#the interruption the whole way through... its so them

[artificial-people-ai]

My two cents on this?

I concur, their stories are pretty similar in many aspects, including SecUnit considering "self checkout" as much as Gurathin said he also did before meeting Mensah (that woman is more effective than the su1vide help line). So the story is quite dark in both cases. Now, having said that, we need to acknowledge that Gura only sees SecUnit like a part of a very painful past that, up to a certain extent, comes back to haunt him.

All mayor interactions so far up to at least Episode 6 when you get to see SecUnit being protective or even heroic (unwillingly, that is) are mostly with Mensah. Now, I don't think either of them see each other in romantic light (Mensah treating SecUnit like one of her kids when it's damaged, and SecUnit being literally asexual and getting along with Mensah because she believes in it as more than a thing, and it seems no one else has up to that point in SecUnit life).

But I do think, from Gurathin point of view, yeah... might look like something else.

Gura is so protective and obsessed towards Mensah (for good reason) that he can't get a being as physically powerful as SecUnit needs (basically) a lot more help than anyone else right there and then. Gura had time to heal, discover he wasn't a monster, SecUnit hasn't. It's still even scared of itself thinking about that 7-second massacre memory from the last refurbishing. Going to lengths like shooting itself so it wouldn't attack anyone else. When it was actively trying to take care of itself and survive alone only days before, but the moment Mensah came back for it and drilled through the "top of the line" unit, SecUnit showed that it preferred to end itself rather than to actually honor its name ("MurderBot").

While Gura is stuck in the habitat, SecUnit is being saved by Mensah, or, saving her itself. So that right there looks like "something it's not", at least in Gura's eyes. He can't be there or be the """hero""" he thinks SecUnit is for Mensah. Gura still sees himself as small, frail, his augmentations while unique, can't compete with SecUnit. Gurathin feels that while SecUnit is there, he's not worth it, at least not enough. And that, right there, becomes resentment and competition.

And how can we forget that SecUnit did interrupted Gurathin when he was going to confess something to Mensah (before they get into the hopper on their way to the beacon); SecUnit was just trying to get going (to avoid Leebeebee's "aggressive flirting"), for it was more like "okay, chop chop humans, let's just get out of here. Beacon. Now.", and while it doesn't have a romantic interest in Mensah, from Gurathin point of view, SecUnit was interrupting the most important conversation Gura wanted to have with her.

And then being actually the one who saved Mensah coming back with her when Gura was contemplating that Mensah (and SecUnit) were dead when the beacon exploded. There's a solid friendship brewing between Mensah and SecUnit, but from Gurathins point of view, it's a threat or competition. It doesn't help either that Gura did pissed off SecUnit to the point it was the only one threatened with a laser to his face and a chocking hand. I mean, it's clear for us why SecUnit did it (tired of dealing with stu.pid humans that see it like it was nothing, or worse, fearing it), but every detail from Gurathin's point of view reinforces his beliefs about the SecUnit needing "to go" for a whole lot of different reasons rather than to see it like someone going through what he himself went through before.

Gurathin's "Do you have feelings for it?" really adds another layer to his dislike of SecUnit.

Though the whole group is still grappling with whether to trust it or not, Gurathin remains the most stubbornly vocal about that distrust and on one level we already understood why. He's a former member of the Corporation Rim, someone who both grew up on the same feeds as the SecUnit engineers—'They go rogue and kill everyone all the time!'—and, as we learn this episode, has been horrendously abused by the Company itself, so why would he trust anything it gave them? One might even go so far as to say Gurathin still doesn't see SecUnit as a person, only a very dangerous piece of equipment.

Except... you don't see equipment as a romantic rival.

We know Gurathin has a rather intense crush on Mensah and who can blame him? She not only forgave him when few others would have, but she turned his whole world on its head, providing him with a new purpose and autonomy and love when he was very close to giving up. That's the level of devotion that inspires sneaking into her bedroom to smell her pillow, or staring star-struck across the dinner table, unable to think of a single critique. Gurathin loves Mensah and Mensah obviously loves him... but not in the same way.

Now toss SecUnit into the mix. Here's Company property that scares the shit out of you and as if that weren't enough, the woman you love is being so nice to it. Not just that, she's seemingly prioritizing it over you.

"It feel like it's going through something" vs. I'm going through something.

Running to talk to SecUnit vs. I was the one who was just threatened.

"I feel we can trust it" vs. I thought you trusted me?

"You need a MedBay" vs. But you won't get me to one because SecUnit advises otherwise, right? (Notably, Gurathin doesn't seem to be conscious when Mensah makes the decision to leave anyway, with or without SecUnit).

There are a lot of other moments like this and from our perspective we can see that Mensah is treating SecUnit similarly to how she no doubt treated Gurathin six years ago. The parallels between them abound, including being slaves to the Company who only start to demonstrate true autonomy after meeting Mensah. Gurathin still has a lot of healing to do, but after so many years he's in a better place than the slave that has just admitted to some level of personhood (not to mention the practical issues of them needing SecUnit to defend them), so of course Mensah is going to prioritize it to a certain extent. She's trying to help it the way she once helped Gurathin, but Gurathin is still so damaged and so JEALOUS that he can't conceptualize, "Oh. She's giving SecUnit what I was once lucky enough to receive."

He can't see that, so what comes out instead is, 'You have feelings for it don't you?' Because what other explanation does he have? If SecUnit already 'stole' her attention and her high opinion, why not her romantic love too! I don't think Gurathin would have ever asked that without the fever lowering his inhibitions, but I don't think the fever caused that worry either.

Gurathin makes me insane because I just want to scream, "SecUnit is you! It's you! It's not your rival, it's a mirror of who you were six years ago! You're not in competition with it, you're the best person to help it because you know something of what it's gone through!! You get to pass the torch, Gura, and help Mensah help someone else!!!!"

[taibami]

✷ it's finally time for you to visit your lover after a hundred years of no physical contact. | 1.2k | cw: ed x f!reader, reader is described as a vampire

The bar is quiet, as the lateness of night comes by. The students began to pack their things and made their way out, until there's no people left but Rui and Lyca.

“Hey doggy, do me a favour and grab me some stacks? I'm sure you know the place already” Rui smiled at the werewolf, who huffs in annoyance, clearly not pleased with how the male called him.

“Tch. I told you I'm not a doggy! Stop calling me that. And sure, I'll grab some stacks from the basement. The same plant, right?”

“Yup, yup! Just grab a few and be careful, ‘kay? Can't risk having a mess down there” Rui winked which Lyca just shrugged off with ‘whatever’ before going down to the basement to grab a stack of plants.

Rui sighed, shoulders dropping in the process. but he quickly turns back to his tasks.

While he was cleaning, Rui hummed through the silence of the bar─that is until he heard a knock, followed by the sound of the door opening

“I'm sorry but we're closed─”

“Good evening gentleman, does Edward reside here?”

A woman dressed in black and deep red clothing that screams elegance entered upon the bar. Rui took a good minute to admire her beauty. the colors that compliments her skin color, the black nails and pale hands that's decorated in jewellery─it is no doubt that this woman is a vampire.

‘Could she be…?’

“Edward? You mean Edward ha─”

Before Rui answered your question, a growl was heard beside you. There, stoof Lyca, glaring at you with his claws out.

“Oi blond gigolo. Who's this?” He asked, eyes never breaking the eye contact within you and him.

“Lyca put your claw down─”

“There's no need to be all defensive, Lyca.”

A deep voice interrupted Rui (yet again) as Ed step down the stairs, earning everyone in the room's attention.

Ed’s eyes flickered towards you, and a rush of warmth spread through his undead heart. “Are my eyes deceiving little old me or is that my wife standing over there?”

You chuckled at his words, making your way towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist─pulling him into a hug. In which he reciprocates in return.

“You know, for someone who hasn't visited me for a hundred years, you sure cling to me like your heart didn't turn cold” he teased. You broke the hug, lifting your chin to take a good look at his unchanged features.

