Belly all big and swollen with our baby, like it was always supposed to be this way.”

You moaned softly, your breath catching as your hips rocked back to meet him, chasing the friction. His hand slid from your breast down to your belly, splaying wide as he held you there, possessive and tender all at once. You whimpered, the heat between your legs only growing as he ground into you again, deeper now, his cock rubbing right against your soaked core through your panties and his shorts. The friction was maddening, so close, but not enough.

Joel groaned, voice breaking as he rutted against you. “You feel that? How bad I want you? How much I need you?”

His hand drifted down, slow and greedy, rubbing his calloused fingers over your covered mound. Then he pushed the fabric aside, dipping into your folds—slick and aching—and swore under his breath.

“Christ,” he muttered, thick with awe. “You’re soaked, honey. Already drippin’ for me.” His lips brushed your ear. “Already knocked up with my baby, and you still need more, huh?”

“Yes, Joel—please,” you gasped, your voice breaking. You lifted your knee, spreading your legs wider for him, offering everything.

“I know, darlin’,” he rasped, fingers gathering more of your slick, moving in slow, delicious circles around your clit. “Gonna make you come so many times before I even get my cock in you.”

You cried out softly as two of his thick fingers pushed inside with no hesitation, just the perfect stretch as he filled you. Your head dropped back against his shoulder, mouth falling open as pleasure bloomed bright and hot beneath your skin.

His lips grazed your neck, then your shoulder, the scruff of his beard scraping gently as his tongue licked a slow line over your pulse. He growled into your skin, low and deep, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, fingers curling deep as you pulsed around them. “You feel that? That’s me takin’ care of you. My girl.”

“So—so good, Joel,” you moaned, hips rolling to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Please. More.”

He hummed behind you, the sound dark and indulgent. He pulled his fingers out, slick and shining, and brought them up to circle your swollen clit, slow and firm.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Completely fucked out and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. You love this, don’t you? Show me how much you need this.”

Your only answer was a moan, ragged and high as your body arched for him, chasing every stroke like it was oxygen. Joel kissed your neck again, then your jaw, voice rough and trembling. His fingers didn’t let up the slow, steady circles over your clit, so firm and perfect. His other hand had slid beneath your body, wrapping and anchoring you against him.

The pleasure climbed fast, stealing your breath, your thoughts. Your hips rolled helplessly, grinding into his hand, chasing that friction, that pressure, desperate to crest at the edge.

Your back arched against him, and your head tilted, lips parting on a ragged moan, “Joel—oh god—”

Your orgasm hit sharp and sudden. Your body seized, fluttering around nothing, thighs clenching tight as his fingers kept moving, easing you through it. He didn’t stop. Not when your hips jerked, not when your breath stuttered into sobs. Not even when your legs started to shake.

“C’mon, sweet girl,” he growled against you, “Again. Know you can do it.”

His mouth was everywhere as he said it—your neck, your shoulder, your cheek—kissing you with a reverence that bordered on ruinous.

You barely had a moment to breathe before his fingers dipped back inside you. Two again, deep and slow, curling just right, the heel of his palm offering friction against your aching and sensitive clit. Your body responded instantly to him, your back curling further into him.

You whimpered, hand fisting in the sheets. He curled his fingers again, thick and warm as they pushed against the spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. The second wave crept up slower, thicker, your limbs going soft and heavy even as your core tightened like a coil wound to the point of snapping.

You moaned, louder this time, body trembling in his arms.

“Joel—Joel, I—”

“I know, sweet girl,” he rasped, his mouth brushing your ear, fingers still working you with unrelenting care. “Can feel your pussy grippin’ my fingers. Be a good girl now and give me another.”

Your breath caught on a sob as your body shattered again—this one deeper, longer, stealing the last of your strength. You came with a choked cry, thighs trembling, hips bucking against his hand. Your muscles clung to his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to the world, your body instinctively holding onto him, knowing he was the one who did this to you.

Joel held you through it. His palm stayed firm and grounding over your belly while the other hand slowed, easing you down from the high. His fingers remained inside, stroking you with reverence as your body twitched and shook with the aftershocks.

Then he brought his fingers up—slick and shining with your arousal—and kissed your cheek, slow and warm.

His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper at your ear, full of control and hunger.

“Open.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a honey-laced command, thick with heat and tension.

You obeyed.

Your lips parted, and his fingers slid into your mouth. The moment his knuckles brushed your lips, you closed around them, tongue flattening beneath as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him in. The taste of yourself on his skin was heady, electric.

A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated deep in Joel’s chest.

He pulled his fingers free with a slow drag and gripped your jaw with that same hand, still wet, turning your face toward him as he leaned in and kissed you—hungry, consuming. Your hand flew to his hair, twisting in the dark hair at the base of his neck as his tongue pushed into your mouth, both of you moaning into each other like it hurt to be apart for even a second.

His body pressed tighter to yours, and you felt him—thick and heavy, and his hand moved between you, tugging your panties down your thighs, off entirely, leaving you bare for him.

One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He rubbed the swollen head through your folds, slow and teasing, gathering your slick as your breath hitched.

Then he lined himself up, the broad head pushing against your opening. The stretch made you gasp, even after everything he’d already given you. You wondered for a moment if you’d ever get used to the stretch of him splitting you in two.

You reached for him instinctively, needing him closer, deeper. Joel’s hand returned to your belly, spreading wide, anchoring you again as he sank into you.

Slow. Deep. Devastating.

You moaned, the sound trembling out of you, as he filled you inch by inch—no rush, no mercy. He buried himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, your walls fluttering around him in helpless welcome.

Your eyes fluttered shut, body arching back into him, completely surrounded by him. He held still for a beat, just feeling you pulling him in deeper. You whispered his name, and he exhaled shakily against your neck.

He stayed there for a moment, fully buried, like it took everything in him not to come right then as he let you adjust. He was so thick, stretching you as your walls fluttered with every uneven breath you took. And Joel felt it—every twitch, every pulse. His hand splayed across your belly like he needed to hold onto something solid before he lost control entirely.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice torn and low. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am inside you?”

You whimpered, barely able to speak, body already fluttering around him in overstimulated waves. Your hands clutched at the sheets, at his arm, at anything you could find.

He pulled back just an inch and pushed in again, slow and heavy, dragging another desperate moan from your throat.

“Mine,” he growled, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out as his cock felt you gripping him, quivering around him. His hips rolled into you again, grinding deep, making you cry out.

“You were made for this,” he rasped, kissing your neck, your shoulder, his hand gripping your breast now, fingers toying with your nipple. “For me. Made to be full of me—my cock, my cum, my baby.”

You gasped, arching into his touch, your body trembling from how completely he owned you in this moment. He thrust again—harder now, still slow but deeper, rougher. You could swear you could feel him in your stomach as he rutted into you.

You sobbed his name, overwhelmed, wrecked, clinging to him like he was your gravity.

His mouth dropped to your ear again, voice dark and shaking.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about it—how sweet you look like this. Belly round, tits heavy, pussy so fuckin’ wet for me I could drown in it.”

Another deep thrust. Another broken sound from your lips.

“Fuckin’ mine,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, losing rhythm in his need. “All of it. Every inch of you.”

He wrapped his arm under your belly again, lifting just enough to hold you steady, like you were something precious, fragile—his.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow,” he said, thrusting slow and deep, burying his cock to the hilt. “Right now, you’re mine. This body’s mine. This pussy—” he grunted, grinding into you until your toes curled “—fuckin’ belongs to me.”

And you could only nod, barely breathing, gasping his name as the heat built again, faster this time, rising wild and uncontrollable between your legs. It was nearly Pavlovian how fast this man could bring your body to the edge within minutes.

Your body was already trembling again, every nerve stretched to its breaking point, and Joel felt it. He sensed it in the way your breath hitched, your thighs tensed, your walls fluttered around him. He thrusted deeper, slower, the weight of him unbearable in the best way. His hand slid between your legs, fingers circling your clit with practiced, devastating precision.

“You’re close again,” he muttered, lips at your ear. “I can feel it. Pussy’s already startin’ to milk me, like you need it. Need to come on my cock, huh, baby?”

You whimpered something incoherent, your nails digging into his arm as your hips rocked into every thrust, chasing that final wave. The pleasure was blinding, your body overstimulated but desperate. His voice. His hands. The way he filled you like nothing else ever could.

Then—barely above a whisper, like it wasn’t meant for you at all, “He could never give you this.”

Joel’s voice cracked around the words. Still deep. Still raw. But it shook.

“What I give you… how I make you feel...”

You sobbed out a moan, and that was it. Your body shattered, pleasure exploding through you so violently your legs kicked and shook, your cries muffled by the sheets. You clenched around him, tight and relentless, pulling him with you.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” Joel groaned, losing himself, grinding deep into you as your orgasm ripped through you.

He cursed again, low and guttural, his hips jerking as he spilled into you with a strangled moan. The sound of his voice, wrecked and unguarded was enough to send another shiver down your spine.

He didn’t stop moving, not at first. Slow, instinctive rolls of his hips, keeping his cock deep inside you, like he couldn’t stand to pull away just yet.

You lay there, both of you trembling, still joined, his chest heaving against your back, his arms locked around your belly like you might disappear if he let go.

You hummed softly as he slid out of you, the loss of him making your body twitch with oversensitivity. He didn’t go far, his arms just curled tighter around you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t get enough of your skin. His face tucked into your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

You closed your eyes and let him hold you, your hand resting on top of his where it lay over your belly.

“Joel?” you asked gently once your breath came back to you.

He hummed in response, tired and wrecked, lips brushing your skin.

“What did you mean earlier?”

You felt him tense—just barely. A flicker of hesitation. His breath slowed, deepened, like reality was creeping back in and neither of you could stop it.

“When?” he asked, low and cautious.

You swallowed hard, your voice quiet but certain. “You said… you wonder what would’ve happened if you told Tommy…”

I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d had the guts to tell my brother I saw you first.

You could feel the words hanging there between you, unspoken but known.

Joel sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly before shifting, pulling away from your back and settling against the pillows. His arm draped over his eyes as he laid back, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that told you he was thinking. Too much.

You turned carefully, your body sore and boneless but needing to be near him. You laid your head on his chest, your belly pressing against his side, fitting awkwardly but close. He didn’t stop you. Just let you come to him.

His hand dropped from his eyes a moment later, resting on your back, his thumb tracing over your spine.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Not tonight.”

That was it. No elaboration. No apology, either. Just Joel’s version of walking the line—saying something and unsaying it all at once.

You looked up at him, searching his face. “But…what did you mean? Did you…have you always have feelings?”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw working.

After a moment, his hand slid to your belly, resting there like it always did.

“I don’t know what any of it means." he said finally. “I just know it ain’t simple.”

Your throat ached, but you nodded anyway. Because it wasn’t.

Not with him. Not with Tommy. Not with this.

You laid your head back on his chest, his heartbeat steady in your ear. And neither of you said anything else.

Because maybe silence was safer than the truth.

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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 6: August 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

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

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpiller: Uhhh… when did Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc start following each other on Instagram??

↳@/F1Fanatic44: Wait what??? Since when do they even know each other??

↳@/GridGossip: That’s actually wild because I don’t remember them ever interacting before???

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Victoria always comments on her posts too?? Like hype girl mode. Like full-on “omg stunning!!” type comments.

↳@/PaddockSpy: And Isabelle replies!! She called Victoria’s baby “the cutest little thing.”

↳@/TifosiTears: The Leclerc brothers don’t even do that lmao

↳@/PaddockWhispers: How did we miss this??

@/F1TeaSpiller: No because I went deep and Victoria and Isabelle have been commenting on each other’s posts for MONTHS.

↳@/DR3Simp: So either they’ve been secret besties this whole time… or something else is going on.

↳@/LandoLover4: Define “something else.”

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Y’all. Y’ALL.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: What if she’s dating Max.

↳@/RedFlagF1: BE SERIOUS.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: THINK ABOUT IT.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: 1. Isabelle keeps her private life locked down.2. She suddenly has a very close relationship with Victoria Verstappen. 3. MAX ALSO KEEPS HIS PRIVATE LIFE LOCKED DOWN. 4. HES LEARNING TO RIDE FOR HIS GIRLFRIEND AND THE LECLERC’S SOLD ISABELLE’S CHILDHOOD HORSE TO PAY FOR CHARLES’ KARTING.

↳@/TifosiTears: No. No way.

↳@/GridGossip: … But imagine if it’s true. SHE DESIGNED HIS APARTMENT AFTER ALL.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: How do you get from “Max’s girlfriend likes horses and so does Isabelle Leclerc” and Victoria Verstappen following Isabelle Leclerc on Instagram to: “Max and Isabelle will raise the next racing dynasty?!”

@/PaddockWhispers: When did they even meet?? Isabelle isn’t really in the paddock scene like that.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SHE DESIGNED HIS SIM ROOM. THEY MUST HAVE MET THROUGH THAT.

↳@/LandoFangirl: Be so serious right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, I’m officially obsessed with this mystery. Isabelle and Victoria are way too friendly for two people who have zero public connection. Something is UP.

↳@/TifosiFan44: What if they just vibe?? Not everything has to be a conspiracy.

↳@/F1Detective: Okay, let’s be logical for a second. Isabelle and Victoria both grew up around karting. Their families must’ve crossed paths back in the day. Maybe they’ve always known each other and just reconnected??

↳@/TifosiFan44: Yeah, but why reconnect now? Why not years ago?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Maybe they ran into each other recently? Like, at a race or something?

↳@/GridGossip: Or maybe… through someone else. 👀

↳@/F1Conspiracies: SAY HIS NAME.

↳@/RedBullUpdates: DUH DUH DUH MAX VERSTAPPEN

↳@/PaddockWhispers: This is getting out of hand.

↳@/F1Conspiracies: Is it? OR AM I ONTO SOMETHING???

@/F1Conspiracies: If you’re telling me Isabelle and Victoria were secretly friends this whole time, I’m gonna need proof because this is a new development.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Nah, I just scrolled through their follows. Victoria followed Isabelle first and Isabelle followed back. It happened within the last few months.

↳@/PaddockWhispers: And suddenly, Victoria is in Isabelle’s comments like they’re besties??

@/TifosiFan99: Do you guys think Charles knows his little sister and Victoria are suddenly besties???

↳@/F1Detective: Absolutely not.

↳@/GridGossip: He’s about to find out through Twitter like the rest of us.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Imagine Charles scrolling IG and seeing Victoria hyping up his sister like “That’s my girl! 🥰” and he’s just sitting there like ???

↳@/PaddockSpy: Someone check on Arthur too, because he’s definitely confused.

@/F1Chaos: Isabelle Leclerc and Victoria Verstappen being all over each other’s Instagram is the funniest plot twist of the season. ↳@/PaddockWhispers: If it turns out that Max and Isabelle have been secretly dating and Victoria knew before Charles, I will actually SCREAM.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: Are we going on a family trip this summer?

Charles: Yeah, Maman was saying she wants to go somewhere all together.

Arthur: Cool. Who’s planning it?

Lorenzo: Isabelle?

Isabelle: …Planning what?

Arthur: The holiday. You know, flights, hotels, stuff to do.

Charles: Yeah, you’re good at that.

Lorenzo: You always find the best places.

Isabelle: Where do we even want to go?

Charles: Somewhere sunny.

Arthur: Beach?

Lorenzo: Good food.

Charles: Okay, Isabelle will sort it.

Isabelle: Right. Sure.

***

Max walked into the living room to find Isabelle surrounded.

Not by clutter—because she didn’t do clutter—but by controlled chaos: her iPad, her laptop, a notebook with neat handwriting, three different browser tabs open on the TV via screen mirroring, and a Google Doc titled Leclerc Family Vacation 2023 (Please Read This One, Arthur).

She didn’t even look up when he walked in. Just tapped something into a spreadsheet with the quiet precision of someone five minutes away from snapping.

“Let me guess,” Max said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “Charles still hasn’t confirmed the villa dates?”

“No,” Isabelle said calmly, “but he did text me a TikTok of a guy falling off a paddleboard. So. Priorities.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Arthur?”

“Suggested a campsite,” Isabelle muttered. “In Corsica. In August. With no air conditioning.”

Max winced. “Criminal.”

“Then Maman said she was ‘fine with anything,’ which we all know is a trap. And now someone needs to book rooms, coordinate flights, and arrange for something that resembles a plan so we don’t end up yelling at each other on a dock somewhere again.”

Max blinked. “So you’re doing it.”

“I always do it.”

That last part came out too soft, almost like she didn’t mean to say it.

Max leaned back, watching her. Hair up in a clip, sleeves pushed to her elbows, brow furrowed in concentration. This was her armor. Her autopilot. The invisible job of being the quiet one. The dependable one. The one who held everything together while everyone else lived like the world would bend for them.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So… Leclerc family vacation, next week?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll go a week later.”

She paused mid-keystroke. “What?”

“Your family’s doing their thing the 6th,” Max said, reaching for her notebook and gently closing it. “So we’ll do ours the 13th. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

Her lips parted. “You mean… another trip?”

“Yeah.” He stretched his arm over the back of the couch, brushing his fingers through a loose strand of her hair. “One where no one forgets your suitcase. Or sticks you with the worst room. Or makes you plan dinner for eight.”

A beat passed.