“Oh shut it Ed. You know I'm out there fulfilling my duties, unlike you.” you emphasized on the word ‘you’ made Ed sighed in defeat.

“Uhm, care to explain?”

Rui finally broke his silence as he and Lyca stared at you two dumbfoundedly at the whole situation.

You turned towards them, finally acknowledging their presence, a smile making its way to your face as you introduced yourself, “Forgive me for being forgetful of the introductions. I'm Y/n Hart. Given by my last name, I'm Ed’s wife.”

You watched as their faces morphed into shock, You heard Ed sighed for the second time beside you.

It looks like you have a lot to catch up.

──

“So, let me get this straight. You have been together for the past two hundred years?!” Rui exclaimed, Snapping his head at ed with a pointed finger against him, “And you didn't tell us that you have a spouse with you!”

Ed dismissed the stares he's getting, “I was originally planning to tell you and Lyca but what's fun in that?”

“You-!”

Ed quickly drifted the attention to Lyca, who's staring at you quietly while you only smiled sweetly at him in return. “Is there something in my face Lyca?” You questioned.

"No. I was just surprised that moth-eaten casanova had a girl with him." He huffed

"Wife, Lyca. Wife." Ed corrected

You laughed at Lyca’s words, finding him quite adorable for someone who's a werewolf. “I've heard so much about you through Ed’s letter, at first I thought you would be like those fierce wolves that I encountered but it seems like you're not what I expected to be” you explained.

It's true though. Throughout your travelling, you've encountered many werewolves before. Safe to say you always don't go well with them.

As you recall your journey a hundred years ago, Ed found himself staring at you. No matter how many years have passed, you still look ethereal in his eyes. Each night, he kept remembering the day you accepted his offer to spend the rest of your life together in eternity.

The nights you spent basking in eachother while the night is still young─he can't help but craved for those moments again.

Lyca narrowed his eyes towards Ed, who's staring at you with lovestruck eyes.

"stop staring at her weirdly. You moth-eaten cassanova."

"my, my... Can't a man stare at his beautiful wife?" Ed muttered in defeat

Rui sweatdropped at the scene. "Lyca, I don't want to say this for Ed's side, but It's pretty normal for inlove people to stare at each other." he explained

"But how come she isn't staring back at him? She probably dont love him." Lyca pointed out. Erupting a series of laughter from you.

Ed let out a dramatic wince. placing his hand over his chest with a defeated expression. "Must you laugh at me like that my dear?" He shot you a sympathetic look

You calmed down for a bit, wiping the small tears that gathered in the corners of your eyes, "I can't help but find this kid funny my dear. Oh to be young and innocent again.." you sighed.

"Yikes... you two really fit for each other.." Rui sweatdropped. he can't help but picture you and Edward together.

He doesn't want to admit it but you and Ed are truly meant for each other.

──

After some little bit of chitchat, you and Ed made your way back to his room after he grew impatient and complained about how his joints are starting to ache.

The moment the doors are closed, he wasted no time attaching himself on you─his mouth leeching on your neck as he nib the skin and slightly grazing his teeth on you.

The contact made you shudder, shivers running down your spine as you try to get a hold of yourself. While he continues to shower you with tender kisses.

“You have no idea how much i missed you, My dear. My nights are boring without you here with me.” he murmured against your ear. You shot him an apologetic look, “I'm sorry, I've been busy doing my research these past few years. Speaking of research, I got what you asked me for.”

You took a small bottle hiding in your back, handing it towards him. You watched as he slowly grinned, eyes glowing in amusement as he observed the bottle in his hand as he inspect it, with the light reflecting against the bottle.

Your eyes narrowed at the bottle, staring at the piece of flower inside it. You turned your head towards him, “it's about that girl's curse am I right?”

He let out a low chuckle before taking your hand and place a kiss on it.

“clever as ever, my love.”

an: first time posting after leaving caratblr ⎛⎝( ` ᢍ ´ )��⎞ᵐᵘʰᵃʰᵃ taking requests but please read rules first!! Thanking @/kamurais for proofreading this!!

[observingfantasy]

Justification

~ ShadowVanilla Recovery fic (1/2)

This fic is lightly inspired by @fishymom-art's Fix-a-Beast-AU. It's not supposed to fit into the AU! I just got inspired by this comic and wanted to make my own thing with it.🥰

But the whole comic series is really great! Go read if you haven't already!💕

Summary:

What if the Witches intervened once again? What if they showed the Beasts no mercy?

And left the Ancients to pick up the pieces They left behind.

Chapter 1: Dusk

Read on AO3

The park was almost deserted this late in the evening. Dusk had fallen over the Vanilla Kingdom, draping the trees in sleepy gold and casting long, soft shadows across the winding paths.

Pure Vanilla had decided to take a final stroll through his kingdom before settling in for the night. He needed some time alone to clear his head.

So he walked through the park surrounding the castle, orchid staff in hand, taking comfort in the cool breeze and the stillness.

He loved his subjects and his friends, but the past few months had been a lot, and he couldn’t truly rest—despite the momentary quiet. Or perhaps because of it.

It had been months since the Ancient Heroes and their companions returned from Beast Yeast. All victorious in their first fight with their Beast counterparts. But they all knew it had only been the first battle of probably many more to come. Even if Pure Vanilla and Hollyberry held hope that some of them could be convinced to stop—Dark Enchantress wouldn’t.

So they prepared for another war. Trying not to repeat the mistakes of the past—not to be caught off guard again.

They'd held another council. Made alliances. Discussed logistics. Gathered intel.

But from their enemies—only silence.

Nothing. Not even the faintest whisper of activity in months.

It had everyone on edge.

There was no way the Beasts and Dark Enchantress had simply vanished. They had to be planning something.

Pure Vanilla could only hope he and his friends would be strong enough to face it.

His musings were interrupted when suddenly, something in the air shifted.

Invisible but unmistakable—magic. Thick and suffocating. It crackled in the air like a brewing thunderstorm, prickling against his dough and making his heart race.

He lifted his staff, magic gathering at its tip. Defensive spells rushed to his thoughts, ready. He scanned the horizon, trying to identify the threat.

And then he recognized it.

This wasn't dark magic. Wasn't cookie magic at all.

This was Witches' Magic.

The only other time he’d felt something even remotely close, had been the sheer, overwhelming presence of the Silver Tree. Immense. Ancient. All-powerful.

His grip on the staff tightened. His breath caught.

Then a voice—loud yet calm, neutral yet emotional, terrible yet benevolent—filled his mind.

"We leave the final decision of his punishment to you."

His blood ran cold.

Then a portal tore open before him, silver light splitting the air like cloth. Hovering a meter above the ground.

And then—like discarding something worthless—

A figure dropped.

Pure Vanilla froze, his breath caught in his throat as his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

It looked like a puppet.

A marionette—just without strings. Shaped and sized like a cookie. A familiar cookie.

Shadow Milk.

The figure's limbs were twisted at sickening angles, as if they had been forcibly bent to be as chaotic as possible. Cracks riddled its surface—deep, jagged, raw. Though the clothes perfectly resembled the jester's usual attire, tattered and cracked like the rest, there was no Soul Jam attached to the collar. Instead, a small, diamond-shaped blue gem was embedded directly in its chest.

Slight movement drew his gaze to the hair.

And suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

It looked just like he remembered it. Black and blue. Almost liquid in texture. Laced with half a dozen blue eyes swimming in the depths of the void.

Trembling.

Crying.

Looking directly at him.

Pure Vanilla's eyes snapped to the face.

Dread clawed at his chest.

He met the other's eyes—wide, unblinking, glistening with tears.

Terrified.

Alive.

"Shadow Milk?" he whispered in horror, before he even realized he was speaking.

There was no reply. No sound. No twitch of movement. Only the eyes in his hair trembling and crying, and the ones on his face staring in terror and pain.

A broken, discarded puppet.

Pure Vanilla dropped to his knees beside the other, forcing away his shock. His instincts as a healer took over, even as his heart ached with secondhand horror.