Then she asked, automatically, “Want me to look up flights?”

Max laughed softly, leaning in. “One: I have a private jet.”

Isabelle blushed. “Right. I forget that sometimes.”

“Two,” he said, voice dropping just a little, “I’m going to plan this one. You don’t have to do anything.”

She stared at him like he’d offered her an alien concept.

Max tucked a finger under her chin, smiling gently. “You don’t always have to carry it all, Belle. Not with me.”

Her throat bobbed. “But I’m—”

“Let me take care of you for once,” he said simply.

And it hit her—the realization that he meant it. That he liked doing this. That she didn’t have to earn it, or apologize for it, or trade it for usefulness.

Just be loved.

Just rest.

Isabelle nodded slowly. “Okay.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Alright, what’s the latest Max Verstappen Is a Perfect Boyfriend update?

Isabelle: …I don’t know if it’s a big deal.

Emilie: Isabelle. It is. Just tell me.

Isabelle: He cuddles me after.

Emilie: …After?

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: Like, after after?

Isabelle: Yes, Emilie.

Emilie: ARE YOU TELLING ME NONE OF YOUR EXES EVER CUDDLED YOU AFTER SEX?!

Isabelle: …I thought that wasn’t really a thing?

Emilie: I—WHAT.

Isabelle: I mean, maybe for some people? But I always got the impression guys weren’t really into that.

Emilie: No. No, no, no. They just weren’t into you.

Isabelle: Gee, thanks.

Emilie: NOT WHAT I MEANT. I MEAN THEY DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. That sounds more accurate.

Emilie: No one ever held you? Like, at all?

Isabelle: Not really. Sometimes they’d roll over and go on their phones. Or just… leave.

Emilie: …And you were okay with that??

Isabelle: No? But I thought that was just how it was.

Emilie: Isabelle. Oh my god.

Isabelle: But Max just stays. Like, without me asking. He pulls me close, kisses my forehead, plays with my hair, runs his hands up and down my back. Even if we don’t say anything, he just stays.

Emilie: Because he cares about you. Because he actually likes you.

Isabelle: I know.

***

The villa was beautiful.

Of course, it was. Isabelle had picked it.

Neutral-toned interiors, quiet luxury, three terraces, private beach access, and just enough separation between the bedrooms to avoid World War III.

She’d arranged the grocery delivery.

The airport transfers.

The private boat rental.

Carefully adjusted seating to avoid drama (Arthur’s girlfriend apparently did not want to sit next to Alexandra ever again)

It was her spreadsheet, her itinerary, her effort.

And yet, as she stood in the kitchen restocking the drinks fridge with sparkling water and wine, she may as well have been part of the cabinetry.

No one noticed.

Or, worse—they noticed and assumed.

Assumed that of course she’d print the vineyard directions, that she’d know which car everyone was in, that she’d restock the sunscreen, make the lunch reservations, mediate the “how many towels is too many towels” fight between Arthur and his girlfriend (spoiler: it was not about the towels).

Her mother hadn’t said thank you. Not once.

No one had.

Not for the itinerary.

Not for the car rentals.

Not for the fact that she’d packed extra chargers and medicine and picked up Pascale’s favorite jam from that little shop in Nice.

“Isabelle,” Pascale called from outside. “Can you bring out the extra glasses?”

Isabelle bit back a sigh, picked up the tray she had already prepared, and stepped outside with a smile.

The group was gathered around the outdoor table, wine in hand, sun-drenched and happy. Lorenzo was holding court about a minor work drama, Charlotte and Alexandra nodding sympathetically, while Arthur’s girlfriend laughed at something Charles said and Arthur scrolled on his phone.

No one looked up.

No one asked how Isabelle was doing.

No one offered to help.

She set the glasses down, smiled politely, and sat at the empty spot at the end of the table.

“I think we should do the coastal hike tomorrow,” Pascale said, sipping her wine. “Before it gets too hot.”

“I thought we were doing the boat day,” Charles said.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Isabelle said, gently. “The captain wasn’t available tomorrow.”

Pascale frowned. “Didn’t you book it for Tuesday?”

“I did. Then they called to reschedule. I put it in the itinerary I emailed last week.”

No one responded.

Lorenzo changed the subject. “Charlotte, didn’t you want to go to that vineyard?”

“Oh yes!” Charlotte said. “The one with the stone tasting room.”

“I have it bookmarked,” Isabelle said, scrolling on her phone. “We can go Thursday after lunch.”

Again, silence. Then Arthur said, “Did anyone bring cards?”

Isabelle looked down at her glass, playing with the stem.

This was how it always was.

She planned.

She coordinated.

She smoothed everything over.

And they still looked right through her.

No one noticed her skip lunch. Or how she was always the last to sit down. Or how she cleared everyone’s plates without being asked.

When the private chef asked who to talk to about allergies, they directed him to Isabelle. When the AC broke in Charlotte’s and Lorenzo’s room, Isabelle called the concierge. When the car for the beach trip got delayed, Charles tossed her his phone and said, “Can you handle this?”

She did.

She always did.

And yet, when someone poured rosé for the table at dinner that night, no one poured for her.

Not out of malice. Just… absence.

Isabelle sat back, watching her brothers laugh and bicker, their girlfriends leaning into the glow of effortless charm. Her mother, serene and smiling, gently correcting Arthur’s posture and calling Charlotte chérie.

Not once had anyone asked Isabelle how her work was going. How she was doing.

As if she didn’t exist outside the role she played.

The problem was—she was too good at it.

Too good at making things smooth. Too good at stepping out of the way. Too good at fixing things before anyone noticed they were broken.

And now? No one even saw her hands holding the whole thing together.

Not even the people who were supposed to love her most.

She was just so tired.

***

Isabelle had texted him last night.

The usual emojis were missing. Her messages were shorter. And when he’d called her just after dinner, she’d whispered, “I’m fine, it’s just a headache,” in the voice of someone trying not to cry in a bathroom.

Now, standing at the top of the stairs, he watched as a black car rolled to a stop at the edge of the airstrip. The driver stepped out and opened the door—and there she was.

Isabelle.

Shoulders slumped, hair pulled into a hasty bun, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She moved like someone trying not to be perceived. Or maybe like someone who just wanted to stop moving altogether.

She climbed the stairs slowly, and when she reached him, she managed a soft smile.

“Hi.”

Max cupped her face gently. “Hey.”

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I look like hell.”

He blinked. “You look like my favorite person.”

She laughed, sort of, but it turned into a wince.

Max frowned. “Headache?”

She nodded. “It’s been going since yesterday. Loud house. Strong perfume. Arthur’s playlist.”

Max stepped aside so she could settle into the plush leather seat, already signaling to the crew to dim the lights and lower the cabin temperature. She sank into the chair, curling slightly toward the window.

He knelt beside her, undoing the buckle on her sandals like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, like it was some kind of failing.

Max looked up sharply.

“Stop apologizing.”

She blinked behind her sunglasses. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re in pain,” he said, his voice low, tight with something sharp and protective. “And exhausted. And still trying to be polite about it.”

She didn’t reply.

“You are not a burden,” Max continued, brushing a thumb over her knee. “You’re not too much. And you don’t have to smile through it just to make me comfortable.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly: “I am so tired, Max. I planned everything. Every hour, every restaurant, every day. And I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I noticed,” he said immediately. “Even from home, I noticed.”

He stood and grabbed a blanket, gently draping it over her before sitting beside her and tugging her legs into his lap.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “We’ll be here a while.”

She blinked quickly, looking down at her hands. “It was just a lot.”

“I know,” he said. “I read your texts. I could read between the lines.”

She gave a soft, tired laugh. “That obvious, huh?”

“To me? Always.” He leaned back.“You shouldn’t have to be the glue for everyone else, Belle. Especially not at the cost of your own peace.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice barely there. “It’s just hard to stop when no one else steps up.”

“Then let me step up.”

She closed her eyes again. Finally relaxed.

He tucked her closer.

And whispered, “Rest. I’ve got you now.”

She fell asleep between one breath and the next. And didn’t wake. Not during the flight… not during the landing.

Max moved slowly, careful not to wake her, easing one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders. She let out the faintest breath but didn’t stir, her head tipping lightly against his chest.

She weighed next to nothing like this.

The tarmac was still warm beneath his feet as he descended the steps.

Surprisingly, Lando could be trusted with vacation recommendation. The North Island in the Seychelles greeted them with turquoise, crystalline water and beautiful weather.

The villa Max had rented just for them stood nestled between palm trees and the beach, pale stone glowing in the late afternoon light. Secluded. Safe.

It had taken him exactly twenty minutes to book it after he’d read the description. Just: privacy, space, quiet.

A place she could breathe.

He carried her inside, murmured a quiet thank-you to the staff who had pre-stocked the fridge, and walked straight to the bedroom with the softest sheets.

He laid her down gently, brushed a few strands of hair away from her forehead.

Isabelle frowned in her sleep—like even now, she didn’t know how to fully let go.

Max knelt beside the bed and whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be anything right now.”

Then he pulled the blackout curtains closed, set water out on the nightstand for later, and moved through the house like a man on a mission.

No phones. No noise. No expectations.

Just him. Just her.

Just the silence she had earned.

***

Isabelle woke up to the sound of waves.

That was it.

Not alarms.

Not messages.

Not someone yelling across a hallway or calling her name from the bottom of a staircase.

Just waves. Slow and rhythmic, like a lullaby that had been playing long before she arrived and would keep going long after she left.

The room was warm with sunlight. Pale curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, and the air smelled like salt and sun-warmed wood. She lay still for a long time, blinking up at the thatched ceiling, half-draped in linen sheets and Max’s hoodie from the night before.

For a few seconds, she didn’t remember where she was.

Then it hit her all at once: the flight, Max, peace.

And the fact that, for the first time in months, there was nothing to do.

No family group chat spiraling into chaos.

Nothing.

Just this.

Isabelle sat up slowly, stretching, and looked out through the open doors to the private beach just steps away. White sand. Blue water. Palm trees swaying like they were dancing to music only they could hear.

And Max.

Already outside, barefoot in board shorts, sunglasses perched on his head, sprawled in a lounge chair like he owned the concept of leisure. He looked up the second she moved, and smiled.

Like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She stepped outside, bare feet hitting sun-warmed wood, and he lifted his arm without a word. She curled into his side, her cheek against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head.

“Morning,” he murmured.

“It’s late.”

“Who cares?”

She shifted closer.

One hand moved slowly up and down her back. Not to fix her. Just to say I’m here.

She felt him breathe. Felt her own breathing start to match his.

Felt… safe.

Like she could finally put all of it down. The smiling. The pretending. The quiet, invisible labor of being the one who always held it together.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max murmured, kissing her hair. “Not today.”

She didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Because this—his arms around her, the hush of the ocean, the stillness he made just for her—this was enough.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle Leclerc let herself fully rest.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Uh oh. What did Max do?

Isabelle: Nothing?? That’s the thing???

Emilie: …I need more context.

Isabelle: We’re on vacation.

Emilie: Yes, I am painfully aware that you’re somewhere warm and beautiful with your perfect boyfriend while I’m stuck here. Continue.

Isabelle: I haven’t had to plan anything. Not a single thing.

Emilie: …And?

Isabelle: No scheduling. No coordinating. No last-minute scrambling.

Isabelle: Do you understand how weird that is for me???

Emilie: Isabelle. That is literally how vacations are supposed to work.

Isabelle: I know??? But I’m just so used to handling everything.

Isabelle: And Max just… took care of it. Flights, hotel, reservations. Everything.

Emilie: And you’re struggling because…?

Isabelle: Because I keep waiting for something to go wrong and for someone to expect me to fix it. But nothing has gone wrong.

Emilie: That’s because Max is a fully functional adult. Unlike, you know. Your brothers.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: What.

Isabelle: Nothing. Just. Huh.

Emilie: That’s the sound of your brain rebooting because someone is actually taking care of you for once.

Isabelle: Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now go enjoy your stress-free vacation. You deserve it.

Isabelle: …This is so weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

***

The difference was almost laughable.

The second morning, she woke up slowly, stretching under the soft sheets, and realized something was missing. She wasn’t exhausted. She wasn’t checking her phone to make sure everything was running on schedule.

She just was.

Max, lying beside her, traced lazy circles on her arm and murmured, “You okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, her face half-buried in the pillow. “This is weird.”

His lips twitched. “What is?”

“Not having to do anything.”

Max let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point, Schatje.”

She didn’t quite know how to put it into words—that she wasn’t used to this, to someone making sure she was taken care of. That she had spent her whole life organizing and managing and making sure everyone else was comfortable, and now, for the first time, she was the one being looked after.

And Max wasn’t making a big deal out of it. He wasn’t acting like it was some grand gesture. He just did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like she was worth the effort.

By the third day, Isabelle wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or completely unnerved by how easily Max took over.

They had spent the morning by the beach, and when she’d started to gather their towels and check if they needed to book dinner somewhere, Max had just taken the towels from her hands and said, “I already made a reservation.”

At her look of disbelief, he had only smirked. “You think I don’t know how to plan things?”

“It’s not that,” she said, stretching out on the lounge chair. “I just… I’m usually the one who does this kind of thing.”

Max hummed, pushing his sunglasses up. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You always do everything.” His tone was light, but his gaze was sharp behind the tinted lenses. “For your family. For work. You take care of everyone. But who takes care of you?”

The question caught her off guard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She wanted to say nobody needs to, but the truth was, no one ever really had.

And then Max, like he could hear the wheels turning in her head, just reached over and brushed his fingers against hers.

“You’re allowed to let someone else handle things,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

She swallowed, staring at their hands. His fingers were warm, steady.

“It’s just how it’s always been,” she admitted softly.

“I know,” Max said, lacing their fingers together. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

She didn’t answer, but when they went back to the villa, she didn’t ask where they were having dinner. She didn’t double-check the reservation or worry about what time they needed to leave.

Instead, she let Max take her hand and lead her out the door, into the night, into something she wasn’t quite used to but thought—just maybe—she could get used to.

Dinner was at a small, candlelit restaurant overlooking the ocean. Isabelle didn’t recognize the name, but the staff greeted Max like an old friend when they arrived.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked as they were led to their table.

Max pulled out her chair before sitting down himself. “I got a recommendation from a friend.” He shrugged. “I like places that are quiet.”

She understood what he meant the moment they sat down. The restaurant was intimate, with soft music playing in the background, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows. It was nothing like the places her family always picked—grand, extravagant, and often exhausting.

“You know,” she said after the waiter poured their wine. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a vacation like this before.”

Max raised a brow. “Like what?”

She gestured vaguely. “Where I didn’t have to plan everything. Where I didn’t feel like I had to keep everything together.”

Max studied her for a long moment, then set his glass down. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that at all.”

She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s just how it is.”

“But it shouldn’t be,” he countered. “That’s my point.”

Isabelle exhaled, shaking her head. “Max—”

“No, listen.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You spent weeks making sure your mother’s birthday was perfect. You handle everything for your family, and they don’t even realize it. When was the last time someone did something like that for you?”

She stayed quiet.

“That’s what I mean,” Max said. “You do so much for everyone, but no one ever makes sure you’re okay.”

She wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true, but the words wouldn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong.

Max sighed, sitting back. “I just don’t want you to think you always have to be the responsible one. That you always have to be the one making sacrifices.”

“I don’t mind,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

She twisted her wine glass between her fingers. It was strange, this feeling of being cared for so deliberately. Like Max had been quietly watching, noticing the cracks no one else had.

And then he smiled, easy and warm. “But for now, you don’t have to think about any of that.” He lifted his glass toward her. “This week, I handle everything.”

She hesitated, then clinked her glass against his.

It was just a week.

But for once, maybe that was enough.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: Réponds.

Arthur: Maybe she’s busy?

Charles: Isabelle is never busy.

( One hour later… )

Isabelle: What do you want?

Charles: Wow. No hello? No how are you?

Isabelle: Charles.

Charles: Okay, fine.

Charles: What’s Alexandra’s shoe size?

Isabelle: Why are you asking me?

Charles: You’re a girl. You know these things.

Isabelle: …Charles. You live with Alexandra. Just pick up a pair of shoes from your girlfriend and CHECK FOR YOURSELF.

Charles: …oh.

Charles: That’s actually smart.

Arthur: Wait.

Arthur: Why did it take you so long to answer?

Isabelle: I was busy.

Arthur: With what?

Isabelle: Living my life.

Arthur: That’s vague.

Charles: Yeah, where even are you?

Isabelle: On vacation.

Arthur: ???

Charles: Since when?

Isabelle: A few days ago.

Charles: Where are you?

Isabelle: The Seychelles.

Arthur: THE SEYCHELLES???

Arthur: WITH WHO???

Isabelle: A friend.

Arthur: You have some of those?!

Isabelle: Yes, Arthur, I do have friends.

***

Instagram Post -@/maxverstappen1

Comments:

@/victoriaverstappen: Finally taking a break that doesn't involve a garage 🙌

@/danielricciardo: Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by a lifestyle influencer.

@/landonorris: Are you… relaxed?? Is this what peace looks like on you?

@/gridgirlie: I’m sorry, but this man does NOT look that content alone.

@/charlesleclercsneck: no but WHO took these??? Max didn’t set up a tripod I KNOW THAT FOR A FACT

↳ @/sunsetandsebastian: It’s the secret horse riding girlfriend!

Instagram Post -@/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/f1updates: HOLD ON. WHERE DID YOU GO AND WHO ARE YOU WITH??

@/f1detectives: Wait… these pictures aren’t from the Leclerc family vacation last week, right?!?.

↳@/wagwatch: Omg you’re RIGHT. The Leclercs were in Corsica, and this is… definitely not Corsica.

↳@/f1updates: Wait, was she even on that trip?! (I don’t think I have seen her in any pictures her brothers posted?)

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Yes!! I was on the family trip!! These are just from a different vacation.

@/leclercnation: Isabelle, where are you NOW???

↳@/isabelleleclerc: Just a little trip with a friend for a week 😊

↳@/leclercfanclub: “A little trip with a friend” GIRL THIS IS PARADISE

@/victoriaverstappel: Enjoy the vacation! And take lots of pictures, I want to sigh dreamily when you show them to me!

@/f1sleuths: Sooo, if this isn’t the Leclerc family vacation… where exactly is she?

↳@/paddockwatch: And who is this friend taking her on a luxury getaway? 👀

@/emilie_abadie: jealous 🤩

@/gridgirls: If this is what a “quiet getaway with a friend” looks like, I need to start choosing better friends.

@/paddocktea: What do we think? Single era glow-up? Secret relationship? The people need answers.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. It happened again.

Emilie: What, relaxation? Peace? Being taken care of??

Isabelle: Yes??

Emilie: Isabelle, I swear to God—

Isabelle: We went on a hike today. I just… followed Max. That’s it. No figuring out where to go, no checking maps, no making sure there was water or sunscreen or food.

Emilie: And??

Isabelle: It felt wrong. Like I should be doing something.

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: I know. I know.

Emilie: This is years of being the responsible one catching up to you.

Isabelle: He even packed snacks??

Emilie: That sounds horrible.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Seriously, why are you texting me? Shouldn’t you be enjoying this?

Isabelle: I think my body is rejecting the concept of not having to plan or worry about anyone else.

Emilie: That is a you problem.

Isabelle: He just told me we have a boat day tomorrow. I didn’t even know we had a boat day tomorrow.

Emilie: And what are you expected to do?

Isabelle: Nothing. Just be there.

Emilie: …Okay, I sort of get why you’re spiraling.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: But also. Isabelle. Sweetheart. This is what happens when you date someone who pays attention and puts in effort.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: STOP SAYING ‘HUH’ LIKE YOU JUST DISCOVERED FIRE.

Isabelle: I think I have discovered fire.

Emilie: You’re dating Max Verstappen. Not one of your brothers.

Isabelle: I just… I didn’t think I was this bad at being taken care of.

Emilie: You are. But the good news? You’re learning.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: Definitely. Now relax and let your very rich, very organized boyfriend spoil you.

Isabelle: Huh.

Emilie: I’m blocking you.

***

The light was warm and low, spilling through the palm trees and painting the terrace in soft amber.

Isabelle sat with her knees pulled up on the oversized lounger, still in her swimsuit and one of Max’s linen shirts, damp curls tucked behind her ears. Her sketchbook was open on her lap, untouched, pencil resting against the paper. She hadn’t drawn a single thing in an hour.

She was too content to move.

Max sat beside her, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, sipping from a glass of something cold and citrusy. The sea whispered in the background. He hadn’t looked at his phone in hours.

They were quiet.

It wasn’t silence that needed to be filled. It was just safe.

She turned her head and found him watching her.

“What?” she asked softly.

Max tilted his head. “You know what would be nice?”

“Tell me.”

“If you met my family before Zandvoort.”

The question landed so gently she almost didn’t realize it was a question. It was just Max—calm, steady, offering something important like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just opened a door and waited for her to walk through it.

Isabelle blinked. “Before Zandvoort?”

He nodded. “Just a quiet dinner. In Belgium maybe, or Monaco, whatever’s easier. My dad. Mum. Victoria. Tom. Their kids. No pressure.”

Isabelle looked down at her sketchbook. Her heart fluttered.

Meeting Max’s family wasn’t something she’d let herself think about—not seriously. Because what they had felt big sometimes, and big things had a habit of slipping away if she looked at them too hard.

But Max?

Max never made her feel like she had to earn her place.

She looked back up, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

Max smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world. “They’ll love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “And… if they don’t?”

“They will,” he said, without hesitation. “But if they didn’t—which they will—I still would. That’s what matters.”

Her throat went tight.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he added, quieter now, reaching for her hand. “But I want you there. I want them to know you like I do.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder, then tucked herself under his arm.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “Okay. Before Zandvoort.”

He squeezed her hand.

And for a while, they just sat there as the sun dipped into the ocean, a promise tucked between them like something sacred.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Zandvoort’s coming up. Arthur, you good with logistics?

Arthur: Yep. I’m flying in Tuesday morning.

Isabelle: Hey— I’m actually in the Netherlands that week for a work event. Rotterdam. I was thinking… if you two are okay with it, I could come to Zandvoort for the weekend? I’d love to watch you both race.

Arthur: Yeah, totally. That’d be nice.

Charles: Definitely, yeah. It would be nice to have you there.

Arthur: We’ll have Ferrari add you to the room block, right, Charles?

Charles: Yeah, yeah. Easy. I’ll let the team know you’re joining.

Isabelle: Okay! I’ll come down Friday morning after my meetings wrap up. Can’t wait to see you both.

Arthur: Bring those granola bars you had at Silverstone.

Charles: Bring some for me too.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He wants me to meet his family before Zandvoort.

Isabelle: His entire family.

Isabelle: Dinner. At his mother's house. No pressure apparently.

Emilie: Max Verstappen just casually inviting you into the lion’s den. Classic.

Emilie: Are you freaking out?

Isabelle: I am in a controlled state of panic.

Emilie: You do realize you’re literally the perfect daughter-in-law, right?

Emilie: You’re quiet, polite, absurdly thoughtful, and stunning in a soft-lighting European cinema kind of way.

Isabelle: I am really not.

Emilie: You listen. You make people feel calm just by existing.

Emilie: His family will LOVE you.

Emilie: And if they don’t, that’s not a reflection of you.

Emilie: It’s a red flag, and I’ll show up swinging.

Isabelle: He was so casual about it. “They’ll love you,” he said. Just like that. No hesitation.

Emilie: Because he knows they will. Max isn’t casual about anything he doesn’t absolutely mean.

Isabelle: What if I forget how to talk? Or what if Victoria is terrifying?

Emilie: You talk when you have something worth saying. And Victoria? She’ll adore you. You’re going to be her sons' new favorite person within five minutes. Probably less.

Emilie: You don’t have to prove anything, Belle. You just have to show up. The rest takes care of itself. You’re already his family. The rest is just the intro.

Isabelle: I love you.

Emilie: I know. Be polite and devastatingly charming at dinner.

***

Isabelle had been in high-pressure situations before.

Final exams, high-stakes client presentations, being the only woman in a room full of men twice her age who thought she was just there to take notes—none of those compared to standing in the Verstappen family home, about to meet Max’s family for the first time.

Max had assured her it would be fine. He’d been so casual about it, telling her “They’ll love you,” like it was a certainty. But then again, he already loved her, and he’d made that seem inevitable, too.

The door opened before she could finish that thought, and suddenly, she was being yanked inside by an overenthusiastic blonde.

"Finally!" Victoria Verstappen declared, looping an arm around Isabelle’s before she even had a chance to say hello. "I was beginning to think you were a myth."

Max rolled his eyes, following them inside. "I literally told you about her months ago. You have talked to her."

"And yet, this is the first time I’m meeting her," Victoria shot back before turning to Isabelle with a knowing grin. "Ignore him. I already love you, by the way."

"That’s… good," Isabelle said, slightly breathless from the whirlwind welcome. "I’d hate to be off to a bad start."

"Not possible," Victoria declared before releasing her and giving Max a pointed look. "You never bring anyone home. I don’t care who she is. She could be an alien, and I’d still be thrilled."

Max sighed. "She’s not an alien."

"Shame," Victoria said with a dramatic sigh before linking their arms again. "Come on. Mum is dying to meet you."

They were halfway through the house before Isabelle even had a chance to look around properly. It was warm and inviting—the kind of place where people laughed loudly at the dinner table and where childhood photos still hung on the walls.

She barely had time to take in the framed pictures before she was pulled into a hug by a woman who could only be Sophie Kumpen.

"Isabelle," she said warmly, squeezing her hands when she pulled back. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you."

"You too," Isabelle said sincerely.

"Max has told me so much about you," Sophie continued, giving her son a pointed look. "I was beginning to think he’d made you up."

Victoria cackled. "That’s what I said!"

Max groaned. "Why does everyone think I’m lying?"

Before anyone could answer, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You’re Charles’ sister."

The room shifted slightly as all attention turned to Jos Verstappen.

Max tensed beside her, and Victoria, who had been all smiles just moments ago, pressed her lips together in something that looked suspiciously like exasperation.

But Isabelle didn’t waver. She turned to look at him and nodded. "Yes."

Jos hummed, gaze sharp. Then silence.

It stretched long enough that Max was clearly about to intervene, but before he could, Sophie clapped her hands together, cutting through the tension like it was nothing.

"Let’s sit," she said, smiling as if Jos hadn’t just been scrutinizing Isabelle like she was an opponent on track. "I made tea."

The conversation moved on, shifting to lighter topics—Victoria’s kids, Sophie’s recent travels, Max’s upcoming races. But Isabelle could still feel Jos’ gaze on her, quietly assessing.

Max never let go of her hand.

It wasn’t until much later, after dinner, after Victoria’s sons had climbed all over Isabelle and decided that she was their new favourite person, when the conversation had lulled and Isabelle was helping Sophie clear the table, that Jos spoke to her again.

"You’re an architect?"

She turned, nodding. "Yes."

"That takes discipline."

"It does."

He studied her for a long moment. Then— "Max needs someone like that."

It wasn’t outright approval. It wasn’t exactly warm.

But it was something.

And when Max returned, slinging an arm around her shoulders like he had no intention of letting her go, Isabelle decided it was enough.

***

The lobby was nice in that neutral, five-star motorsport weekend kind of way. Polished stone floors, a curated floral arrangement on the front desk, one of those confusing water features that seemed to exist purely for aesthetic drama.

Isabelle smiled at the receptionist with practiced ease, suitcase in hand, lanyard tucked into her coat pocket.

She was exhausted, having run herself ragged over the last few days with a client install in Rotterdam. She had managed to wrap that up, just in time to catch the train towards Zandvoort with only a small amount of cursing.

“Hi, I should have a room with the Ferrari team block? Leclerc?”

The receptionist tapped quickly on the keyboard. Pause. Frown. Tap again.

Isabelle kept smiling. She knew this look.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said kindly. “I don’t see a reservation under your name.”

“Oh,” Isabelle replied, blinking once. “Could you check again? Maybe under Charles or Arthur?”

More typing. The woman’s brows drew together. “They both have rooms, but… there’s nothing additional listed. I don’t see a third Leclerc on the team list. And all our rooms are booked for tonight.”

Isabelle nodded, her face still polite. “Right. No worries.”

Because what else could she say?

Because of course, they’d forgotten.

It wasn’t even anger that hit her. Just a quiet, familiar ache, the kind that wrapped itself around her ribs and pressed in slowly.

She stepped away from the counter, wheeling her suitcase off to the side. The hotel lobby was buzzing—PR people, Ferrari junior drivers, Red Bull interns in matching polos. People who had rooms. People who had plans.

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread she knew she could trust.

To: Max

Apparently I do not exist to the Ferrari logistics team. I promise I’m not trying to be dramatic. I just… don’t really know what to do right now.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Max: Room 706.

Isabelle: Max, I don’t want to cause a scene.

Max: You’re not. You’re coming upstairs. You’re not spending the night in the lobby because your brothers forgot you.

Isabelle: You’re busy. I don’t want to be in the way.

Max: You’re not in the way. You’re mine. Room 706. Come up. The door is open. You’ve got a place with me. Always.

She stared at the message for a moment, biting her lip.

No one had ever said it like that. Not her family. Not even past relationships. Like she wasn’t something to accommodate but someone who belonged.

Then, gathering her bag, she stood and waited by the elevators, wondering how something as painful as being forgotten could still land her exactly where she was supposed to be.

***

Gianpiero Lambiase had seen Max Verstappen through just about everything.

From raw, sharp-edged teenager to relentless world champion. From radio meltdowns to perfect laps in impossible conditions. From reckless frustration to the rare, still moments where he let his guard down—just enough to be human.

But over the past five months, GP had noticed him changing once again.

It wasn’t dramatic. Max hadn’t started writing poetry or singing love songs. There were no fireworks, no sweeping declarations.

It was quieter than that.

He smiled more.

Texted back.

Stopped snapping at the comms team over small things.

Started asking if someone else needed anything before the garage debrief ended.

And then there were the little tells. Subtle changes GP clocked because he always clocked them.

The way Max would glance at his phone with a barely-there smile. The occasional “oh, she’d like this” muttered at a merch stand or a snack table.

She.

GP hadn’t needed to ask who.

Because he had known since Max started asking him for relationship advice. Because clearly, GP was a fountain of romantic wisdom because GP had somehow managed to persuade his wife to take pity of him and marry him.

GP had observed.

Had allowed his eyes to track Isabelle Leclerc whenever she happened to show up at a race. He’d seen her in the background. Quiet. Observing. Never trying to claim space that wasn’t offered.

Isabelle Leclerc.

The girl with the soft voice and sharper eyes.

She wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t chasing the spotlight.

Which was probably why Max was so hopelessly gone for her.

So when Max looked at his phone mid-dinner and smiled—really smiled—GP didn’t need to ask who it was.

He just sighed.

And then he watched how Max’s whole body language changed in an instance, swallowing the bite of food he had just taken, his jaw clenching, tapping on his phone with barely contained rage.

GP raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

Max stood and muttered, “Kind of,” before grabbing his room key and disappearing into the hallway without another word.

GP blinked. “...What?”

He took a bite of luke warm pasta, leaned back, and waited. Max was many things—brilliant, intense, chronically infuriating—but he wasn’t cryptic without reason.

And GP hated when Max was cryptic.

The door opened again.

And Max walked in with Isabelle Leclerc.

GP blinked.

For a split second, he thought he was hallucinating. Maybe something in the hotel pasta had finally triggered a stress-induced fever dream.

But no. There she was. Real, flushed with embarrassment, wearing a coat and carrying a travel bag, clearly trying to disappear into the carpet.

Max, looking infuriatingly casual: “GP, this is Isabelle.”

As if GP didn’t know exactly who she was.

Leclerc.

As in Charles Leclerc’s sister.

As in "Ferrari’s Golden Boy Is Going To Break The FIA When He Finds Out You’re Sleeping With His Sister" Leclerc.

GP set down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.

“Hi,” she said softly. “Sorry. This isn’t how I pictured meeting you.”

GP blinked.

“She didn’t have a hotel room,” Max added, like that explained everything.

“So you invited her to your room,” GP said flatly.

Isabelle turned even pinker. “I didn’t know he wasn’t alone.”

GP stared at Max, then at her, then back at Max, who had the gall to sip his water like they weren’t seconds away from becoming a tabloid headline.

“In the Netherlands,” GP clarified.

“Yes,” Max said.

“During your home Grand Prix.”

“Yes.”

GP took a long, slow breath. “Perfectly reasonable.”

Max didn’t even blink.

Isabelle, bless her, looked like she wanted to apologize for existing. “I can go…”

GP waved her off. “No, no, please. You’re already more pleasant than he is.”

Max threw a piece of bread at him.

GP caught it midair without looking.

Then he sighed.

“What do you mean she didn’t have a room?” he asked Max with a raised eyebrow.

“She thought her brothers had booked her one,” Max said, like he wasn’t holding back fury with every word. “They didn’t.”

GP’s fork hit the table. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

GP turned to Isabelle, who was doing her best to shrink into her jacket. “They left you without a room?”

“I think they forgot I was coming,” she said, voice light, like it didn’t sting. Like it didn’t matter. “It’s okay. I just didn’t want to make a fuss tonight.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

And GP—who had been mad at Max for a million things over the years—suddenly wanted to march down the hall and yell at two grown men for treating their sister like a misplaced backpack.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Max said firmly. “End of discussion.”

GP crossed his arms. “I mean—yes. Obviously. But still. You’re telling me neither of them noticed?”

Isabelle looked away. “I guess not.”

Max let out a low, sharp breath through his nose.

It wasn’t just annoyance. It was rage. But the quiet kind. The kind Max only reserved for people who hurt the very small handful of people he actually loved.

Max rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Walked across the room. Paced, like he had no idea what to do with the fury crawling under his skin.

“She’s staying here,” he said again, turning to GP.

“Obviously.”

GP looked at Isabelle more gently now. “For what it’s worth, they’re idiots.”

Isabelle smiled faintly. “I’m kind of used to it.”

Max stopped pacing and came to stand beside her. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but the tension in his jaw said everything.

He was furious. Not just on her behalf, but because deep down, he’d known this would happen. And he hadn’t been there in time to stop it.

“You deserve better,” Max said quietly, only for her.

GP cleared his throat. “Okay. Well. I’m going to leave you two alone before I throw something.”