"It's alright. You're safe. You're gonna be okay—I'm going to help you."

His voice was calm. Steady. Trained across centuries to soothe the wounded.

This had to be a curse. A powerful one—but still a curse. And curses could be broken.

He let his magic flow over and through Shadow Milk’s body, looking for the focal point, assessing the damage. What he found almost made him recoil.

Everything hurt.

The amount of pain was unfathomable.

Every joint dislocated. Muscles stretched and torn at impossible angles. Countless cracks in his dough glowing with raw pain. And worst of all—he was still conscious. Held awake by the curse itself. Forced to endure.

The healer swallowed hard. "Oh, goodness..."

Luckily, the curse's anchor was located easily enough. That blue gem embedded in his chest. The curse radiated from it like venom from a wound.

Powerful, but breakable.

Pure Vanilla would make sure of that.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "But I need to move you first. If I try to remove the curse now, it could tear you apart. I'll be as quick and gentle as I can. I promise."

He didn’t know if Shadow Milk could even hear him—he wouldn’t get an answer either way—but he said it anyway. He had to.

With infinite care, he shifted the jester’s twisted limbs into something closer to natural—arms straightened, legs unbent, head resting in his lap.

It was unnerving how easy it was. How much it felt like handling an object, and not a cookie.

All the while, his eyes never blinked.

They just watched. Pleading. Terrified.

“Alright,” he said softly, one hand hovering above the gem, the other grounding them both on Shadow Milk’s shoulder. “Now.”

He poured golden magic into the crystal like liquid sunlight.

It hissed. Resisted.

But he was stronger.

And the gem shattered.

Pure Vanilla immediately sent an equally powerful wave of healing magic through Shadow Milk's body.

That was when the screaming began.

Not with his voice.

With his body.

He convulsed violently, sobs tearing free like something finally broken open. Shadow Milk twitched and thrashed, his limbs flailing in chaotic, desperate movements that made Pure Vanilla’s heart twist in agony.

"Shh… it’s alright. You’re free now. I’ve got you. You're safe."

He pressed his hands to Shadow Milk's shoulders, holding him down with careful strength—the last thing he wanted was to restrain the other. But he would hurt himself in his panic otherwise.

The sobs didn’t stop. But the twitching slowed. Bit by bit, his body stilled.

His eyes cleared—just a little.

"N... Nilla?"

The voice was hoarse. Raw. Barely a whisper.

Pure Vanilla smiled gently. Kindly. Reassuringly. The other’s eyes were swollen, cheeks streaked with tears, and his expression was one of pure exhaustion and fear.

"P-please... please..."

His voice cracked. So did something in Pure Vanilla’s chest.

He gently cupped the other's cheek, brushing away tears with his thumb.

"You’re safe. You're safe. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t allow it."

Shadow Milk whimpered. "But... but the witches…"

Pure Vanilla's eyes hardened.

"They said your fate was in my hands. And I decide no one ever gets to hurt you like this ever again."

Pure Vanilla almost growled that last part with a fierce protectiveness that surprised even himself.

But something in Shadow Milk’s expression finally broke.

He let out a strangled sound—a sob of disbelief, pain, and fragile gratitude—and whispered a broken “thank you” before collapsing, unconscious, into Pure Vanilla’s lap.

The healer didn’t stop. He kept pouring gentle waves of magic into the wounded body, mending what could be mended, while gently brushing trembling fingers through the other's hair. The liquid strands curled around his hand, clinging to him like they didn't want him to let go.

The other looked so unimaginably small like this.

Fragile.

Broken.

Pure Vanilla knew he couldn't even begin to comprehend what Shadow Milk had been through.

"You're safe now," he whispered again.

He sat there a moment longer, holding the weight of someone who had once seemed untouchable.

Then he rose, carefully lifting the jester in his arms.

Shadow Milk didn’t stir.

He needed rest.

And when he awoke, Pure Vanilla swore, he would never have to face this horror alone again.

♧♡♧♡♧♡♧♡♧♡♧♡

They made it back to the castle almost undisturbed.

It was late. The sun had fully set by now, and there weren't many cookies out anymore. Pure Vanilla stuck to the quieter paths, avoiding the busier corridors, and almost made it to his chambers before he was spotted.

"Pure Vanilla! Urgent news from Hollyberry and Golden Cheese just arriv—Who is that? What happened?"

Black Raisin Cookie stepped around the corner, clearly having searched for him to deliver the letters—but she froze at the sight of the unknown, unconscious cookie in his arms.

Pure Vanilla only paused briefly. "Let’s go to my chambers. This is nothing to be discussed in a hallway."

Black Raisin took one look at Shadow Milk’s limp form and nodded, falling into step beside him without further question.

Once the bedroom door closed behind them, Pure Vanilla gently laid Shadow Milk onto the bed and made sure he was comfortable before turning to face her. His shoulders drooped with exhaustion, his face pale beneath the warm glow of the room’s lamps.

But he still explained everything. He would never keep something this important from his chief of security.

"How much would you bet that these are about this situation as well?" she asked when he finished, handing him the letters his friends had sent.

"I'm afraid that would be what the children would call a 'sucker bet'," Pure Vanilla said, attempting a smile.

She gave him a faint one in return. "Most likely. The letters arrived just minutes apart. The cheese bird delivering Golden Cheese’s letter seemed... agitated. Said they flew as fast as they could, and that it was urgent."

Pure Vanilla sat down at his desk, opened the first letter, and held it up to his staff to read.

Since his awakening, he could navigate his surroundings using the new eyes embedded in his cloak—but for reading, his staff still worked best.

As expected, Golden Cheese reported that Burning Spice had also been “left in her care” earlier that morning—wounded nearly beyond recognition. Still unconscious, but somehow alive. Clearly tortured. Multiple bones shattered. Bleeding from too many wounds to count.

No one should have survived that. But the Beasts were just baked differently.

Pure Vanilla definitely saw parallels to his own evening so far. He couldn’t help but glance back at the jester lying motionless in his bed.

Still. Breathing softly. Still in his torn, bloodstained costume.

He should find clean clothes for him.

But first, Hollyberry's letter.

She, too, described similar events. Eternal Sugar had arrived in her kingdom a day earlier. In slightly better condition, but still unmistakably maimed. Her wings torn from her back. Conscious, but not necessarily aware.

Pure Vanilla's hands curled around the paper.

This was deliberate.

They had been left alive—barely—and the burden of their survival had been placed into the hands of those they had once fought.

Or well...

"We leave the final decision of his punishment to you."

They had placed the decision of the Beasts survival—their fate—into the heroes’ hands.

If any of his friends had wanted revenge—had wanted the easy way out—there’d been nothing to stop them.

They wouldn't. None of them would, Pure Vanilla was sure.

But the message clearly indicated that they could.

"Anything from Dark Cacao? Or White Lily?" he asked, just to be sure.

Black Raisin shook her head. "Nothing yet. But crossing those snowy mountains takes time, even in the summer. And White Lily… well, you know communication with the Faerie Kingdom is complicated."

He nodded. "I’ll send letters to all of them tonight. We need to confirm what happened and coordinate how to proceed."

He ran a hand through his hair, mind already racing. Logistics. Responses. The looming diplomatic storm. But even as he calculated, his gaze strayed back to the unconscious cookie in his bed.

"Nothing could be further from my mind than doubting you," Black Raisin said carefully, "but are you certain he poses no threat?"

"Yes," Pure Vanilla replied without hesitation. "Even if he wanted to harm anyone—which I don’t believe—he no longer has his Soul Jam. He’s not a threat. Not like this."

Black Raisin gave a small, respectful nod. "Then I trust your judgment."

There wasn’t much more to say. It was late, everything else could wait until morning.

She urged him—more than once—to get at least a few hours of sleep. He promised he'd try to lie down for a bit after he finished the letters he had to write. She wasn’t happy with that, but knew arguing was pointless.

So she simply wished him a good night and left.