Isabelle blinked. “Wait—you’re mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad,” GP muttered. “Just not at you.”

He grabbed his notes, paused in the doorway, and said to Max: “I want you in bed in the next thirty minutes.”

Max smirked.

GP pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Then he looked at Isabelle again. Really looked.

And in that second, watching the way Max’s entire body shifted around her—the protectiveness, the softness, the calm—GP felt the sharp edge of his frustration melt into something else.

Respect.

“You’re good for him,” he said simply.

Isabelle’s eyes widened a little. “Thank you.”

“And Max?” GP said one last time. “If they forget her again—I will. Personally. Book. Her. A. Room.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

GP closed the door behind him.

And in the hallway, alone, he muttered:

“Goddamn Leclerc brothers. Idiots, the lot of them.”

Then: “...But at least Max got something right.”

***

The door clicked shut behind GP, and the room fell into a thick, heavy silence.

Isabelle was still standing near the foot of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She looked small. Not fragile—but like someone who’d been holding herself upright for hours longer than she should’ve.

Max crossed the room and gently took the travel bag from her shoulder.

“You can relax now,” he said quietly.

She gave him a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to crash dinner.”

“You didn’t,” he replied. “We were already nearly done.”

He set her bag down carefully by the armchair and turned back to her, studying her face. She looked pale beneath the overhead lights, cheeks still flushed from the hallway chill. Her eyes had the telltale glassiness of someone who was trying very hard not to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She blinked. “I—what?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

She blinked. “Um… this morning?”

“This morning,” he repeated, and it came out sharper than he meant it to.

She winced. “I didn’t have time, Max. It’s not a big deal.”

He turned and stalked toward the room service menu like he needed somewhere to put the anger. Not at her. Never at her.

But her brothers?

They had let her show up to Zandvoort and forgotten to book her a room.

And now here she was—exhausted, underfed, and still trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like being forgotten was normal.

He pulled the phone off the receiver and ordered something warm. Soup. Bread. Tea.

She hovered by the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

“Don’t make a whole thing out of this,” she said, voice small.

He looked at her. “Making sure you had a place to sleep? A meal? That’s not a whole thing, that’s the bare minimum.”

“I know, I know.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I just—I didn’t want to make a fuss. Charles was already stressed about media stuff and Arthur was busy with something…”

“And they forgot about you,” Max said flatly. “Again.”

“Max.”

“I’m not going to yell at them,” he said, trying to tamp down the fire crawling up his throat. “But don’t ask me to pretend it’s okay. It’s not.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, hands curled in her lap. “If I get upset, they make me feel like I’m overreacting. If I don’t say anything, I get forgotten. It’s like—I’m either too much or invisible.”

Max crossed the room, crouched in front of her. Rested his hands on her knees, grounding.

“You are not too much,” he said. “And you are never invisible. Not to me.”

She blinked hard, closing her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands against them. He just looked at her, at the shaky way she exhaled.

There was a knock at the door. Room service.

She tried to stand up, but he squeezed her hand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You just… sit. Please.”

He brought the tray over himself—soup, warm rolls, tea already steeping in the pot—and set it on the table in front of the window. Isabelle sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him like he might vanish if she blinked too hard.

“Eat first,” he said softly.

She hesitated for a moment—then nodded and reached for the spoon.

Halfway through the meal, she finally looked a little more like herself. Less pale. Less folded in on herself. Her shoulders relaxed. She leaned into his side, one hand resting on his knee, like she needed to stay grounded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re mine,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

She didn’t say anything back. But she reached for his hand under the table, tangled their fingers, and held on tight.

And that was enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: My brothers left for the track without me.

Isabelle: They literally forgot I was even staying in the same hotel.

Isabelle: I came downstairs and the receptionist said, “Your family already left.” Like I was late for a school trip.

Isabelle: I know you’re busy, I just… needed to tell someone before I screamed into a decorative pillow.

Max: Are you serious?

Max: Stay right there. I’m sending someone now. You’re not taking a taxi like some fan on a giveaway pass.

Isabelle: Max, it’s fine—

Max: No, it’s not.

Isabelle: You don’t have to fix everything.

Max: I want to fix this.

Max: Stay where you are.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Max: Are you still at the hotel?

Daniel: Yeah, just finishing my coffee. Why?

Max: Can you give someone a ride to the track?

Daniel: Yeah, no worries. Who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc. Her brothers left without her.

Daniel: Wait. Charles’ Isabelle?

Max: Yeah.

Daniel: Why is she not with them?

Max: They forgot her.

Daniel: …Brutal. Alright, I’ll head down and grab her.

Max: Thanks. Be nice.

Daniel: When am I not nice?

Max: Don’t answer that.

Daniel: So… why are you arranging this?

Daniel: Since when are you a Leclerc family concierge?

Max: Since right now. Go get her.

Daniel: Alright alright, I’m going.

Daniel: You’re weirdly invested in this.

***

Daniel Ricciardo had done a lot of weird favors in his life—once helped a teammate move house using a go-kart trailer, once lied to a customs officer about being allergic to oranges just to dodge a fruit declaration—but picking up Isabelle Leclerc from the hotel lobby because her own brothers had forgotten her? This one was top tier.

He didn’t know Isabelle well—he’d met her a handful of times, mostly quiet paddock hellos and awkward “Charles’ little sister” nods—but he was 100% sure she didn’t deserve to be ditched like a stray sock in a hotel lobby.

Who does that to their sister?

He had a sister. If someone had left Michelle behind at a race weekend? He’d have thrown hands. The thought of Isabelle, standing in some quiet hotel lobby while her brothers sped off to the circuit like she was an afterthought—it made his blood simmer.

He spotted her right away: sunglasses on, hair in a braid, sitting quietly in one of those fancy lobby chairs that always looked too stiff to be comfortable. She stood when she saw him, smoothing her skirt and lifting a tote bag onto her shoulder with calm, effortless grace.

“Hey,” he said, waving. “Max sent me.”

“I figured,” she said with a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He gestured toward the car. “Although I’ve gotta say, you being stranded wasn’t on my bingo card for today.”

She let out a soft laugh as they walked. “It wasn’t on mine either.”

“I mean—how do they forget you?” he asked, a little incredulous now. “You’re their sister. This isn’t like forgetting your phone charger.”

“They’re… busy,” Isabelle said diplomatically, as if that explained everything. Her voice was soft, her expression sincere, and it made something tug in his chest. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t throwing a fit. She wasn’t calling her brothers to scream at them.

She was just… taking it.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

“Seriously,” he said as they headed to the car, “they just left without you?”

“They’re not very detail-oriented,” she said with a light shrug, like she was used to making excuses for them.

Daniel frowned. “They’re your brothers, not a logistics team.”

She just smiled a little. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

He opened the door for her and tried not to seethe the entire way to the circuit.

The silence in the car was comfortable, oddly enough. Isabelle looked out the window, the sunlight catching in her hair. She smelled like something soft and green and expensive—not perfume-y, just... nice. Warm.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you and Max talk much?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Sometimes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t explain anything when he asked me to pick you up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He just said you needed a ride, and that I was supposed to be nice.”

She smiled to herself. “That sounds like him.”

Daniel watched her for a beat longer. There was something easy in how she spoke about Max. Something familiar. Something… personal.

Suspicious.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Michelle used when she pretended she wasn’t dating her coworker. The same one his friends used when they were trying not to spill the beans too early.

Then, the kicker: her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, read the screen, and her entire expression softened—smile tugging at the corner of her mouth in a way that made her glow.

Daniel caught a glimpse of the contact name.

Max. With a little heart emoji.

And that was it.

The lightbulb went on.

“You’re with Max,” he blurted out.

Isabelle blinked. “Sorry?”

“You’re dating him.”

She blinked again, clearly debating denial… then gave up with a sigh and a smile. “Please don’t tell Charles.”

He gasped. “Charles doesn’t know.”

“Daniel…”

“I can’t unknow this now, Isabelle! This is, like, Top Secret Gossip of the Year! You can’t just hand me this emotional grenade and expect me not to panic!”

She laughed then—soft and real—and Daniel blinked. She looked… happy. Actually, genuinely happy.

He slowed down a little. “So… you’re good? With him?”

She nodded. “Better than I ever thought I could be.”

Daniel let out a long breath and shook his head. “Okay. Fine. I’ll take it to the grave. But when Charles finds out, I’m not in the room. I’m not even in the country.”

***

The paddock was buzzing, media wrapping up, and Max had just emerged from debrief when Daniel cornered him like a man on a mission.

“Hey,” Daniel said, arms crossed. “We need to talk.”

Max raised an eyebrow, completely unsurprised. “About?”

“You know what about,” Daniel said. “Don’t play dumb.”

Max took a sip of his Red Bull, deadpan. “You found out.”

“I picked her up from the hotel,” Daniel snapped. “I drove her. I talked to her for fifteen minutes. She’s warm, she’s kind, she listens—Max, she’s human sunshine.”

Max smirked, because yeah. Isabelle kind of was.

“Also? Her brothers left her behind this morning. They forgot her. Like she was a damn charger cable.”

Max exhaled through his nose. “They also forgot to book her a room,” Max said, voice going tight.

“…What?”

“Last night,” Max said. “She got to the hotel and found out Charles and Arthur hadn’t added her to the Ferrari room block. She had nowhere to sleep.”

Daniel stared at him. “So what did she do?”

“She texted me.”

“You’re telling me she didn’t even call them? She just quietly… what, curled up in a hallway with a travel bag and a dream?”

Max ran a hand through his hair. “I told her to come upstairs. She’s staying with me.”

Daniel muttered something that vaguely sounded like a threat.

“I mean—look, Max, I’ve seen people be casually inconsiderate before. But this? This is Olympic-level. This is gold medal negligence.”

“She wasn’t even mad,” Max said, and the quiet in his voice was far more telling than any shout. “She just said she didn’t want to make a fuss.”

Daniel’s shoulders dropped.

“Jesus.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of it hanging between them. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I hate that she’s used to it,” he said finally. “The way she just… accepts it. Like being overlooked is normal.”

Daniel looked at him, something softer settling into his expression. “And you’re not gonna let that happen anymore.”

Max shook his head. “Not from me.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “Good. But I am still wondering, how the hell did you end up with Isabelle Leclerc? I watched you ghost half of Europe. I watched you emotionally flatline your way through every relationship like you were waiting for a fire drill. And now you’re with her?”

Max looked up, expression shifting from amused to something quieter. Something real. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel paused. “You’re serious about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Max’s expression shifted—still calm, but quieter now. More grounded. “Yeah. I am.”

Daniel sighed, shaking his head with a grin. “You really are in deep, huh?”

Max nodded. “Very.”

There was a beat of silence.

Daniel exhaled, some of the theatrics melting away. “Okay. Okay. That’s good. Because she’s too good for you.”

Max chuckled. “I know.”

“No, like, really too good. You forget her birthday? I’ll kill you. You mess up and she cries? I will haunt you.”

Max sobered slightly. “I’m not going to hurt her.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But I had to say it. It’s the law. Shovel talk protocol.” Daniel pointed at him again, this time less dramatic, more protective. “She’s quiet. She’s kind. She doesn’t push. That kind of girl? People forget to treat her like she matters. You don’t get to be one of them.”

“I know,” Max said instantly.

“I’m serious. You hurt her? You even accidentally make her feel like she’s less than everything? I will become your personal nightmare.”

Max nodded slowly. “Fair.”

Daniel exhaled. “Okay. Good.”

Another pause.

Then: “Also, bro. You’re screwed when Charles finds out.”

Max cracked a faint smile. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I’m just saying,” Daniel said, standing up, “I’d start investing in body armor. And maybe bribe Fred Vasseur.”

“I already told Victoria and Sophie,” Max said. “Jos knows too.”

Daniel turned mid-step. “So everyone in your family knows, and no one in hers?”

Max just raised his hands helplessly.

Daniel whistled. “Wow. Balls of steel, man.” Then, after a beat: “I still can’t believe you’re the one who pulled this off.”

Max grinned. “Me either.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “If you propose before Charles finds out, I’m not helping you escape.”

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Are you already at the circuit?

Victoria: Just pulling in. Got Luka. Snacks. One million toddler wipes. Why?

Max: I need a favor.

Victoria: This sounds serious.

Max: It is. Isabelle’s here. Her brothers left without her this morning. Yesterday, they forgot to book her a room. She was alone at the hotel with nowhere to go.

Victoria: You’re kidding.

Max: I wish I was. I found out when she texted me.

Victoria: She texted you instead of calling them?

Max: Said she didn’t want to make a fuss.

Victoria: That’s not a fuss. That’s basic human decency.

Victoria: What the hell is wrong with her brothers? Did they think she just… didn’t exist this weekend?

Max: I don’t think they thought at all.

Max: I’ve got her staying with me, obviously. But I’m at the car most of the day. Can you… I don’t know. Just keep an eye on her?

Victoria: I’m already on it. I’ll find her. Luka adores her anyway.

Max: Thank you.

Victoria: Also—Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: You’re doing good. For her. I can tell.

Max: I just want her to feel safe.

Victoria: She does. That’s why she called you.

***

The Ferrari garage buzzed with the usual race day chaos—engineers shouting data, mechanics darting between screens and tires, media cameras hovering just out of reach.

Isabelle stood off to the side, tucked just behind a stack of spare tires. She had her accreditation lanyard looped around one wrist, arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

No one had said anything to her.

Not Charles. Not Arthur.

Not a single “where were you?”

No one had noticed she hadn’t arrived with them.

Not even when she slipped through the paddock gate forty minutes late with Daniel Ricciardo, who’d given her a cheerful wave and then glanced back at her with a concerned little frown, like he could feel her shrinking into herself.

She hadn’t told them. Hadn’t reminded them. It felt pathetic, like trying to make a dent in something carved from stone.

So she watched them from the background. Charles adjusting his earpiece. Arthur laughing with his race engineer. Everyone moving like she was part of the set dressing—quiet, reliable, conveniently invisible.

Her phone buzzed.

Victoria Verstappen:

Come to Red Bull hospitality. We have fruit, juice boxes, and a child who keeps asking where you are.

A second later:

Victoria Verstappen:

He refuses to eat his banana unless you’re here. Help me.

Isabelle smiled before she could stop herself.

She glanced back at the garage—no one looking, no one asking, no one even noticing she was there—then quietly turned and slipped out through the paddock gate.

The moment she stepped into Red Bull’s space, it was like the air changed. Quieter. Calmer. The edges softened.

And then—

“Belle!”

Luka barreled into her legs like a small, over-caffeinated torpedo, throwing his arms around her knees and looking up with wide, expectant eyes. His curls were slightly flattened from his bucket hat, and his juice box was clutched precariously in one hand.

“I saved you a banana,” he said solemnly.

Isabelle crouched down, her heart tightening. “You did?”

He nodded. “Mum said I had to eat fruit, but I said ‘no’ until you came.”

Behind him, Victoria appeared, holding a mostly squished banana and a tired smile.

“You’re now officially the only person Luka will eat produce for. Congratulations,” she said, handing Isabelle the banana.

Isabelle stood and hugged her. “You okay?” Victoria asked gently.

Isabelle hesitated. “I’m fine.”

Victoria just arched a brow.

“I mean—I’m okay,” Isabelle corrected. “A little tired. It’s been a weird weekend.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Victoria said. “Max already told me everything.”

Isabelle winced. “Of course he did.”

“Don’t worry. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Very seriously. Like I was being recruited for a mission.”

Isabelle blinked. “He what?”

Victoria shrugged. “You’re important to him. Of course he’s worried.”

Luka tugged on Isabelle’s sleeve. “Wanna draw race cars?”

“I would love to draw race cars,” she said, letting him take her hand.

Victoria reached for a juice pouch and smiled softly at her over Luka’s curls. “Come sit with us. Eat something. You don’t have to go back to that garage today. No one there deserves your company.”

And Isabelle—still tired, still aching in that quiet, unseen way—followed.

Because it wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t flashy.

But it felt like home.

***

Victoria had known Isabelle Leclerc for years without really knowing her.

A couple of polite nods in paddocks. One or two mutual “Happy Birthday” comments under photos. That sort of F1-adjacent proximity that meant you were vaguely aware of someone’s life through a filtered lens of curated smiles and race weekend lighting.

And then her brother had fallen in love with her.

And that had changed everything.

Somewhere between a soft photo of Lio holding a wooden toy horse and Isabelle quietly liking every story Victoria posted about motherhood, something shifted.

Their friendship had started in Instagram DMs and lessons of dutch.

And now, sitting on the plush couch in the Red Bull family lounge, Victoria watched Isabelle cradle Luka like she’d been made for it.

He was wrapped around her torso like a baby monkey, eyes already drifting shut, his small hand clinging to the neckline of her cardigan. Isabelle’s hand was in his hair, gently combing through the curls with practiced ease.

Victoria’s heart clenched.

Max had chosen well.

Not because Isabelle was sweet (though she was), or thoughtful (painfully so), or talented (clearly), but because Max had never once let anyone in like this.

He had flings. Flirtations. A relationship or two that never made it past the media glare.

But this?

Isabelle, sitting cross-legged at a coloring table, nodding patiently as Luka explained crayon colours with the enthusiasm of a sugar-high professor?

This was different.

This was real.