When she was gone, he first took care of Shadow Milk.

He was certain the jester wouldn’t want him to change his clothes, so he used a bit of magic to clean the blood and grime from his suit, then slipped a soft sleeping shirt over it. The rest would wait until he woke.

Once the jester was settled, Pure Vanilla sat at his desk and began to write.

Letters to all his friends—Hollyberry, Golden Cheese, Dark Cacao, and White Lily, even though it was difficult to reach the well-hidden Faerie Kingdom.

He also wrote to his most important neighbors and allies: the Crème Republic, Parfaedia, the Cookie Kingdom.

Political coordination. Strategy updates. Reassurances. And a call to meet in one week’s time to share what they knew.

His hand moved on autopilot. His mind catalogued tasks like a healer triaging the wounded after battle. Like the king he didn’t think he deserved to be anymore.

But there was no one else to do it.

He was tired. Tired, and worried, and angry in a quiet, contained, dangerous way.

But he had work to do.

He glanced back at Shadow Milk—still unmoving, still so impossibly small.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than it seemed.

He would have to be prepared.

Next ->

[nochepsicodelica]

"Doll," Toji calls, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your bodies remain bare after your love making session, your lower bodies still tangled up in the sheets.

"Toji," you respond, a lazy smile curling on your lips as he presses a couple more rapid, chaste kisses on the same spot. "What, baby?" You ask, your voice entirely soft on his ears.

"Love you," he murmurs. "I'm gonna crush you. Just let me... let me do this, first," he hums, pulling your body into his overly tight embrace. He's almost suffocating you, but you expected it, knowing how he gets after spending hours tangled up with you. "Aren't you gonna say it back?" He mumbles, his voice somewhat muffled by your hair.

A soft laugh is expelled as a breath through your nose. "Love you so much, my sweet, kind bear. And before you say anything, yes, you're still tough and scary to everyone else."

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar to your ears. You know him so well.

"What about you? Am I tough and scary to you?" He asks, planting another kiss on the top of your head, his lips curling when a twinkle of your laughter reaches his ears.

"You're very tough, as for the other thing... I can pretend to be scared if you want."

"Boo," he tests, his voice as calm and gentle as its been this whole time. There was no actual attempt to make your heart drop with fear, but seeing the way you kept your word of acting scared lured a soft chuckle out of him. You let out a dramatic gasp and you jolted, but really there isn't an ounce of fear in your body. If anything, you feel even more calm, knowing that you're in the arms of your safe space. You trust, wholeheartedly, that he will always be that for you.

"Did I scare you?" He asks, a lazy grin gracing his lips. His fingertips trace the invisible line of your spine, up and down, before his hand settles on your shoulder blade.

"Maybe a little bit," you mumble, leaning forward to leave a kiss on his collarbone. Your lips trail upward towards his neck, soft kisses on his warm skin and rosy blots blossoming in their wake.

"Keep kissing me like that, see what happens," he almost purrs, and you do keep kissing him like that, because you do want to see what happens. You press little butterfly kisses on his face—on his chin, his cheek, the tip of his nose. Everywhere but his lips.

"Last chance, pretty," he warns. You don't stop, though. Your lips continue to caress patches of his skin, leaving evidence behind, carelessly. You hum as you trace his face and the side of his neck all over again, and though time is ticking for Toji to give you the consequence for your actions, he doesn't want it to stop just yet, and every second that passes serves as more of a delay.

"My baby," you murmur softly, a barrage of kisses landing on the corner of his lips, after. "Love you sooo much."

And he snaps. The second his lips are on yours, he begins the process of taking all the kisses you "refused" to give him on the lips. You giggle when he flips both of you and settles between your legs. His hands glide over your sides, collecting your arms and bringing them up above your head.

"Ba--" you're interrupted by his continued, seemingly endless wave of kisses. "B--" you laugh at your inability to get the term of endearment out. One more time. "Bab--" Nope.

"I warned you, ba-by," he over-enunciates, mocking you. "But you wanted to find out, didn't you?" He murmurs against your lips. "You wanted to know what would happen, huh?"

He loves that your amusement never dies, even when you've been in this same room together for hours, now. Giggles and squeals flow freely, your hearty reactions to him returning your affection—doubling it.

"You didn't like my kisses?" You ask, unable to hold back a laugh when his lips graze along your jaw.

"Liked them a little too much... Can't get enough of you," he murmurs between wet little kisses on your cheek. "And I warned you, sweetness. Now, you're gonna get tired of me."

"Will not," you deny, as he nears your lips. His grip tightens around your wrists, luring a soft smile from you.

"Say it again," he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours.

"I'll never get tired of you," you say—a promise forged right before him. "'Cause I can't get enough of you either, baby," you respond, before welcoming the all consuming kisses he gives you. His grip does not loosen one bit throughout his mission to steal your breath. It's as if he's trying to keep you steady, unmoving, so he can take as much from your sweet lips as he wants. He takes kiss after kiss, like it's an endless fountain of affection, and you only prove it to be true when you push your lungs to their limits.

"I need you," he murmurs, something desperate and utterly debilitating in the low timbre of his voice. The hold he has on your wrists is finally released, returning the freedom of your hands' mobility.

"I'm right here," you assure, instantly making use of your hands by tenderly cupping his cheeks. "I'm yours," you vow.

"Yours," he returns, before picking up where you and him left off a little while ago.

Gentleness and intimacy conquered the bed and wrinkled sheets you both laid on, and the outside world was shut out, only able to reach you through moonlight.

[harrysfolklore]

christ-max -mv1

summary: you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion. wc: 5.8k

folkie radio: HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOUUUU! i hope you're having the best day ever with your loves ones. this fic ended up being longer than i intended but i hope you like it!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

You're nestled into Max's side on his couch, wrapped in the soft throw blanket he keeps specifically for these quiet moments together. The afternoon light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Monaco apartment, casting a glow across the room. Your feet are tucked under you, and you can smell the lingering scent of the coffee you both made earlier.

The Netflix show you'd put on - some random documentary about deep-sea creatures - has become mere background noise. Max's fingers are threading through your hair in that gentle way that always makes you melt, occasionally stopping to massage your scalp. .

"I can't believe the season's actually over," you murmur, tracing lazy patterns on his arm. "Feels weird not having to plan around race weekends anymore."

Max chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rests. "Yeah, but now we have to plan around all the end-of-year events instead. Did you see how many galas and ceremonies are coming up?"

"At least those don't involve you flying halfway across the world," you tease, tilting your head to look up at him. His hair is slightly messy, free from its usual styling, and you resist the urge to reach up and run your fingers through it.

"True," he agrees, then glances at his phone on the coffee table. "Speaking of events, I can't believe it's already December. Christmas is going to be here before we know it. Guess time flies when you're busy winning championships."

Your heart skips a beat. This is the opening you've been waiting for. You've been thinking about this for weeks, planning how to bring it up. "Actually… I wanted to ask you something about Christmas," you start, sitting up slightly to face him better.

Max's blue eyes meet yours, curious. "What's on your mind?"

"Well…" you bite your lip, suddenly feeling nervous despite knowing there's no reason to be. "I was wondering if you'd want to spend Christmas with me and my family this year? I know we've kept things private, but I really want them to meet you, and-"

"Wait, really?" Max interrupts, his whole face lighting up with that boyish excitement that made you fall for him in the first place. "You want me to meet your family?"

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Of course I do. We've been together almost a year now, and they keep asking why I'm always smiling at my phone." You playfully poke his side. "Which is your fault, by the way."

He catches your hand, intertwining your fingers. "My fault? I'm just being my naturally charming self," he grins, then his expression turns slightly more serious. "But are you sure? I mean, won't they be surprised when you show up with, well…"

"With a four-time World Champion?" you finish for him, laughing. "Actually, my dad might pass out. He's been watching F1 since before I was born. He has no idea I've been dating his favorite driver."

Max's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm his favorite driver?"

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn playfully. "But yeah, he's got your merchandise and everything. It's actually kind of embarrassing how much he talks about you during race weekends."

Max throws his head back laughing, and you can't help but join in. "Oh God, this is going to be interesting," he says, wiping at his eyes. "What about the rest of your family?"

"Well, Mom will probably try to feed you until you burst - she's like that with everyone. And my little sister Ruby, she's seven and she's going to have so many questions. She's in that phase where she wants to know everything about everything."

"I can handle questions," Max says confidently, then hesitates. "What kind of questions are we talking about?"

You pretend to think about it. "Oh, you know, probably things like 'How fast have you ever driven?' 'Have you ever crashed?' 'Do you want to marry my sister?'"

Max nearly chokes on air at the last one, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "You're joking, right?"

"About Ruby? Nope, she has absolutely no filter," you laugh, then soften your voice. "But seriously, they're going to love you. Just be yourself - the you I know, not the racing driver everyone else sees."

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'd love to spend Christmas with your family. I can't wait to meet them." He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Should I wear my race suit when I meet your dad?"

You swat his arm, laughing. "Don't you dare! He'll actually faint." You settle back against his chest, feeling warm and content. "Thank you for saying yes. It means a lot to me."

"Thank you for asking me," he murmurs into your hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," you respond, smiling as his arms tighten around you. The documentary continues playing, forgotten again as you both start planning for Christmas, trading ideas and jokes about how to break the news to your family.

You're sitting cross-legged on Max's bed while he's in the shower, your phone propped up against a pillow as you FaceTime your family. Your mom's face fills most of the screen, with your dad peering over her shoulder and little Ruby bouncing around trying to get a better view.

"Honey, we can barely see you. The lighting is terrible," your mom critiques, and you adjust your position slightly.

"Better?"

"Much better! Now, what's this important thing you wanted to tell us about Christmas?" Your mom asks, while Ruby shouts "Is it presents?" in the background.

You take a deep breath, trying to contain your smile. "Well, I wanted to let you know that I'm bringing someone with me this year… my boyfriend."

There's an immediate explosion of excitement. Ruby starts jumping up and down, your mom gasps dramatically, and your dad's eyebrows shoot up with interest.

"Finally!" your mom exclaims. "We've been wondering when you'd introduce him. You've been so secretive about this boyfriend of yours."

"What's his name?" Ruby pipes up, her face suddenly taking up half the screen as she pushes closer to the camera. "Is he nice? Does he like Disney movies?"

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yes, Rubes, he's very nice. And his name is…" you pause, knowing what's coming. "Max. Max Verstappen."

There's a moment of silence before your dad bursts out laughing. "Good one, sweetheart. Now, what's his real name?"

"I'm serious, Dad. I'm dating Max Verstappen."

Your mom is trying to hold back her laughter now too. "Honey, isn't that the racing driver you and your father are always watching? The one your dad has all those caps and shirts of?"

"Yes, and I'm actually dating him," you insist, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Ruby's face scrunches up in confusion. "The fast car man? From TV?"

"The very same one, Rubes."

Your dad wipes tears from his eyes. "Come on now, what's next? Are you going to tell us you're best friends with Lewis Hamilton too?"

"Dad!" you groan, running a hand over your face. "I'm being serious! We've been dating for almost a year. I'm literally at his place right now!"

"In Monaco?" your dad asks skeptically. "Prove it."

You swing your phone around to show the familiar view of Monaco through the windows, but your dad just shakes his head. "Could be any apartment in Monaco."

"You're impossible!" you huff. "Fine, don't believe me. You'll see at Christmas."

Ruby presses her face closer to the screen again. "Will he bring his race car?"

"No, Rubes, he can't bring the race car," you say, softening your tone for your little sister. "But I promise you'll love him."

After a few more minutes of your family teasing you about your "imaginary Formula 1 driver boyfriend," you end the call with a mix of frustration and amusement. Just as you flop back onto the bed, you hear the bathroom door open and Max walks out, his hair still damp from the shower.

"How'd it go?" he asks, noticing your expression.

You let out a laugh. "They think I'm making you up. They literally don't believe I'm dating you."

Max raises his eyebrows, looking amused as he sits next to you on the bed. "Really?"

"Really. Dad laughed so hard he nearly cried. And Ruby, my little sister, just wants to know if you're bringing your race car for Christmas."

"Sorry to disappoint Ruby," he grins, then looks thoughtful. "You know, maybe we should've waited to tell them in person. The looks on their faces would've been priceless."

"Oh, don't worry," you sit up, wrapping your arms around his neck. "They'll still be priceless. Dad's going to lose it when he realizes all those times he was rambling about you during races, he was actually talking about his daughter's boyfriend."

Max laughs, pulling you closer. "What else should I know before meeting them?"

"Well, Ruby's seven and obsessed with Frozen. She'll definitely make you watch it and probably sing along too."

"I can handle that," he says confidently.

"And recite all the lines?"

"…Maybe not that."

"And act out the scenes with her?"

Max's eyes widen slightly. "What have I gotten myself into?"

You kiss his cheek. "Too late to back out now, Verstappen. You're stuck with us."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he murmurs, pulling you in for a proper kiss. "Even if it means playing Olaf the snowman."

"Oh no, you'll definitely be playing Elsa. Ruby's very particular about casting."

The look of horror on his face makes you burst out laughing, and soon he's joining in too. As your laughter dies down, you can't help but think about how perfect this feels - being here with him, planning to spend Christmas with your family, even if they don't believe you yet. You can't wait to see their faces when you show up at their door with Max Verstappen himself.

"Hey," Max says softly, breaking into your thoughts. "What are you smiling about?"

"Just thinking about how Christmas is going to be interesting this year."

"Interesting is one way to put it," he grins. "Should I wear my race suit when we arrive?"

"Don't you dare! Dad will actually faint."

"That's kind of the point," he winks, and you grab a pillow to hit him with, both of you dissolving into laughter again.

"Let me guess, another text from 'Max Verstappen'?" your dad teases from his spot at the kitchen counter, making air quotes with his fingers. He's wearing one of his many Red Bull Racing shirts, completely oblivious to the irony.

"Actually, yes," you reply, rolling your eyes. "He'll be here soon."

Your mom chuckles while peeling potatoes. "Honey, you can just tell us who your boyfriend really is. We won't judge, even if he's not a Formula 1 champion."

"Mom, I've told you a million times-"

"LOOK!" Ruby crashes into the kitchen, pointing at the TV in the living room where they're showing highlights from the last race. "It's YN's boyfriend!" She dissolves into giggles, clearly in on what she thinks is a funny joke.

"Very funny, Rubes," you mutter, but check your phone again when it buzzes.

Max: "Just turned onto your street. Nice neighborhood 😉"

Your heart starts beating faster. "He's here," you announce, heading toward the front door.

"Oh, we're still doing this?" your dad calls after you, amused. "Should I get my Max Verstappen cap for him to sign?"

"Actually, Dad, yes, you should," you shout back, slipping on your boots.

"Sweetie," your mom starts in that gentle voice she uses when she thinks you're being ridiculous, "you don't have to-"

The sound of a car pulling up interrupts her. You open the front door and step out onto the porch, watching as Max's car comes to a stop in your driveway. Your family has crowded behind you in the doorway, probably expecting to catch you in your "lie."

Max steps out of the car, looking unfairly handsome in his dark winter coat and scarf. His face lights up when he sees you, and you don't hesitate to run down the steps toward him.

"Hi," he grins, catching you in a tight hug and lifting you slightly off your feet. "Missed you."

You hear a loud gasp behind you, followed by what sounds like your dad choking on air.

"Missed you too," you murmur against his chest before turning to face your family, keeping one arm wrapped around his waist.

The scene on your front porch is priceless. Your dad's mouth is hanging open, his face pale except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. Your mom has both hands pressed to her face in shock. Ruby is the only one moving, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"IT REALLY IS THE FAST CAR MAN!" she shrieks, breaking the silence as she barrels down the steps toward you both.