And when Max had texted her that morning —Can you keep an eye on her?—Victoria hadn’t even blinked.

Because she knew.

He wasn’t asking out of obligation.

He was asking because Isabelle mattered. Because she was his person. Because her quiet pain had become his problem to carry, and Max Verstappen had never once backed down from something he gave a damn about.

Victoria watched Isabelle gently brush Luka’s hair out of his eyes as he leaned too close to the table, crayon smearing on his elbow, and something in her chest ached.

Because she’d also seen the way Isabelle’s brothers looked past her. The way they forgot her. The way she was a fixture—not a presence. Easy to love from a distance, easier still to forget when something shinier demanded attention.

It made her furious.

It made her want to storm the Ferrari garage and shake Charles and Arthur like snow globes until they remembered who the hell their sister was.

Because if a three-year-old could recognize her worth after one afternoon, what excuse did they have?

Victoria was still fuming quietly when the door to hospitality opened—and Max stepped out onto the terrace.

He spotted them instantly. His shoulders dropped just a little. Not with weariness, but relief.

He crossed the room toward them, his steps sure and unhurried.

And when Isabelle looked up and lit up—not with surprise, not with hesitation, but that soft, unmistakable joy that came from knowing someone was hers—Victoria exhaled.

Max reached them, crouched beside Luka first.

“Hey, little man,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Max!” Luka beamed. “We made cars!”

“Very impressive,” Max said, scanning the drawings. “Yours definitely wins in the flame department.”

Then he looked at Isabelle.

Their eyes met.

No one said anything for a beat. They didn’t need to.

Max touched her wrist gently. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Better now.”

And Victoria—who’d seen every version of her brother: stormy, closed-off, sharp-edged and impossible—watched as his whole expression softened into something rare.

Something like peace.

She smiled to herself, sipping her drink again.

About time.

Max hadn’t just fallen in love with her.

He’d gotten it right.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1Sleuth: GUYS. I was at Zandvoort today and I just saw Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc talking in the paddock like they’re actual best friends??? Since when???

↳@/GridGossip: You’re lying.

↳@/TifosiNation: They follow each other on Instagram now, so maybe it’s not that surprising???

↳@/RedBullRumors: But like… why do they know each other that well?

↳@/PaddockSpy: Do you have PICTURES?

@/F1Sleuth: I couldn’t get a clear photo, but I swear to god Victoria’s little boy was obsessed with Isabelle. Like, full-on clinging to her, as they were sitting in Red Bull hospitality. This was NOT a casual “oh we kind of know each other” interaction.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Excuse me?????

↳@/TifosiForever: I guess it makes sense? Isabelle was around during karting when Max and Charles were kids, so maybe she and Victoria knew each other back then?

↳@/RBfan44: Imagine if Charles and Max are rivals but their sisters became best friends instead lmao

↳@/PaddockGossip: Omg that’s adorable 🥹

@/F1GossipQueen: Maybe they just reconnected? Like old karting friends finding each other again.

↳@/RBUpdates: This is actually really cute, imagine the Verstappens and Leclercs becoming one big happy F1 family.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles and Max being forced into friendship because their sisters are besties is something I NEED to happen.

@/F1Sleuth: OKAY UPDATE. Max Verstappen just showed up and walked straight to Isabelle and Victoria. No hesitation. Like, he was SUPPOSED to be there.

↳@/RedBullInsider: Oh??? Oh. OH.

↳@/GridGossip: Why does this feel like a soft launch but also not at the same time???

↳@/RBfan44: I swear if Max and Isabelle are secretly besties, I’m going to lose my mind.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Besties or… 👀

↳@/PaddockRumors: Max looked so comfortable. Like this isn’t a one-time thing. Isabelle smiled at him like she was expecting him to show up.

@/F1Sleuth: MAX TOOK VICTORIA’S BABY FROM ISABELLE LIKE IT WAS THE MOST NORMAL THING IN THE WORLD. They’re just sitting there, talking, while he’s holding his nephew??? I don’t know what’s happening but I need ANSWERS.

↳ @/PaddockGossip: I’m sorry but Max holding a toddler while casually talking to Isabelle Leclerc?? That’s suspicious. That’s weird.

↳@/RBUpdates: Someone check on Charles because wtf is going on

↳@/F1Conspiracies: I feel like we’re witnessing something we’re not supposed to know about yet.

↳@/RedBullNation: Okay but imagine if they’re just actual close friends and we’re all being insane for no reason.

↳@/GridGossip: But what if we’re not? 😏

@/PaddockInsider: Charles has no idea what’s happening because he’s STILL doing media. Meanwhile, his sister is chilling with Victoria and Max like this is a normal Sunday.

↳@/TifosiFan99: Charles is going to come back and be so confused lmao

↳@/F1DramaLover: Imagine him seeing Max holding a baby next to Isabelle. He’d actually short-circuit.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Someone record his reaction PLEASE.

@/F1Sleuth: Max just leaned over and said something to Isabelle, and she laughed. Victoria said something too, and they all looked so comfortable?? This is actually driving me insane.

↳@/PaddockGossip: What is going on.

↳@/PitLanePrincess: Isabelle, blink twice if you’re secretly a Red Bull spy.

↳@/RBUpdates: The way Max just sat down and started talking like this was totally normal… yeah, something’s up.

1K notes · View notes

pbpressure · 4 months ago

Text

capture | p.b

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: smut, fluff (reader sounds a little clingy but its cute), fingering (reader receiving), oral (paige receiving), some yearning, hair pulling, slight dom sub dynamics but nothing too serious. lmk if i missed anything!

wc: 3.3k (slight pwp, cmon act like you know me)

summary: paige and reader are out of the country but want to be inside each other LMAO

authors note: i don’t even know what to call this, i barely proofread it. i’ve honestly been having such a hard time writing but hopefully this suffices for now! munch madness i mean march madness is upon us hehe

enjoy! x

when paige told you that she booked you two a getaway for spring break you had no idea that it would be this luxurious.

the room alone was huge. windows covering an entire wall from ceiling to floor. most surfaces were covered in beautiful decor and the bed faced the humongous pool that sat just beyond the deck outside. it was perfect.

you couldn’t actually fuss about the cost or how hard it must’ve been to book because paige was quick to hush you with a kiss on your forehead and mutter how she’d always “do anything for you.”

the vacation honestly felt more like you both ran away. off of your phones for days, with the exception of checking in with family and taking numerous photos. although it wasn’t intentionally secretive that made it even more enjoyable.

the beach, which you had visited every day thus far due to its close proximity, was perfect. the area surrounding your villa nice and quiet as well.

of course with the extra rest time that comes with a vacation you had encouraged paige to rest, that’s all you wanted for the both of you. but after the first two days you realized that even you could only nap so much.

today after a little more exploring the amenities of your villa you did lay down together and close your eyes for a bit. when you open them again you don’t know how much time has passed, but paige was knocked out of course.

you had been awake for a good 20 minutes. in your defense you did try to close your eyes again but it was unsuccessful.

your body was draped over paige’s, one of her hands resting naturally on your thigh that was slung across her hips. her bicep flexed slightly as it was propping her head up on the pillow. you catch yourself silently chuckling when you realize you were just staring at her in awe.

it was all so domestic. from the sleeping position to the way that one of the only noises you could hear were little puffs of air from paige’s parted lips. if you could capture the feeling into one world it would be complete. or maybe absolute.

you’re aching at this point from craning your neck to gawk at paige and you honestly feel ridiculous for how long you’ve been laying like this.

with the urge to bask in the sun and swim a little you gently turn over, lifting paige’s arm from you. you slip out of bed, careful not to wake her and you quietly get changed and head outside.

the wide window in the room gave her a clear view of the pool. hopefully she’d wake up, see you perched in a chair, and come join you.

her nap actually lasts way longer than you anticipated and you were getting antsy. you read your book until you couldn't anymore and switched your lying position too many times to count. it had already been about an hour and a half since you’d got up from the bed and paige was still asleep.

the sun was starting to set and you hoped she would get up soon, but alas the impatience was becoming a bit painful.

you pick up your phone deciding to text paige and immediately open the camera. putting a slight pout in your lips you take a selfie, tits perky and in frame. then you flip the camera and angle your phone down to get your entire lower body and the pool in one picture. you take the photo, press send and quickly type up something to emphasize on the amount of notifications she’d get.

*buzz* 1 attachment

*buzz* p, can you nap faster? i’m…bored.

*buzz* 1 attachment

of course paige was still on dnd so naturally you pressed the notify anyway button. sighing in contentment you decide to get up off your ass (hardly) and sit in the hot tub that was adjacent, waiting for your girlfriend.

your texts didn’t wake paige, she had already started tossing and turning a bit ago signaling the end of her nap.

however, when she did pick up the phone after realizing you were no longer lying beside her she felt her eyes go so wide that they could have bulged out of her head.

she looks at both the pictures you sent and exhales sharply, running a hand over her face in disbelief.

the blonde couldn’t help but glance outside, eyes instantly making contact with your bikini clad figure. she bit her lip as her eyes ran up and down your body.

your hair had gotten wet and began to cling to your chest and neck that was now glistening and catching a slight glow from the fluorescent lights in the hot tub. your lips were glossy, as always, and they were parted while you let out what looked like a sigh.

she lifts her phone from the bed swiping the camera icon at the bottom of the screen.

these photos were for her, but also to show you how good you really did look.

your head is slightly tilted to the side when she snaps the photo. you’re standing to adjust yourself so your hips come up to the surface of the water. she almost drools looking back at the way she had captured you before she presses the blue arrow in the text bar.

getting up and changing out of her clothes and into her swimsuit she hurries outside.

when you hear the sliding door your attention is on paige as she makes her way to the hot tub.

your eyes light up and you grin, pleased to see her awake. when you notice that she’s getting in the water, you have to force yourself not to stare.

her abdomen toned and flexing with each step she took. chest exposed and already showing a tan as a result of earlier time spent in the sun.

“so you missed me?” paige breaks the silence once she’s settled into the water across from you.

“don’t act shocked.” you scoff.

“oh, i’m not. it’s just…cute ‘s all.” she says, lifting her eyebrow a bit and stifling a giggle when she sees you roll your eyes.

“i sat out here for almost two hours while you slept, it got boring fast. plus i knew you’d want to watch the sunset so i hoped you’d wake up in time.”

paige’s heart swells at the confession. she had just been a threshold away from you asleep and still the only thing on your mind. it was never a secret between the two of you or to anyone else how obsessed you were with each other. but that didn’t mean it got old.

“as great as it is to rest, i'm glad i woke up in time to catch the sunset,” paige starts. “and you in this…this bikini?”

“what do you mean? it is a bikini.” you contest, raising your own eyebrow now and anticipating how paige would admit that your bathing suit barely covering anything was causing her own skin to run hot.

her cheeks are beet red and she purses her lips together to stop herself from smiling like an idiot.

“you know exactly what i mean.” she mutters, voice suggestive.

you do fully giggle this time, leaning your head back. when you’re done laughing you unintentionally press your entire body forward for a second when you rest your arms on the sides of the hot tub.

you watch the blonde across from you lick her lips as her eyes travel straight to your tits, back up to your face, and then to your tits one last time before she opens her mouth once more.

“I loved the photos by the way. can’t say they compare to having you right here within my reach, but you look amazing.”

“thank you baby. wanna say it again and look me in the eyes this time?”

tonguing her cheek to hold in a laugh she shakes her head. partially because she was caught ogling and partially at how bratty you were being.

“i can show you better than i can tell you.”

“yeah?” you taunt, tilting your head.

“get over here.”

you practically pounce on her with how quickly you travel from your end of the water to her lap. she wastes no time grabbing your hips so you’re comfortably straddling her.

you let out a hiss when she presses your hips down, forcing you to sit on her completely. you had been riled up since she stepped outside, the friction on your clit from the material of your swim bottoms wasn’t helping.

paige brings a wet hand up to cradle your chin, turning your head to face her completely. she pulls you closer, not kissing you yet.

“you really are so gorgeous, you know that?” paige mutters, lips ghosting over yours.

“p, have you seen yourself? cmon now–“

“this isn’t about me, baby.”

she stops you mid thought with a soft peck on the lips. although it’s feather light a smack sounds between you both at how quickly it happened.

you whine when she pulls back and you don’t miss how she smirks at your reaction.

“don’t be a brat.”

“okay, then kiss me.” you groan, bringing your arms above the water to wrap around her neck, closing the bit of distance that's between your lips.

it’s already warm in the water that’s ricocheting against the walls of the hot tub and your bodies, but the way that paige moans into your mouth when she kisses you back heats you up more.

for a while you’re just kissing like horny teenagers. it’s sloppy and wet and you pull away panting a little.

you run your hands through paige’s hair and study her features before leaning in to kiss her again, stopping just barely before your lips meet. she closes her eyes in anticipation but opens them after she realizes you’re not gonna kiss her.

“like i was saying,” you whisper, struggling to hold eye contact when you feel her breath hitch against your lips.

“i could look at you all day.” you lean in, intending just to give her a peck like she did you earlier. but the moment your lips lock one of her hands is holding you by the back of the neck, it was firm but she knew you weren’t gonna pull away.

she parts your lips with her tongue and it’s your turn to moan into her mouth. you can’t help the grinding of your hips, rutting against her eager for your clit to make contact with part of her somehow. she takes note of this and takes her hand off of your neck, it disappears under the water quickly.

she uses two fingers to push your bathing suit to the side, immediately pressing onto your clit. you pull back from the kiss to gasp, eyes heavy as you try to keep them open and on paige.

“just look? i mean, i’m flattered but there’s a lot that i’d rather do to you all day.” she trails off, now circling your clit with her fingers, watching your reaction intently.

“f-fuck, you know what i m-mean. i always want to look at you, kiss you, touch and feel you. i’m so in love with you baby. you’re so good to me.” you ramble, bucking your hips to signal that you wanted her fingers inside.

“yeah?” she was mocking you. “sure you’re not just saying that because you want something from me right now?”

her voice was low and her eyes never left yours. hearing her say that while her hand was between your legs caused you to clench around nothing.

of course it wasn’t true, and you both knew it, before you could give her any attitude her middle and ring finger were thrusting into your cunt.

“p, oh my god–“ you don’t even finish your sentence.

the ease in which the heel of her palm met your clit was almost embarrassing. it was like your pussy was made to take her fingers.

your jaw goes slack, and you struggle to breathe out for a split second. since you were on top of her she was already prodding at the spongy spot you knew all too well, each thrust making you shudder and clench harder around her fingers.

“‘s so good, so deep!” you pant.

“i know pretty girl,” she pants, placing kisses your chest. her tongue is hot when it comes in contact with the same spots she pecked. she uses her free hand to move your hips until you get the idea and start riding her fingers, already close to your release from how long you'd waited to have her.

“keep it up, i can feel how close you are baby.” she says, voice muffled by the skin of your tits that she’s still burying her face in.

it doesn’t take long for your hips to begin to circle messily, your eyes are squeezed shut and your entire body is on fire.

curling her fingers as they drilled into your hole, paige uses her thumb to fondle your clit. not letting up on her thrusts she leans forward to tongue your nipple through your bikini top and your head falls back as you let out a sound that mimics sob. you take in one sharp breath before letting out a moan that’s borderline pornographic.

paige’s eyes are on you, watching your face and body contort with pleasure. her lips are parted, eyebrows furrowed, and she’s moaning occasionally too with the way your cunt was fluttering around her fingers. she was getting off on this just as much as you were.

“shit! p-please don’t stop, i’m so close.” you choke, hands gripping onto her shoulders like she had intentions to run away.

“you wanna cum for me?” she coos, once again in a mocking manner.

you attempt to nod but paige starts making a scissoring motion inside of you with her fingers and you’re already feeling static from head to toe.

you do cum, literally into the palm of her hand. she can’t hide how badly she’s into this shit and you can feel her smiling against your skin as she kisses any part of you that her lips can reach, milking you through the rest of your high.

when you’re starting to catch your breath you feel paige curl her fingers inside you again.

choking on a mixture of a scream and a moan you have to reach down and hold her wrist to stop her from stimulating you more.

“p that’s enough, what about you?” you ask, already licking your lips at the thought of getting to have your way with her next.

“what about me?” she responds, placing another hot kiss on your neck and making zero effort to move from her current position: beneath you with her hand between your legs.

“i want to taste you. please?” you whisper the last part. it came out as more of a plea than you realized but you didn’t care.

on wobbly legs you stand, pulling paige to her feet as well.

she towers over you, bending down to kiss you again. you kiss back hungrily and place your hands on her hips and guide her to sit on the edge of the hot tub.

she parts her legs for you and you grip onto her thighs with gentle hands. looking up at her as you kneel and begin to pepper light kisses on her damp skin. her breathing gets harder the closer you get to where she wants to feel you the most.

“you were just begging to taste me, don’t tease me.” paige groans, placing a hand on the back of your head to guide you.

you place an open mouthed kiss on her clit through her swim bottoms and she shudders at the feeling. using two fingers you pull them to the side and kiss the same spot, this time skin to skin.

paige gasps, the hand that was on the back of your head threading through your hair for a better grip.

you lift your other hand and use two fingers to part her lips. as slow as you can manage you lick sloppily from her clit to her hole and your eyes roll back into your head when you feel her gush into your mouth.