Max laughs, crouching down to her level. "Hi Ruby. Nice to finally meet you. Your sister has told me a lot about you."

"You're real!" she exclaims, poking his arm as if to make sure.

"Very real," he confirms, looking thoroughly amused.

"I… you… but…" your dad stammers, still frozen in the doorway.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. LN," Max says, standing back up and guiding you and Ruby toward the porch. "Thank you for having me for Christmas."

Your mom seems to snap out of her shock first. "Oh my goodness, please come in! It's freezing out here. I… oh dear… the potatoes… I should… more food… I need to…"

"Mom, breathe," you laugh, as Max follows you inside.

Your dad hasn't moved an inch, still staring at Max like he's seeing a ghost. "You're… you're actually… the Brazil overtake…"

"Dad, no F1 talk yet!" you warn. "Let him at least get his coat off first."

"Right! Yes! Coat!" your dad says frantically. "I'll take your coat! And then maybe… could you… would you mind signing my…"

"Collection?" you finish for him, smirking. "The one you thought I was making up?"

Max raises his eyebrows at you, remembering your conversation about your dad's merchandise collection.

Ruby tugs on Max's hand. "Do you want to see my Frozen dolls? And can we watch the movie? Sissy said you've never seen it!"

"Ruby, let him settle in first," your mom calls from the kitchen, where she appears to be panic-cooking. "Oh God, is the food good enough? Do Formula 1 drivers have special diets? Should I-"

"Mom, the food will be perfect," you assure her, then turn to Max. "See? I told you they'd be cool about it."

Max tries to suppress his laugh as your dad continues to stare at him in awe, your mom stress-cooks enough food to feed an army, and Ruby continues pulling on his hand.

"Very cool," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Though I think your dad might need to sit down."

"I'm fine!" your dad squeaks, then immediately sits down heavily on the nearest chair. "Just… just give me a minute to process that my daughter is actually dating Max Verstappen and I've been accidentally talking about my future son-in-law during every race and-"

"DAD!" you exclaim, feeling your face heat up while Max chuckles beside you.

"What? I'm just saying… all those times I said 'that Verstappen boy would make someone a good husband someday' and it turns out-"

"Okay!" you interrupt loudly. "Who wants coffee? Max, come help me with coffee!"

As you drag a laughing Max toward the kitchen, you hear Ruby start explaining the entire plot of Frozen to him, your mom muttering about needing to buy more food, and your dad still talking to himself about racing statistics.

"Still think this was a good idea?" you whisper to Max.

He pulls you closer, grinning. "The best. Though you might want to tell your dad to breathe before he passes out."

"Can we build a snowman after coffee?" Ruby calls out.

"Only if Max gets to be Elsa!" you shout back, earning you a playful glare from your boyfriend.

Looking around at your slightly chaotic but loving family, and seeing how naturally Max fits into it all, you can't help but smile. This is definitely going to be a Christmas to remember.

The initial chaos has settled into a cozy scene in your living room. You're curled up on the couch next to Max, who has Ruby practically attached to his side. She hasn't stopped talking since everyone sat down, and Max, to his credit, is giving her his complete attention.

"And then Elsa makes this huge ice castle," Ruby explains, using elaborate hand gestures. "Can you drive as fast as Elsa runs up the mountain?"

"Probably faster," Max answers with a grin, making Ruby's eyes widen.

"Even in the snow?"

"Even in the snow."

Your dad, who's finally regained his ability to form complete sentences, sits in his armchair trying very hard not to bombard Max with racing questions. He keeps opening his mouth, then closing it again when you give him a warning look.

"It's okay, Dad," you laugh. "You can ask him one race question. Just one."

Your dad looks like he might cry from happiness. "The overtake in Brazil-"

"Which one?" Max asks with a playful smirk, and your dad launches into an enthusiastic discussion about racing lines and grip levels.

Your mom returns from the kitchen with a tray of hot chocolate and cookies, having finally accepted that she doesn't need to cook enough food for an entire F1 paddock. "Here we go. I hope it's okay, Max. YN mentioned you like hot chocolate."

"It's perfect, thank you," Max says warmly, accepting a mug.

Ruby immediately reaches for a cookie, then pauses. "Do race car drivers eat cookies?"

"Only the fast ones," Max whispers conspiratorially, making her giggle.

"Ruby, give Max some space to breathe," your mom says gently, noticing how your sister is practically in his lap.

"It's fine," Max assures her. "I have nephews. I'm used to it."

Ruby beams at this information. "Really? Do they like Frozen too?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure they'd love to hear your explanation of it," he says, and Ruby launches into another detailed plot summary.

You catch your mom watching the interaction with soft eyes, all her earlier panic forgotten. She meets your gaze and mouths 'He's wonderful' when Ruby isn't looking.

Your dad has moved on from Brazil to discussing tire strategies, but stops himself mid-sentence. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you. You live this stuff."

"Not at all," Max says sincerely. "It's nice talking about it with someone who understands racing. YN usually just tells me to stop being a nerd when I talk about tire compounds."

"Because you spent two hours explaining the difference between C3 and C4 compounds!" you defend yourself.

"It's fascinating stuff," your dad says eagerly, and Max nods in agreement.

"Oh no, there's two of them now," you mutter to your mom, who laughs.

Ruby tugs on Max's sleeve. "Can we watch Frozen now? Please? You promised!"

"Ruby, let Max rest a bit," your mom starts, but Max shakes his head.

"A promise is a promise," he says solemnly to Ruby. "Should we watch it now?"

Ruby squeals with delight, jumping up to get the remote. Your dad looks slightly disappointed that his racing talk is being cut short, but you can see him hiding a smile at Ruby's excitement.

"Fair warning," you whisper to Max as Ruby sets up the movie, "she knows every word. And she will sing along."

"As long as she doesn't expect me to sing," he whispers back.

"MAX!" Ruby calls, patting the spot next to her on the floor where she's arranged pillows. "You have to sit here! It's the best spot!"

Max obliges, settling down next to her while you stay on the couch, exchanging amused looks with your parents as Ruby starts the movie, already mouthing along to the opening music.

Your mom leans over to you. "I'm sorry we didn't believe you," she whispers. "He's lovely. And so good with Ruby."

"I told you," you whisper back, watching as Ruby explains to Max why Elsa has ice powers.

Your dad joins in the whispered conversation. "Think he'd sign my mug collection later?"

"Dad!"

"What? I'm just saying, Christmas cards would be sorted for the next few years…"

You're about to respond when Ruby shushes you all loudly. "This is the best part!"

Max catches your eye and winks, clearly enjoying himself despite being roped into a Disney movie viewing with a very enthusiastic seven-year-old commentator. Your heart swells watching him with your family, how naturally he fits in, how gentle he is with Ruby.

"Do you want to build a snowman?" Ruby starts singing along with the movie.

"Later, Rubes," you promise. "Let's watch the movie first."

She nods seriously, then turns to Max. "Pay attention to this part. It's very important."

"I won't miss a second," he promises, and Ruby beams at him before turning back to the screen.

Your mom reaches over and squeezes your hand, giving you a knowing look. Even your dad has stopped thinking about racing long enough to appreciate the moment – his youngest daughter sharing her favorite movie with your boyfriend, who happens to be the F1 driver he's been fan-boying over for years.

It's perfect, you think, watching your family and Max together. Different from how you imagined telling them, but perfect nonetheless.

"Shh!" Ruby whispers loudly. "Elsa is about to sing Let It Go!"

Max shoots you a slightly panicked look as Ruby starts to stand up, clearly ready to perform the whole number. You just grin and shrug. After all, you did warn him about the singing.

Later that evening, you finally manage to steal a moment alone with Max. Ruby had fallen asleep during the third replay of Frozen, and your parents took her up to bed before retreating to the kitchen to finish some Christmas preparations.

You find Max on the back porch, leaning against the railing and looking up at the stars. The winter air is crisp, and you can see his breath forming little clouds in the darkness. Quietly, you step out and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back.