“fuck!” paige whines, throwing her head back.

you relax your jaw and stick your tongue out again, shaking your head from side to side, intentionally making a little extra noise to add to the crudeness of the act.

paige’s chest is rising and falling rapidly as she pants, simultaneously trying to watching you pleasure her. when you both lock eyes you moan and take her clit between your lips sucking on it messily.

this sends her into a frenzy.

although paige was never afraid to be vocal with you, this was possibly the loudest she had ever been during oral. you’re gloating mentally as you start literally making out with her cunt.

it’s lewd and you love it, clearly she does too. you feel her thighs start to close around your head and when you force them apart you watch her throw her head back and reach up to play with her nipples.

“you’re doing so good for me baby, it’s almost like you were made for this.” paige groans, pulling on your hair a little harder than she had intended, almost cumming from the moan you let out against her.

“i was made for you.” you pull back and pant before lowering your head again and thrusting your tongue into her, using your thumb to circle her clit.

paige is a babbling mess and you can feel her start to thrash around slightly.

“f-fuck! i’m almost there.” she manages to spit out, a yelp following as her thighs start to shake.

it doesn't take much more and as soon as you can hear her you can taste her. she cums, hot and immediately coating your lips and chin.

paige’s back is arched as she tries to close her legs around your head. you’re pussy drunk and have no intentions of pulling back despite the way that she’s nearly sobbing every time you flick her aching clit with your tongue.

one final harsh tug at your hair causes you to pull away from her breathing heavily and with a groan. instantly she’s pulling you to your feet and against her body.

when you’re face to face you’re obsessed with how fucked out paige looks. her lips pink and puffy, eyes glossed over, and hair a mess.

when she pulls you in your lips make contact and you smirk into the kiss at the thought of her being so eager to taste herself.

after a few more sloppy languid kisses you drop your head to her shoulder and she leans forward,

submerging you both into the warm water once again.

“that was so sexy.” you mutter, voice hoarse.

“you need to wear this bikini anytime we are near a body of water, for the rest of this trip.” paige says, causing a giggle to bubble in your chest that pressed against hers.

“whatever you say, p.” you reply, tone singsong like.

your back hits the wall of the other side of the hot tub and paige wraps your legs around her waist and stands again.

reaching behind you towards your towel and other belongings you grab your phone, thinking of how much you wanted to capture this moment.

when the screen lights up and you see the last text you received your mouth opens in shock and you can’t help the way that your cheeks rise. you're grinning like an idiot.

2 attachments

i need that.

“paige!” you say, looking up from behind your phone to catch her already smiling back at you, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

“i mean...i got it, didn’t i?”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige x reader #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wcbb #wcbb #wlw smut #pbpressure🍓#namz🍓

1K notes · View notes

ittybittyfanblog · 2 months ago

Text

Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in.

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since it dawned on you that Sylus has actually managed to cross the threshold – through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality – just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul from across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment.

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being.

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would.

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are.

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance.

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips.

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling.

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place.

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears.

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement.

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house.

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies.

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew.

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again.

Rinse, repeat.

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant.

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range.

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard.

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg.

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need.

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen.

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing.

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter.

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine.

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure.

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy.

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in.

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself.

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow.

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes.

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being.

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have.

…

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute.

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life.

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way.

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could.

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier.

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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hausofwoo · 11 months ago

Text

handy | choi san

pairing: choi san x afab reader

word count: 5K

summary: you move into a shitty apartment with a long list of maintenance issues. your landlord puts off sending someone to fix them, only making your frustrations grow. that is, until the maintenance man finally arrives and you discover that he's hot... and you find yourself making excuses for him to keep coming back.

warnings: 18+, minors do not interact, maintenance man!san, tenant!reader, reader is kind of a perv lol, unprotected piv (wrap it up!), oral (f receiving), san is a tease, fingering, hair pulling (m receiving), cumplay, kitchen counter sex!!!, he kinda throws u around hehehe, choking, dacryphilia, use of a petname (baby), lmk if i forgot anything!

author's note: umm.... hahaha um...... so this is lowkey based on a recent experience i had of my maintenance man coming to fix some shit in my apt and he strangely had SO much rizz and i was like wait a minute.... this could be a great fic idea LMAO thank u to @hausofmingi for being my beta-reader ily always ♡

when you signed your lease at your new apartment, you didn’t expect to sign up for a list of problems.

you desperately needed a new place to live, and with the measly budget you had for rent, all that was left available were slim pickings. so when you finally found a small 1 bedroom apartment that wasn’t double your desired price, you jumped at the opportunity. you applied for the place on the spot and were approved the same day. you didn’t really think anything of it, but when you finally got settled in and actually gave a good look at your newfound home… you were in for a fucking nightmare.

for starters, the window unit in the bedroom wouldn’t blow cool air. it’s right in the heat of the summer, so coming home after a long day only to sweat all night long was not cutting it for you. you put in a maintenance request through your tenant portal app the first day when you realized this.

another annoyance was the dishwasher. one of your biggest must-haves was to have an actual working one. maybe you were asking a bit much with your budget, but with the amount that you work, it was imperative. you were thrilled to see the dishwasher during the viewing, only to find a few days worth of dirty dishes later, that said dishwasher was rusty and moldy. literally unusable. so you put in another maintenance request.

last one, and maybe now you’re just getting picky because you’re pissed, but your shower water pressure sucked, and by the time you would finish a shower, the water would take forever to drain. another request sent.

all these maintenance requests and not a single one fixed. you started to wonder if the tenant portal app even worked, so you called your landlord, only to grapple with them on finding a time for them to fix it while you’re still home. you might want these things fixed asap, but you’re not willing to let a stranger in your space when you’re not there.

you started to fucking lose it. a few weeks with no cold air, shitty water pressure, and dishes piling up your sink, and not one thing being done about it. you call your landlord one more time, urging them to finally fix these issues, arguing that they should’ve been fixed before you even moved in. and with that last push, they finally caved and did their fucking job. they said they’re sending someone there first thing tomorrow.

so when you finally wake up and go about your day-off routine, you’re constantly watching the clock. when they said “first thing tomorrow,” did they mean “first thing tomorrow once the maintenance man feels like it”? because it’s already pushing noon and you’re getting impatient. it’s obnoxious; you’re not able to run any errands (let alone actually go out and enjoy your day off) and you’re just waiting around for some dude to actually do the job you’ve been asking for for weeks.

just as you find yourself dialing the landlord’s number, you hear a knock at your door. fucking FINALLY. you jump off your couch, mind spewing profanities out of frustration. you walk towards the door, ready to give this stupid maintenance man a piece of your mind. you swing open the door, and your heart drops.

the maintenance man stands before you, with a tight black tank that hugged his muscular build and dirty worn jeans. he has a tool belt strapped to his (surprisingly small?) waist and a heavy tool box gripped in his hand. he’s a little dirty, and his chest is shiny with sweat due to the humid outside air. his rugged exterior is a huge juxtaposition to his face, however, with sharp yet kind eyes and a sweet smile.

“you need some maintenance done?” he asks.

“oh, uh, yes,” you stumble, suddenly at a loss for words. “come on in.” you hold the door open, allowing him to walk through to your living room.

“so you’re having issues with your water pressure?” he says, looking around the apartment.

“yeah, that and a few other things,” you reply. “but the biggest thing is the window unit in my room. it doesn’t blow any cold air.”

“i can fix that,” he looks at you with a grin. “which one’s the bedroom?”

you walk him to your room, thanking god he can’t see the blush forming on your face. he walks in and places his tool box down, promptly inspecting the window unit.

“i’ll just let you do your thing,” you say, twiddling your thumbs. “i’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

he nods, and you go back to sit on your couch. you mindlessly scroll through your phone, all while spiraling in your head. did your landlord hire this guy from a fucking modeling agency? he has the build for handyman work, that is certain. however, his face is what’s really getting to you. he could be on the cover of vogue and you wouldn’t bat an eye. but there he is, working on a shitty a/c window unit in your room.

you suddenly become hyper aware of the appearance of your bedroom. what does he think about your decor? is he cringing at the plushies sat on your bed? what if you left a pair of underwear out? oh my god, did you leave your nightstand drawer open, with your vibrator out for the whole world to see?

“it looks like you’ll need a whole new window unit,” he says from your room, interrupting your swarming thoughts. “this one doesn’t even have heat, and you’ll need that for winter.”

“oh, yeah,” you say, getting up and standing in your bedroom doorway. “how long will it take to get a new one? this heat has been brutal.”

“i should be able to bring one tomorrow, if you’re available,” he says, turning back to look at you as he closes up the tool box.

“i’m available,” you say all too quick. dude. be cool. “i mean, yeah, i can try to get off work a little earlier, maybe at like 3?”

“works for me,” he smiles, standing up. “can i get your number?”

you can’t hide your blush this time, nodding at the insinuation, but knowing it was just to iron out arrangements. “here,” you say, opening your phone messages so he can send himself a text.

he types away and hands your phone back. “you need a new dishwasher too, right?”

“i do,” you confirm.

“i can try and get you one by tomorrow too,” he says. “i’m off duty by like 5, so hopefully i’ll have enough time. now the shower?”

you nod and lead him to your bathroom. he examines the shower head, and you watch your cat approach him from behind.

“oh my god,” he says, startled at your cat rubbing against his leg. “this little dude came out of nowhere!” he reaches down to pet him, all while he’s purring up a storm.

“wow, he really likes you,” you stand shocked. your cat is always so standoffish to strangers, usually hiding under your bed or couch. but he’s rubbing against your maintenance man’s legs like he’s best friends with him.

“cats tend to really like me, i don’t know why,” he chuckles, scratching at your cat’s head. “what’s his name?”

“leo,” you say.

“like the zodiac sign?” he looks up at you while still petting him.

“yeah, i wanted to name him after his own sign but he’s a cancer, soooo…” you trail off, awkwardly fiddling with your hands.

“i’m a cancer!” he lights up, looking back down at leo. “no wonder we get along.”

you smile, and then realize you’re staring again. “i’ll go back in here so you can work.”

after distracting yourself with your phone again for a bit, you look up and see the man starting to walk out the bathroom doorway, already with his things together.

“okay, it should be good now, but let me know tomorrow if there’s any issues,” he says. you nod to him and lead him to the front door. you open the door and he walks out, but turns to you before he leaves. “so, i’ll see you tomorrow?” he has a smile on his face, with a hint of something behind it that you can’t quite read.

“yeah, tomorrow,” you say.

after locking the door behind him, you slump onto the couch with a big sigh. that was somehow the most nerve-wracking thing you’ve ever experienced. you remember he texted himself on your phone, so you open your messages and see the unsaved number.

sent 12:28 pm this is san :)

you can feel heat rising to your cheeks. even a stupid smiley face in a text has got you kicking your feet. you text him back, telling him your name and a quick thank you.

dear lord. this man didn’t even do anything, but he will be the death of you.

you come home early the next day, even earlier than you mentioned. partly because you wanted to clean up your place a bit, but the other part to mentally prepare yourself for a hot man in your apartment again. you clean up your room, tidying up so it looks a tad better than it did the day prior. once you’re done, you find yourself fixing up your makeup, realizing you’re putting way too much effort into seeing a fucking handyman fix your a/c.

are you really doing this? intentionally getting dolled up for this?? haha never! right….?

you hear a knock at your door and jump up. you check yourself in the mirror one last time, fixing the gloss on your lips. you go to open the door to reveal san, standing in front of you again with a familiar sweet smile on his face. you smile back too eagerly.

“i got your window unit!” he says, nodding down to the large box in his hands.

“oh, come in, that must be heavy!” you say, ushering him into your living room.

“mind if i go in your room?” he asks.

“of course, please,” you say, opening your bedroom door and letting him set the box down. you attempt to subtly watch his arms flex as he drops it. oh my god he is so hot.

you retreat to the living room as usual, allowing him to work in peace. you work on some things on your laptop to pass the time, but the thought of this man working on your a/c, muscles protruding, sweat glistening… it’s all too much of a distraction. you decide to put your ear buds in, trying to drown out your own perverse thoughts. you finally are able to hone in on your work, catching up on the things you couldn’t finish during your shift today since you left early.

you don’t realize that san finished installing the window unit until you feel a hand on your shoulder, making you jump.

“oh!” you stammer, pulling an ear bud out. “sorry, what’s up?”

san has a smile creeping on his face. “my bad, i didn’t mean to scare you. i just wanted to let you know i finished putting in the unit.”

“that’s great, thank you so much,” you say, standing up. “did you get the dishwasher today too?”

“yeah i did,” he says, but then he checks his phone for the time. you realize it’s about to hit 5 pm, and he said he’s off by that time.

“you’re almost off, i forgot,” you say apologetically. “you can just come back another day?”

he checks his phone again, contemplating. “well… i mean i already have it in my truck, so i don’t mind working a little bit over my time.”

“you really don’t have to, san,” you plead.

“it’s okay,” he says. “i’ll be right back with it!”

he exits your apartment, giving you a moment to kick yourself. having a dishwasher that works would be so great right now, but you feel guilty for having him work past his time. another part of you wants him to go anyway, if it meant he would come back again.

you hear a loud noise outside your front door, so you open it to see san with the new dishwasher on a dolly. you hold the door open for him, allowing him to enter your apartment and bee-line to the kitchen. he props the dolly down to drop the box.

“i should be able to finish this in about an hour, is that okay?” he asks, already unboxing it.

“as long as you’re okay with working this late,” you shrug.

“i don’t mind at all,” he smiles, looking up at you.

“okay, i’ll just be in here,” you point behind you, gesturing to the living room.

“alright, dishwasher is done,” san says, walking into the living room with a broken down empty box in one hand and dolly in the other.

“thank you so much,” you smile.

“is there anything else you need then?” he inquires, quirking up an eyebrow.

a moment of silence washes over the room momentarily, with you wracking your brain trying to find a reason for him to stay longer. but you push that away, knowing he’s been working way too long past his scheduled time.

“no, i think that will do it,” you sigh, unintentionally sounding disappointed.

“well,” he mumbles, toying with the box in his hand. “well you have my number, so if you need anything, feel free to shoot me a text.”

you walk him to the door, thanking him. he stands out in the hallway, you looking at him out your front door.

“really though,” he insists. “if you need anything.” with one last sweet smile, he leaves.

so what does he mean by that? “anything.” maybe you’re delusional for thinking there’s a hidden meaning behind that statement. as in, you can text him if you want him to fuck your brains out, “anything?” definitely not, but your mind wanders at the thought of it; that he’d drop everything and book it back to your apartment, heaving and sweaty, ready to take what’s his. you’re actually fucking crazy.

and to make yourself even crazier, the next few days you find yourself itching to get another reason to have him come back. you check your kitchen sink’s water pressure, it’s fine. you test out the stove for the first time and it cooked your food perfectly, no gas smell. then you find something. one of your kitchen drawers won’t close completely. it’s something small, but enough to put in a maintenance request. for the first time since you moved in, you feel grateful you live in a shitty apartment.

you swing the door open, happy to see the cute grin san always gives you the moment he sees you.

“sooo… a drawer, huh?” he quips with a hint of a teasing tone.

“y-yeah, i tried to fix it but i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” you defend, rubbing the back of your neck.

“i can fix that,” he says, passing into the kitchen, tool box in hand. you’re ready to retreat to your living room as usual, but san stops you. “you know, you don’t have to wait around in your living room for me to finish. i like having company.”

“oh,” you mumble, turning around. “i thought you might want privacy while you work.”

“no, it’s okay,” he says, opening his tool box to grab a few items. “if you wanted, you can hang around. i like learning about the tenants i’m working for.”

“okay,” you murmur. you open a kitchen cabinet to grab two mugs. “do you want some tea?”

“i would love some tea,” he says.

you put the kettle on the stove, heating up some water. you chat with san about work, how many units he has to visit in a day, about the interesting tenants he meets, how long he’s been doing this. once the kettle starts whistling, san is already finished fixing the drawer, placing it back into it’s assigned slot. you can’t help but feel disappointed that your time with him is almost up. you put the tea bags in the mugs of hot water, offering one to san.

“i know you’re done, but if you still want it,” you say, and he accepts the drink with a grin. you both sit at your kitchen table, continuing to chat. your cat leo enters the kitchen, going to straight to san’s legs to rub against him.

“there’s my boy,” san coos, scratching leo’s head.

“i still can’t get over how much he likes you,” you laugh. “he’s never this friendly, he’s only like this with me.”

“he seems friendly to me,” san says. “maybe he just has good taste in people.”

you chuckle, wondering in the back of your mind if he meant that about you too.

san checks his phone, realizing the time. he sets down his tea and stands. “i should probably get out of here, there’s another tenant waiting for me.”

“i didn’t mean to keep you—”

“no no,” san interrupts. “it’s okay. i really liked this. not a lot of people are this welcoming.”

“of course,” you reply, standing up with him. “i—i really liked this too.”

san smiles, biting a bit at his lip. you look at each other for a moment, feeling an intriguing tension in the air. he finally shakes head, going to grab his things to go. you walk him to your front door. you say another thank you, about to close the door.