"Hey," he says softly, turning in your arms to face you. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer. "Needed a little break from being Elsa?"

You laugh quietly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "You were amazing with Ruby today. I think you're officially her new favorite person."

"She's a sweet kid," he smiles, then adds with a playful glint in his eyes, "Though I didn't expect to watch Frozen two times in one day."

"Just wait until tomorrow. She'll probably want to act it out."

He groans dramatically, but you can see the fondness in his expression. "The things I do for you."

"Mmm, and I appreciate every one of them," you murmur, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly.

Max responds immediately, one hand moving to cup your face while the other pulls you even closer. The kiss is gentle and unhurried, full of unspoken emotions. When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For being so perfect with my family. For watching Frozen multiple times. For not running away when my dad started his racing commentary."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I like your family. Your dad's racing knowledge is impressive, your mom's trying very hard not to mother me to death, and Ruby…" he pauses, smiling. "Ruby reminds me of Victoria at that age."

You snuggle closer, seeking his warmth in the cold air. "I was so nervous about telling them, and then even more nervous when they didn't believe me. But this… this is better than I imagined."

"Even with your dad asking me to sign his entire Red Bull merchandise collection?"

"Hey, at least he waited until after dinner," you laugh. "Though I'm pretty sure he's in there right now planning which items to bring out first."

Max wraps his arms more securely around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I love you," he says quietly, and your heart skips a beat like it does every time he says those words.

"I love you too," you reply, tilting your face up for another kiss.

This one is deeper, more passionate, until you hear the back door creak and quickly step apart.

"Oh!" your mom exclaims, looking flustered. "Sorry, I just… wanted to ask about breakfast preferences… but it can wait… carry on!"

She disappears back inside, and you both burst into quiet laughter.

"We should probably go back in," you sigh, though you make no move to leave his embrace.

"Probably," he agrees, but instead of letting go, he pulls you back for one more kiss. "Five more minutes?"

You smile against his lips. "Five more minutes."

In the quiet of Christmas eve, wrapped in each other's arms, you can't help but think how perfectly he fits into your life, into your family, into your heart. Tomorrow there'll be more Frozen, more racing talk, more of Ruby's endless questions, but right now, it's just the two of you, and it's everything.

The winter sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains of your childhood bedroom, casting a soft golden glow across the room. You're wrapped in warmth, nestled against Max's chest with his arm draped around your waist. His steady breathing tells you he's awake before he even moves.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, his voice still rough with sleep. His lips brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Morning," you whisper back, feeling his hand slowly slide beneath your sleep shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Sleep well?" he asks innocently, but his actions are anything but innocent as he presses closer, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder to your ear.

"Max," you breathe, caught between wanting to lean into his touch and knowing you should stop. "We can't… my parents…"

"Then we'll have to be very, very quiet," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. His hand travels higher under your shirt, making your breath hitch.

You turn in his arms, ready to either give in or properly protest - though the way he's looking at you, eyes dark with desire and that signature smirk playing on his lips, makes you lean heavily toward the former.

"You're trouble," you murmur, reaching up to run your fingers through his disheveled hair.

He leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. "You love it."

Just as his hand starts to wander again, a voice pierces through the quiet morning:

"IT'S CHRISTMAAAAS!" Ruby's excited scream echoes through the entire house, followed by the thundering of small feet running down the hallway. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! SANTA CAME!"

Max drops his forehead to your shoulder with a frustrated groan. "Your sister has impeccable timing."

"Welcome to Christmas with Ruby," you laugh, pressing a consoling kiss to his cheek. "I tried to warn you."

"YN! MAX!" Ruby's fists pound on your door. "GET UP! There are presents EVERYWHERE! And it SNOWED!"

"Five more minutes, Rubes!" you call back.

"NO MINUTES! NOW!" she insists, continuing to knock. "Mom said breakfast is ready and Dad made hot chocolate and I SAW A HUGE PRESENT WITH MY NAME ON IT!"

Max chuckles against your shoulder. "I suppose we should…"

"PLEASE!" Ruby calls again. "I promise I'll let you drink your coffee first!"

"That's quite the offer from her," you tell Max. "She usually doesn't allow any delays on Christmas morning."

"We're coming, Ruby!" Max calls out, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "Give us two minutes to get dressed."

"TWO MINUTES! I'm counting!"

You can hear her dramatically counting down in the hallway, making Max laugh. "She's serious about this, isn't she?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

The living room is a festival of color and chaos when you finally make it downstairs. Ruby's bouncing by the tree in her Christmas pajamas, while your parents are settled on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee.

"Finally!" Ruby exclaims. "I counted way past two minutes!"

"Sorry, princess," Max says, accepting a coffee mug from your mom. "But I'm here now."

"Max, sweetheart, you really didn't have to get us anything," your mom says, noticing the pile of presents he'd arranged under the tree last night.

"Of course I did," he replies warmly. "It's Christmas."

Ruby's practically vibrating with excitement as your dad starts distributing gifts. "Can I open mine from Max first? Please?"

At your nod, she tears into the elaborate wrapping paper, gasping when she reveals a beautiful wooden chest with golden details. "It's like a treasure chest!"

"Open it," Max encourages, smiling.

Ruby lifts the lid carefully, her eyes widening. Inside is a complete collection of princess dresses, each one a perfect replica from different Disney movies, along with matching accessories and a tiara for each one.

"The chest is magical," Max explains, kneeling beside her. "Every time you open it, there might be a new surprise inside. And look at this…" He reaches in and pulls out a small envelope.

Ruby opens it to find a letter with the Disney castle letterhead. "Dear Princess Ruby," she reads aloud, her voice getting more excited with each word. "You are cordially invited to spend a royal weekend at Disney World, where you will have a private breakfast with all the Disney princesses…"

She doesn't even finish reading before launching herself at Max, nearly knocking him over. "Thank you thank you thank you! Can I try on the Elsa dress right now?"

"After presents," your mom laughs. "Let's see what else Santa brought."

Your dad opens his gift next, finding an envelope that makes him pause. "Son," he says, voice thick with emotion as he reads the contents. "This is…"

"VIP passes to the British Grand Prix," Max confirms. "Including garage access, grid walk, everything."

Your dad has to sit down, clutching the passes like they might disappear. "This is… I can't…"

"And this," Max hands him another package, "is just a little something extra."

Inside is a vintage racing jacket from your dad's favorite driver from the 80s, signed and authenticated. Your dad actually tears up.

Your mom opens her gift next, despite protesting again that Max shouldn't have gotten them anything. She unwraps a beautiful pair of earrings.

"Oh, Max," she whispers, "This is beautiful."

Ruby, who has been surprisingly patient, tugs at Max's sleeve. "Can we do my princess breakfast now?"

"After we finish presents," you laugh. "And maybe we should have real breakfast first?"

"But I'm a princess now," she declares. "Princesses have special breakfast times."

Your mom shakes her head fondly. "How about pancakes fit for a princess?"

"With chocolate chips?" Ruby negotiates.

"With chocolate chips," your mom confirms. "Max, honey, how do you like your pancakes?"

"However they're made is perfect," he assures her, but your mom is already heading to the kitchen, muttering about making sure she has enough chocolate chips.

Your dad finally finds his voice again. "Max, this is too much…"

"It's not," Max says firmly. "You're… you're family now. Or at least, I hope…"

He glances at you meaningfully, making your heart skip a beat.

Later, after pancakes and multiple princess dress changes from Ruby, you manage to steal some time alone with Max in your favorite spot on the back porch. The morning sun has warmed the air slightly, but there's still a crisp winter chill that gives you an excuse to stay close to him.

"Your turn," Max says softly, pulling out a small wrapped box from his pocket.

Your hands tremble slightly as you unwrap it, revealing a velvet jewelry box. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with two intertwined pendants - a heart and a tiny racing helmet.

"Max," you breathe, touching the pendants gently. "It's beautiful."

"Look at the back," he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of nervousness you rarely hear.