“like i said,” he repeats, leaning against the door frame. “anything.”

you hadn’t seen san in over a week. it was driving you mad. you became addicted to his energy, to his warm greeting at your front door, to the lingering gazes you shared. you didn’t have any reason to see him again, and you needed to find another. so you did something you’re not entirely proud of… something that an actual crazy person would do. you loosened a bolt on a pipe under your kitchen sink, allowing water to trickle the smallest amount in the lower cabinet.

listen. you know it’s bizarre at this point, but you had to see him again. it’s not like anything would happen; he’d probably just fix it up, have another nice chat with you, and be on his way. is it so bad that you meddled with your sink just to see him?

when san arrives, he has that all-knowing grin on his face the moment you open the door.

“the sink now, hm?” he asks.

“yeah,” you chuckle anxiously. “the sink.”

he goes to the kitchen and inspects the pipes under the sink. you lean against the counter, hoping to god he doesn’t notice that the pipe didn’t magically get loose.

“ah i see,” he laughs to himself. “it’s just a loose bolt. easy fix.” he tightens it with his tools, quickly finishing.

“oh, haha,” you say, nerves bubbling in your stomach. “i guess i could’ve done that.”

“you know, it’s so interesting…” he trails off, standing up to face you, running a hand through his hair.

“what?” you ask.

“i’ve never had to do so much maintenance work for one tenant before,” he says, sly grin across his face. fuck. do you think he knows?

“and i swear, that bolt kinda looked like it was loosened by a wrench…” he trails off again, stepping closer to you. HE KNOWS.

“n-no, i would never,” you defend, feeling backed against the counter.

your eyes are locked on san, wandering over his built frame, over his sharp features. he’s inching closer and closer, and you feel your breath hitch. he catches your trailing eyes as if to ask for permission, and leans in to kiss you.

finally, the thing you’ve been wanting so bad from him, to feel his lips against yours. he cups your cheek with one hand, letting you melt into his touch. your lips part to allow his tongue to slide in, deepening the kiss with fervor. his form pushes against yours, pressing you against the kitchen counter. his hands begin to wander, grazing from the side of your face down to your waist. he holds you in a tight grip, pulling your hips forward to meet his. you can feel him harden in his jeans as he lets out a groan against your lips.

“you did this on purpose, hm?” san says, separating from your lips. he lifts you up and places you to sit on the kitchen counter in one swift motion. he kneels to the floor, grabbing at the waist of your pants. “just to see me?”

you nod emphatically, watching as he pulls down your pants and underwear. the cold air hits your core and you try to close your legs, but san pushes them back open to admire you. putting your legs over his shoulders, he runs his fingers against your folds, eyes drinking in the sight of you. you shudder at the feeling, knowing all too well that he’s already got you soaked.

“you like seeing me like this?” he whispers, looking up at you. “i bet you imagined me like this, between your legs.” when his fingertips graze over your clit, your body lets out a shake, and he knows he found what he wanted.

he attaches his mouth to your core and places a firm hold on your outer thighs. licking stripes up to your clit, each stroke of his tongue feels like heaven. he dips down to your hole, dragging your slick upwards. he moans at the taste of you, devouring at you with more passion. your hands grasp at his hair, relishing the stimulation.

he tugs his head back, looking as pussy-drunk as ever. “i imagined you like this too,” he moans, lips still hovering over you. you unintentionally tug at his hair, yearning for his mouth back on you. “i wanted you so bad the moment i saw you.”

he releases a hand off your thigh and snakes it back between your legs, teasing at your hole as he goes back to circle his tongue around your clit. he looks up at you as he slides his middle finger in, watching you crumble at the feeling. once he can tell you’re comfortable, he slides in another, slowly starting to pump them into you. you whimper at the feeling, walls contracting around his fingers.

your moans are uncontrollable, and he matches them, letting the vibrations enhance the stimulation. he curls his fingers into you, hitting that perfect spot. he can feel your core clenching more erratically, causing him to pick up the pace, but maintaining a steady rhythm. his tongue flicks at your clit just right, making you squeeze your eyes shut and tighten the grip on his hair.

“s-san,” you let out. “i’m gonna cum.”

he detaches from you briefly, still finger fucking you. “cum for me, baby, i want to taste you.” he immediately latches back onto you, eating you like his life depends on it.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body, feeling like chills. you’re shaking now, unable to control the sheer amount of bliss your body is experiencing. you moan out to san, coming undone on his tongue. he continues to work at you, allowing you to ride out the entirety of your orgasm.

he finally disconnects from you, pulling out his fingers coated in your essence. he licks them clean, looking up at you with the same look of desire. he stands up, promptly placing his lips on yours in a passionate kiss. you can taste yourself on his fucked-out lips, and it makes it that much hotter. you can hear him fumbling with his belt, and your hands reach down to help. you place your palm over his bulge, it twitching at the contact.

san separates from you, letting out a heavy sigh. he pulls himself out from his underwear, rubbing the tip at your spent pussy. he looks down and lets a string of his spit hit his throbbing cock, spreading it around the expanse of it with his hand. he angles himself into you, and slowly starts pushing in. you gasp at the size, him stretching you out much more than his fingers initially did. he takes it slow, acknowledging the whimpers leaving your lips.

once he’s fully inside, he groans. “god, you’re so fucking tight.”

he watches himself enter you as he starts rolling his hips into you. he places a hand on the back of your neck, pushing you towards him for a messy kiss. he starts to pick up his pace, earning a sharp hiss on his lips in between kisses.

“you feel so good,” he murmurs to you. “i knew you would feel good.”

you moan in response, completely unable to form any words. all you know is that the stretch of his cock is deliciously painful, and the sweet kisses he’s peppering over your neck gives you goosebumps all over. you can’t even believe this is happening right now, that your fantasy of fucking your maintenance man is coming true, and it feels even better than you imagined.

“you wanted this so bad,” san teases, continuing to piston into you. “for me to fuck you like this. you probably imagined it, touching yourself the moment i left.”

and he’s right, you found yourself needy and horny after every visit he made. you couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing your vibrator and pretending he was the one fucking you, not yourself. but the feeling of the real thing was much different, much more euphoric. to have his chest heaving in front of you, sweat beading on his temple, desperate energy emanating from his body, saying i want to have all of you.

suddenly, he lifts you from the kitchen counter, holding your thighs firmly with his cock still in you. something about the fact that he can completely hold you up, still bouncing you on him even… you feel like his little play toy that he’s throwing around. he takes you to the bedroom, dropping you down on your bed and landing on top of you.

he wastes no time in sliding back into you, desperate to continue feeling your tight walls around him. his body is hovering over yours, your legs tangled as he thrusts into you. he pecks around your neck, hand ghosting over your throat as if seeking permission. you place your hand over his, allowing him to choke you until you’re lost in a euphoric haze.

his thrusts become more intense and forceful, each stroke sending chills down your spine as his length reaches deeper inside you. you swear you’re shaking the whole bed, the headboard repeatedly slamming against the wall. you’re so clouded by pleasure that you barely even notice he’s fucking you so hard that he’s pushing a dent into the wall from your bed frame.

“i can fix that,” san whispers with a smile, not even bothering to stop.

you let out a chuckle, then press a soft kiss to his lips. his hips begin to slow, as though he’s really taking his time to melt into you, to feel every part of you. he then lifts up to hit a new angle inside you, gripping your waist and slamming your hips into his with powerful, deliberate motions. you move your hand to your clit, feeling your walls tighten around his throbbing cock. your vision blurs, tears starting to well up in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“you gonna cum for me?” san asks, sensing the irregular pulsing of your core. you nod up at him, eyebrows furrowed and lip caught between your teeth. “cum on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

your orgasm builds to a peak and then cascades over you, sending you into a state of pure bliss. san is still fucking into you, extending your orgasm while still chasing his own. it’s not until his hips begin to falter that you feel him shoot ropes of his cum into you, filling you completely. his moans echo yours, his hips gradually slowing until he finally comes to a stop.

he pulls out of you, falling next to you on the bed. the room is filled with the sound of your heavy breathing as it gradually returns to a normal pace. you look at each other, smiling with a shared understanding of the unexpected moment you just experienced. he wraps his arm around you, drawing your head to his chest to where you can hear his heartbeat.

“sooo…” you chuckle softly, pointing at the dent in your wall. “you’re gonna fix that, right?”

san grins, pulling you closer. “i mean, i can, but then i’d have no reason to come back tomorrow.”

“now that i think of it,” you say, chuckling. “i think there’s probably a few more things that could be fixed…”

“anything you need,” he says. “anything.”

a/n: guys this was so fun to write, i hope u enjoyed it too!! something about san lately oml... plz leave feeback as i'm new to writing, and reblog to support me! it motivates me to write more!

✰taglist✰ @skz1-4-3 @oddracha @luvbit3z @tunafishyfishylike @seomisaho

add me to the taglist!

#choi san #ateez #ateez x reader #ateez smut #san #san smut #san fic #san x reader #ateez oneshot #ateez fic

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fics-lovebot · 9 days ago

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sim jaeyun (jake) fic recs - pt.1

main masterlist

· ♡ · · tysm to the amazing creative minds of the writers for giving me sevaral moments of joy reading your creations

pls reblog if you like any of my recs and don´t forget to support authors!❤️

[note: yess, ik you´ve seen this before. i just reorganized my whole m.list by memebr, hope yall like it!]

pics i posted on my ig story for my crush to see - ( @lattegyu ) ig stories, fluff, crack, smau, non idol!jake

brought the heat back - ( @jayniks ) smut, idol!jake, giving him a bj while he´s on weverse live sdlkjlsd WHEWW

hello kitty meets batman - ( @star-sim ) fluff, angst, lowkey smut, dark horror creator youtuber!jake, downbad!jake, beauty vlogger youtuber!reader. fans had no idea their fav youtubers were in a long-term secret relationship. THIS IS SO GOOOOOODDDDDDDD plsss, i wish i could read it again for the first time

things we never said - ( @hoonigiris ) very angsty, jake au. it’s heeseung’s wedding, jake’s had too much to drink, and really, he just misses you. perhaps what happens after are the things he should never say. This is realllyy well written, i loved it

taste of heaven - ( @moonstruck-muses ) vamp au, smut, fluff, angst, vamp!jake, human!reader. he´s keeping his true nature a secret. THIS HAS IT ALLLLL and the smut is so gewd too, pls i would love the see another part of this

waiting on calls - ( @miumura ) fluff, angst, exes to lovers, second chance romance, ex bf!jake, non idol au, I LOVE THISSSSSSS, its so different and well written

ouch my head - ( @jakesangel ) loser desperate jake, smau, crack, fluff, "when y/n almost gets hit by a random hot basketball player who happens to have a huge crush on her" this is an on going series, so so so entertaining and fun to read lmao

everything but nothing - ( @cherryrikis ) ANGST (i love that shii), non-idol!au, break up talk, football cap!jake, fluffy happy ending, comfort

too sweet - ( @star-sim ) fluff, suggestive, badboy!jake, nerdy!reader, downbad!jake. Jay is scared he will hurt you in the future so he tries to break things off but at the end of the day he´s whipped LMAOOO, I LOVE ITTTTTT

fuck buddy jake - ( @heeseungsbm ) smut, lowkey fluff bc he´s got a fat crush

texts with ex-bf!jake - ( @bywons ) fluff, CRACK, he´s down bad fr

pictures of bf!jake enha send you - ( @ddksoo ) text, fluff

serendipity - ( @kaiyunsim ) fluff, spiderman!jake, if you love hot loser!jake as much as i do, you´re gonna LOVE this.

between the shelves - ( @liuhsng ) fluff, strangers to lover, soulmate au, alpha!jake, omega!reader, alpha!enha. I LOVEDDD THISSSSSSS, jake´s so dreamy cool and collected, got me giggling and kicking my feet

the price of perfection - ( @woniedarlin ) angst, fluff, academic rival!jake, academic pressure. now now, i know i said i hate those academy rivals, work rivals, enemies to lovers tropes, and i do!, BUUTTT this one´s differente. They aren´t really rivals, she´s just jealouse and jake´s just vibing lmao, but they end up being what each other´s need

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mydearzero · 1 month ago

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The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader | Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter.

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you.

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience.

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal.

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution.

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.”

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work.

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building.

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…”

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?”

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei.

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic.

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days.

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes.

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.”

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour.

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture.

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting.

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions.

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts.

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended.

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation.

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office.

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?”

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga.

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing.

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–”

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response.

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her.

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed.

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch.

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.”

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes.

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing.

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him.

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind.

“You care about him deeply,” you observed.

She gave a fond smile. “I do.”

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.”

It was settled, then. You were hired.

Chapter 3

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

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mwagneto · 9 months ago

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hungarian/nomadic magyar tumblr circa 998AD dashboard simulator

🏞️ vándor-ló-979 Follow

not yall still spreading emese's foundation myth??? she literally claims she fucked a bird????? like either she's lying or she cheated and she's trying to cover it up or well. i dont even want to consider the third option

🪺 magánügyek Follow

tengri forbid women do anything???

735 notes

🦅 szél-könnyű-szárnyán-szállj Follow

okay im sick of the discourse let's do this.

8,572 notes

🐎 istván-rovására Follow

that took so long lmao -> !!!!!!!∧◇ᛏ⋈∧

481 notes

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

i'm so serious rn if you support """istván""" in any way just unfollow and block me. we do NOT need him or his dumbass god and what he's been doing to our people to spread his religion is shameful.

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

btw we all know your real name is vajk stop larping as a christian it's EMBARRASSINGGGG

✝️ esztergom-örökké Follow

love seeing my mutuals reblogging this /s anyway op has multiple posts on their blog supporting quartering and human sacrifice. in case you were wondering. anyway stand with István

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

1) we dont even do human sacrifices, are you fucking stupid??? show me ONE post where i talk about that. 2) are you seriously forgetting that your bestie istván LITERALLY QUARTERED HIS UNCLE?????

#sorry to put this dumbass on the dash😭 dont even engage just block them #ur not making it up the tree of life lmao #discourse

3,264 notes

🌅 bolygó-kárpáti Follow

friendly reminder that just because you're white passing doesn't mean you're not a real magyar!! people with mixed parents are just as valid <3

🏇 attila-népe Follow

cranky coz ur ancestors decided to mix with the europeans arent you

🧺 lemezelő Follow

isnt your girlfriend literally frankish????

🏇 attila-népe Follow

you had to have done some serious stalking to find that💀 and first of all i didn't have a choice, my parents picked the tribe, and second of all she's not my "girlfriend" i got her via ritual kidnapping (WITH consent. before anyone gets weird)

🌐 a-kiber-kovács Follow

Couldn't you have kidnapped another magyar woman? Or someone from another mongoloid tribe?

🔅 hadúrsimp Follow

ohh sure so now human pet guy is gonna chime in to advocate for the kidnapping of our women while being lowkey racist. what are you even doing on nomadblr????

🌅 bolygó-kárpáti Follow

what the fuck happened to my post

19,276 notes

🪔 rakabonciás Follow

for the nth time, you're only a true shaman if you were born with teeth OR with extra fingers OR in the sac. the rest of you are faking & we can tell.

🦅szél-könnyű-szárnyán-szállj Follow

okay people keep spreading this but this is literally just wrong?? like congrats on the 6 fingers op im glad u and Little Golden Father have a special connection (genuinely) but like. táltos and sámán and mágus and garabonciás and javas etc are all different things with completely different requirements and life paths which you should definitely know if you're claiming to be one?? especially since your post says shaman but you're listing the criteria for a táltos, and your username looks like a play on garabonciás so. which is it🤔 maybe get your facts in order before trying to gatekeep

anyway don't listen to op!! your connection to the Upper World is yours alone and you're the best judge of what the Fathers and Mothers want your path in life to be!!

646 notes

🛐 mea-culpa Follow

It breaks my heart that the majority of my people still refuse to see the One True God and insist on sticking to their pagan spirits. I fear that when judgement day comes, we will all be wiped out thanks to their foul godless ways.

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

how tf am i godless when i literally have dozens of gods? little mothers and little fathers are in everything all around us & it must suck ass to live in a world where you're not surrounded by the small gods that inhabit everything. manifesting that the fene and the guta tag team beat your ass tonight

🔅 hadúrsimp Follow

hadúr will literally strike op down personally. he told me himself. whispered it to me sweetly even

🐴 csillagösvény Follow

while i agree with you, i feel like you might also have ulterior motives, nomadblr user hadúrsimp

#but live your truth! doubly so on the posts of these freak repressed bible lovers. meanwhile on the #COOL side of magyarhood we walk around butt ass naked!!! op have fun never experiencing joy ever again tho #discourse

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👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

posting from an alt so i don't get cancelled but lowkey i'm starting to think koppány was right.... maybe this christianity thing isn't gonna work out after all

👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

WRONG BLOG

👑 sanctus-stephanus Follow

THIS WAS A JOKE. IGNORE THIS

🪺 magánügyek Follow

ISTVÁN????????????? 💀

#the usernames wont make any sense unless ur hungarian and insane about the era im sorry. i hope the rest is funny to foreigners too tho🙏#i woke up in the middle of the night and typed out the majority of this then fell back asleep #hopefully that provides some nice extra context to jt #it's especially funny coz I've been meaning to make this post for like. legit at least 7 or 8 months now #so ig inspiration struck in the middle of the fkin night. finally. well here you go #dashboard simulator #dashboard sim #history #hun mythology #mythology #hun culture

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satoruxx · 11 months ago

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THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x reader | 3.7k words

✧ SUMMARY: wolfhybrid!toji, hybrid au, grumpy x sunshine, animalistic behavior, bickering, mentions of blood and injuries, survival instincts are non existent, hints at past violence/abuse, toji is an asshole but he's trying !!

✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: ignore that i formatted this part all pretty while part 1 is just an ugly drabble. i just didn't expect to turn this into a series lmao. anyways please read part one before reading this so that it actually makes a lick of sense !! also i added people who asked for part two to the tag list so if you wanna be added/removed just lmk :3

you mutter a quiet curse as you step in a dirty puddle, eyes squinting through the torrents of rain pouring from the dark sky. it's bad enough you got out of work so late, but the heavy storm did nothing to make the journey home easier. you grip your umbrella tighter, even though your clothes have still been dampened by stray droplets, and speed up the pace.

it has not poured like this in your city for quite a few weeks now, and the change in weather would be pleasant if you weren't being hit by it full force—indoors, curled on your couch under a blanket, would be ideal. that's what you plan to do after you get inside, after a warm shower and dinner.

speaking of dinner, you're late for your routine meal drop off for your new hybrid acquaintance. though you're almost sure that toji won't be in his usual spot in the alleyway by your apartment in this weather, probably taking shelter where he normally does when the outside is too harsh. plus even if he decided to take his chances to come for food, he would've left as soon as he noticed his plate wasn't there.

you haphazardly push yourself through your front door, nearly tripping as you attempt to close the umbrella while simultaneously avoiding the rain. you inhale deeply once you're safe, leaning back against the door as you catch your breath. the rain sounds are muffled now that you are in your little cocoon of an apartment, and you immediately pull your wet shoes off with a grimace.

half an hour later you're stepping into the warmest, most comfortable pajamas you own, body now clean and thrumming with the freshness that only a good shower can provide. your stomach growls as you step into the kitchen, the rain still slapping against your window, and you immediately try to throw together whatever food you can find.

thanks to toji's daily rations, you have an assortment of meat in your fridge, but you settle for eating some rice and curry, choosing to leave meat for a day where the wolf is actually around.

you're halfway through your meal when you hear familiar sounds in your alleyway, and you can't help the way your jaw drops.

"oh my god there is no way," you mutter under your breath, hurrying over to your door and slipping on your shoes. grabbing your umbrella and snapping it open, you duck under it to avoid once again getting drenched by the downpour, the splashing sounds of your footsteps echoing through the alleyway.

even though he is soaked to the bone, toji looks unbothered, sitting against the wall lazily. his dark ears are laying low against his head, but they twitch to life at the sound of you approaching. you ignore the normal distance that is kept between the two of you, opting to stop right in front of him so you can hold the umbrella over his head. "what are you doing out in this rain?"

"you're late today." he ignores your question, green eyes sliding up your figure to meet your gaze. you shake your head in exasperation, staring down at him with a frown.

"yeah i got held up at work." you adjust the umbrella a little, and toji's eyes flick towards it, as though just realizing it's there. "i didn't think you'd be out here."

"came by earlier and saw your lights were off and you weren't home," he grunts, shaking his wet hair out of his. "just thought it was weird."

(he does not mention how long he sat and waited for you to get back, ears perking at every little noise that turned out to be nothing. he does not mention that after a while he got up to circle the area, eyes on high alert and a rising aggression in his demeanor, only to come back and find your lights on.)

"oh," you say lamely, blinking through mist. toji gets to his feet, and you reel at the way he towers over you. he shakes his head, the water from his ears and hair splashing haphazardly, before nodding once.

"well i'm leaving." he turns to walk away, and you blanch.

"to go where?" you can't help but pry, looking at his back searchingly. you see him shrug, hands in his pockets. his tail remains unmoving with the weight of water, clothing sticking against his damp skin.

"who knows?" he grunts. he nods his head at you gruffly. "get inside."

"but…" you grimace, glancing at the dark sky. "what if you get sick?"

toji's brow raises, and he throws you a sarcastic glance over his shoulder. "i'm not made of fluff, kid."

you can't stop yourself from rolling your eyes at his brashness. you don't know what you're doing, but the idea of him prowling out in the pouring rain makes your stomach churn.

"come inside."

toji's head whips so fast you think he might break his neck, jade eyes going wide. one ear perks at your statement, oddly endearing, and you would've chuckled if his expression wasn't so aghast.

"the fuck you say?"

you swallow, suddenly nervous. seriously what the hell are you doing? "come inside," you repeat, your grip tightening around the umbrella.

"are you fucking insane?" toji's voice is sharp and accusatory, like you've just said the most offensive thing known to man. "why would you even—?"

"it's pouring." you say it blandly. "and i wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing you were sitting out here like that."

"i'll live," he scoffs, and you bristle at the harshness of his tone. "i'm not a cushy little human."

"ha ha," you mock him sarcastically, voice cutting over the sounds of rain hitting your umbrella. "even animals get sick in the rain, don't they?"

he grumbles at that, eyes narrowed at your haughty smile, before he turns to face you completely. "why the hell do you care?"

"i—" you pause, not sure what to say. why do you care? "i just do."

toji rolls his eyes, shoulders raised high as he squints at you through the torrents of rain. a beat of silence passes as you stare back, unyielding, and he finally sighs heavily. "you have horrible survival instincts, you know that?"

you can't help but beam, laughing at his disgruntled expression as he falls into step with you and making sure you angle the umbrella to cover his head. "if you wanna leave later you're free to. just stay until the rain stops."

toji glances at you from the corner of his eye, contemplating. he wasn't joking—you really did have the worst judgement he's ever seen. he can't wrap his head around how you don't find it dangerous to invite a ragged animal into your home, especially one that can so easily tear your limbs off. instead, you have this dopey little smile on your face as you walk him into your space, closing the umbrella with a practiced snap and leading him inside.

well, toji isn't one to complain—he can't even remember the last time he's felt the warmth of the indoors, shielded against the bite of the outside world. and if he tries too hard to remember, he'll find that the last time did not have same sweetness that seems to be radiating off of your very person.

the inside of your apartment is small, but cozy. toji can't help but look around, noticing the details that have made this place your own. he inhales deeply, finding traces of the scent of food, of laundry detergent, of an unlit candle.

of you.

"uh…" your voice has gone slightly awkward, and toji's gaze falls on your sheepish expression. you look somewhat embarrassed, consciously looking around at the lived-in messiness of your space—not that toji really cares. "d-do you wanna wash up? i should have some extra clothes for you around here."

toji grimaces at the feeling of his ragged shirt clinging to his damp skin, but he tries not to make it too obvious how much he welcomes the idea. he can feel dirt and grime under his claws, and the thought of an actual bath makes his head spin with feral delight. "i guess so," he mutters, nonchalant. you seem to relax at his willingness, and you nod as you lead him to the bathroom. he shamelessly looks around, eyeing the pictures of you and other people in your life hanging from your walls. he can smell your half-eaten dinner, and his stomach rumbles.

you push open the bathroom door, and he briefly glimpses a pile of clothes on the ground, along with a few other things scattered here and there.

"fuck," you curse under your breath, heat crawling up your neck as you practically trip over yourself to get inside and tidy up. "j-just wait out here for a second please!"

toji snorts out a sardonic scoff of disbelief. if you really believed that he would care about something as trivial as a pile of laundry, you've got him completely wrong. but he guesses it is just slightly funny to see you so stressed over your dirty underwear because of him.

you rustle around inside and then emerge, breathlessly smiling as though nothing had occurred. toji watches you, expressionless, and you gesture to the bathroom. "okay now it should be all good. there's soap and stuff in there so use whatever you need. let me get you some clothes."

you immediately squeeze past him, trying to head for another room, and that's when toji fucks up. it's an accident, but he can't help his reaction. your elbow accidently nudges his abdomen, and he yelps with pain, the sound morphing into a guarded growl. you immediately recoil, eyes going wide in fear and concern—he internally curses.

"what?!" you gasp, gaze darting over his body. "what happened?"

he clicks his tongue. "nothing," he snarls, fist clenched around the fabric of his shirt. you eye him warily, and he can tell you don't believe him.

"what? are you hurt or something?"

"no!" he snaps back, teeth bared, and that's all the reaction you need before you're crossing your arms and glaring at him.

"listen, if you're hurt you need to get it cleaned and looked at." toji has half a mind to laugh in your face because you look so stupid trying to intimidate him when you're barely reaching his chin. he knows there is stock in what you say, but he is not doing this with you.

"like hell," he grunts, mirroring your posture and sneering down his nose. "i'll be fine."

"you squealed like a puppy when i barely touched you!"

he throws you an appalled scowl. "what the fuck did you call me?"

"i'm right and you know it!" you shoot back irritably. you seem to catch yourself, because you let out an exasperated sigh and your voice goes a little softer. "will you at least let me look at it?"

toji eyes you warily, feeling a strange mixture of trepidation and guilt. he knows he is right to be cautious, and he knows he should not be trusting you no matter how sweet you seem to act. but at the same time he hurts, and he does not want to go back outside even though he's used to it now—something about such free warmth is making the rational part of his brain fall apart.

he sighs heavily, grumbling under his breath and shooting you a withering glare, before he carefully tugs his shirt off. he can feel the wet fabric clinging to his opened skin, and he bites back a hiss of pain as he rips it away. when he's got it off, he just looks at you, accusatory—but you aren't looking at him.

instead you have a distinct look of abject horror on your face as your eyes roam over his body. though he is extremely well-built and quite honestly, very attractive, his skin is marred with scars. old and fresh, they litter his body like a barely thought out map, and you seem to experience a minor heart attack. your eyes zero in on the wounds that are causing him the most pain—a shallow gash cutting just over his stomach and what looks like a deep bloodied bite in his forearm.

"how?" your voice is shaky, and you finally meet his eyes again. "what happened to you?"

"don't worry about it," he mumbles, his voice a little less gruff as he studiously avoids looking at you. "i told you it's not that bad. it looks worse than it is."

you conveniently ignore him, taking a step closer to study his body. frustratingly enough he feels heat crawl up his neck because you're looking at him so intently, teeth digging into your bottom lip and chewing with nervous bites. finally, you tear your gaze away from his torso to look at his shirt, a deep frown creasing your features as you notice the contrasting darkness in certain areas of the fabric—bloodstains. "well you can't leave them open like this."

toji rolls his eyes harshly. "i've lived through worse."

you glare at him once more, and he finds that the expression looks quite good on you. "you need to clean them up, toji."

his name slides off your tongue like butter, and he can feel his canines scrape against his lips. a flicker of something akin to embarrassment trickles over his body, and he frowns distastefully. "no."

you click your tongue, exasperation rolling off of you in waves. "are you stupid? they'll get worse. i mean they're probably already infected and—"

"i don't know how to alright?!" he hisses, baring his teeth at you angrily. your expression turns bewildered, eyes darting between his quickly, before it melts into something frustratingly sympathetic.

"that's it?" your voice is like honey, and he can't decide whether it irritates him or not. "i can help you."

help. toji doesn't believe humans are capable of helping—only harming. but you're looking up at him so imploringly, eyes focused and heavy with the foolish need to bring him comfort. why, he does not understand. but he has never been able to understand why humans act the way they do.

he pins you with a wordless stare, and he knows you've realized he's relenting, because your lips quirk upward slightly. with a nod of your head, you motion him to follow you into the bathroom and take a seat on the edge of the tub. he watches you rummage through the cabinets, pulling out what looks like gauze, disinfectant, a small towel, and a sizeable mug, which you fill up with warm water. he's about to stand up to make space, but you kneel at his feet instead, setting everything at your side and pushing your hair away from your face.

it baffles him, how quick you are to yield to a species that is so obviously beneath you.

but you don't seem to be thinking any of that, gaze darting over his body as you try to figure out how to approach this. "i'll try and clean up all the blood first and then disinfect, okay?" your voice is barely a murmur, but his pointed ears catch the words all the same.

"you're the expert," he grunts, nonchalant. "do what you need to."

you smile wryly, dipping the towel into the water. "you said it, not me."

he snorts out a sound that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle, but you don't comment on it. instead, you are focused on his body. you see numerous scars and welts, some fresh and some so old, and you are surprised at how sad they make you. it seems like the feeling is evident on your face, because toji watches your features with an unfamiliar intensity. you can't help but prod. "how'd you get these?"

your voice is gentle, as though you're scared a lack of fragility will shatter him. but toji has dealt with far worse than whatever sweetness you seem hell bent on showing him.

"betting on animal fights is a lot of fun for rich assholes." he doesn't look at you, but his lip curls with a deep rooted distaste—you think you feel it too.

so that's where toji comes from. the underground hybrid arenas that you've seen on the news many times before. a common place for predators who were normally so unwelcome in society to be put to good use. a controversial topic, because despite its popularity amongst the rich, everyone knew the conditions were not the greatest.

but you never thought they'd be this bad—how naive.

"i'm so sorry," you mumble forlornly, gently tracing the towel over the wounds. toji grunts noncommittally, but doesn't say much else. you're fine with that, and you clean him up with a tenderness that makes his stomach churn.

all he can focus on his how small your fingers looked wrapped around his claws, and he think you might be a lot braver than he is.

after you're done with your handiwork, you leave him to wash up in peace, and toji silently stares at your tiled wall as the hot water pours over his back. he does not know what he's doing, and what he's trying to get from this. sure, being fed everyday was a welcome addition, but he never planned on stepping this close to you—the thought makes him queasy. he does not enjoy the idea of being indebted to a human, because all they do is take and take and take some more.

and yet he finds himself slipping into the clothes you've given him, and when he looks in the mirror he's surprised at how much a simple bath could change him. toji wearily runs his tongue over his teeth, before it traces over the scar on his lips. a wave of disgust washes over him—he pushes it aside.

when he find you again, you're in what he assumes is a spare bedroom, tucking a fresh set of sheets into the corners of the mattress. he drops his old clothes in the corner, and then clears his throat to announce his presence. you turn to look over your shoulder and smile at his cleaner appearance. "you're done?"

he nods gruffly, watching as you stand up straight and take a few steps closer. "did the shower help?" you pin him with a curious stare, and he sighs resentfully.

"yeah," he grumbles, and he can feel your smug little smile saying nothing but i told you so. he has the strongest urge to flick your forehead.

"oh, i can take care of these."

he can't bite back his snarl when you pick up his clothes, and you freeze at the unusually territorial look on his face. he seems to pick up on the little fright he gave you, and his ears lose a bit of their tension as he sighs gruffly. "just…don't get rid of them."

you pause, glancing down at the rags in your hands. you stop to think that maybe these clothes are the one thing that toji has had since the start—important in a way that you won't understand. so you just nod with a reassuring smile. "i won't. i'll just wash them for you."

toji's shoulders relax, and his expression shifts, green eyes looking anywhere but your face. he nods once but doesn't say anything else, and you take it as your sign to continue.

"you can sleep here. i changed the sheets and put some pillows down too." you nod at the bed, pristine and untouched, and toji's bones suddenly ache with fatigue. how long has it been since he's seen a real bed?

he wonders what exactly your angle is. what do you get from helping someone like him? what sick urge do you satisfy by extending pity to a ragged animal? what do you achieve by passing on glittering smiles like they aren't priceless?

and what do you do to make yourself look so innocent through it all?

you're still blabbering about the bed. as much as he tries, toji cannot smell any malice on you—just pure disgustingly sweet kindness.

"how d'you know i'm not a serial killer or something?" he peers down at you with an arched brow, gaze sharp. "i could just eat you in your sleep."

you blink, before smiling sheepishly. "…do you plan to?"

there's a pause, and then for the first time, you see his scarred lips tug up to one side—a half-smile. a quiet chuckle bubbles forth and he crosses his arms. "nah, you're a little too sweet for my tastes."

you frown at him, watching as he dramatically wiggles his clawed fingers and flashes you his teeth, before rolling your eyes. "how flattering."

he snorts out another laugh, and you take the time to put the extra blankets on the old bed. "i've got more blankets in the closet if you need them, so help yourself." you busy your hands with propping the pillows against the headboard, and you see toji nod from your peripheral.

"i'll uh, be outta your hair soon," he mutters, suddenly feeling out of place.

"relax," you answer, grinning with a shake of your head. "i'm the one who asked you to stay so we could get your wounds all better. you're not giving me any trouble."

"right," he murmurs. there's an uncharacteristic gentleness in his tone, awkward and tense, but you recognize it to be a semi form of gratitude. toji glances at your easy going grin, and his skin prickles uncomfortably—he's not sure how to react to such blatant warmth.

"i'm in the next room over so if you need anything, just knock. i'm a pretty light sleeper." you flash him a thumbs up and turn on your heel, heading to your own room. toji waits until he hears the click of your door before taking a cautious step forward. the clothes you've given him are somewhat tight on his figure, and they faintly smell of some other man, which makes his nose wrinkle with distaste.

though he guesses he should try to bite his tongue and be a little grateful—they're much more comfortable than the rags he'd been in for all those months. toji clambers into the bed, claws digging into the unfamilar softness of sheets, and a heavy wave of fatigue washes over him.

he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, your stupidly sweet smile burning behind his eyelids.

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