You turn the heart over to find an engraving: "You're my biggest victory. -MV"

"I love you," you whisper, pulling him down for a kiss. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as if you're the most precious thing in his world.

When you finally part, you hand him your gift - a wrapped box that makes him raise his eyebrows at the weight.

Inside, he finds a handmade scrapbook filled with your personal moments - sneaky paddock kisses, quiet mornings at home, victory celebrations, and candid moments no one else has seen. The final page holds a photo from yesterday - Max on the floor with Ruby, both laughing during their third viewing of Frozen.

"This is…" he starts, voice thick with emotion.

"Wait," you say softly, reaching into your pocket. You pull out a key on a simple keychain. "I thought… maybe… if you wanted…"

"Move in with you?" he finishes, breaking into that brilliant smile that never fails to make your heart race. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

He pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other holds the key carefully.

"MAX!" Ruby's voice carries from inside. "I need help with my Cinderella shoes! And then we have to build a snowman! A FROZEN snowman!"

You both laugh against each other's lips.

"Duty calls, Elsa," you tease.

"Only if you'll be my Olaf," he grins, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips.

"Always," you promise, letting him lead you back inside where Ruby waits, already changed into her third princess dress of the morning.

Your dad catches your eye as you pass, "If you don't marry this boy," he whispers, "I will."

"Dad!"

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, then heads outside to join the snowman-building committee.

Your mom appears at your other side, wrapping an arm around you. "He's right, you know. He's perfect for you."

You lean your head on her shoulder, watching Max let Ruby direct him on where to place the snowman's arms. "I know," you smile. "I know."

"Best Christmas ever?" she asks softly.

Looking at your family, and Max in the middle of it all, belonging there like he's always been part of it - you smile.

"Best Christmas ever," you agree.

[hellokittyish]

part one here.

★ thinking about mutual masturbation on facetime with ex!satoru which starts off with you just staring at him in some sort of daze, wondering what on earth possessed you to pick up the call in the first place. this is a mistake, you know that... so why aren't you hanging up already?

but before you can dwell too long on the answer to that question, your train of thought is rudely interrupted by a particularly loud moan echoing through the speaker.

“mmh… you actually didn’t decline for once," the white-haired menace gasps out, the slick sounds of his hand gliding up and down his cock only picking up in volume as he lays eyes on you. “shit— you don't know how much i've missed seein’ that pretty face of yours, baby.”

“you’re so shameless, satoru.” you mutter, lacing your tone with as much disdain as you can muster; but the way your own hand somehow snakes its way beneath the waistband of your sweatpants and into your panties tells an entirely different tale of how this whole situation is really making you feel.

“yeah,” he muses in an unapologetic hum, making a show of tilting the camera down to give you a better view of where he's currently thumbing his leaky, blushing tip. “but… ah— so are you, otherwise you would’ve blocked my new number the second i sent you that dick pic.”

“w-well how do you know i wasn't about to press the block button right when you called me and i accidentally clicked accept instead?” you shoot back through teeth which are clenched partly in annoyance and partly in an effort to hold back letting your own pleasure show on your face.

“nah, don’t give me that bullshit,” satoru snorts amusedly, leaning in closer to the screen and tilting his head to the side, snowy lashes fluttering seductively as his bright eyes stare knowingly into yours. “if you’re not enjoying this, then i want you to show me that your hands aren’t in your pants right now rubbing that pretty little pussy.”

shit. of course he'd be able to see through you that easily — he is your ex, after all. but no... you can’t let him win just yet. so, as subtly as possible, you pull your hand from your panties and hold it up to the phone screen, hoping against hope that the darkness of your room hides the wetness of your palm.

“hah. nice try, baby,” he drawls smugly, smiling so wide now that both of his annoyingly cute dimples are on full display; and it’s deliberate, too. he knows full well they were always your weakness. “...but i can see your sweet juices coating those cute fingers from here.”

and he knows he has you right where he wants you when you still don't hang up the call like you both know you should, instead just shoving your hand right back into your panties and rubbing messy circles over your clit while keeping direct eye-contact with him — trying to beat him at his own game, are you? oh, how he's missed you.

so he picks up the pace of his jostling fist around his cock, candy-pink lower lip caught between his pearly teeth as he tries to catch even a small glimpse of your bare skin through the screen; and god, only you could make him act this pathetic, this desperate. "fuck... please, pretty, y'gotta give me something to work with here. h-how about you pull your top up just a little for toru, hm?"

and you've already let this escalate too far to back out now, so you decide to throw caution to the wind and tug at the edge of your oversized tee just enough so that your bare tits spring free, courtesy to your preference for not wearing a bra around your apartment.

"o-oh, just look at those. i missed my girls s'much. bet you wish they were in my mouth right now, huh?" satoru rasps out, balls tightening to an almost painful degree as he reaches down to pay the heavy, neglected sacs some attention by gently fondling them.

and you, having finally caved and slid a finger into your fluttering hole, can only respond with a soft whine as you reach up to knead a breast with your free hand, the image of his skilled mouth suckling on them like he always used to making your much-too-empty cunt clench around your digit with need.

and that singular sweet, sweet sound from your lips that he's been deprived of hearing for months is all it takes for him to finally bust a load all over his chest and hand, goopy white streaks tainting his previously unmarred pale skin as his entire body trembles with a pleasure only you can give him.

and when he eventually manages to compose himself enough to glance back down at the facetime and realize that you're still trying to reach your own climax, your meek little fingers clearly not enough to finish the job, satoru has the absolute audacity to lean right in close to the screen and mutter out a cheeky…

“hey, if y'want me to come over and help you with that then all you gotta do is agree to get back together with me, baby.”

taglist: @haruhatake @sheismaryy @jxeon @bonneyzsk @yozora7154 @depositodeporradogojo @ifyournameischoisanpleaseloveme @anthy-j-ander @sugarcoatedsoul @moncher-ire @fwxyz00 @trishiepo0 @just-lilita @beenathembo @channnee @tul1ps1 @awoodsysimp411 @vera4luv @silllly-jokesterr @mastermasterlist1p1 @yourfaveava @rllyobsessedgirlie @cherrycel @tomiokas-lunchbox @iwaizumisloverrr @citruswriter @jasminelee324 @kocho-catt @azewritessillystuff @suggestmename @greentea-ellie @banksxxnik @feelingtoosilly @nepotti @nonamevenus @barking4dogs-fy @mihoonz @crazytrash @phoenixflames498 @starlightmid @k0z3me @cakenpiewhyohmy @wh1msycal @resfrio @ersharyzst @loveyislost @supernovacoffeestop @ying47

[lvl1l1]

Yes hello I will sell my soul to you if you give us a “who did this to you” type reaction with the love and deep space boys WAIT walk with me their lover calls them trying not to cry asking them to come get them they show up BAM they see them with bruises barley holding it together the ask what happened BAM AGAIN tears just crying as they explain that someone they kind of knew made a pass at them and when they were shut down they hit them yeah they are a hunter but they were so stunned who’s losing it and about to commit a crime and who’s silently about to actually ruin their whole life for hitting their princess that the boys would love and die for

All seriousness I know I made light of the reaction but I fully understand the serious implications of it if you don’t feel comfortable or that this is maybe to heavy to post feel free to ignore it I couldn’t find any rules about what you wouldn’t write for I hope this request doesn’t make you uncomfortable or is triggering in any way and if it is I sincerely and deeply apologize

“Who did this to you?”

Or: LaDS men when someone hurts you

pairings: Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb x Reader

WARNINGS: assault, harassment(please lmk if I missed smth)

content: hurt/comfort

a/n: someone tell me if the new format looks better

Xavier

The apartment was so quiet without you there.

Xavier was lying in bed, awake for a change.

He originally planned on taking a nap but as he noticed your side of the mattress being cold and untouched, he couldn’t fall asleep.

Sleep refused to come to him, while you were still out with your friends.

He couldn’t resist the unease in the back of his mind, gnawing at him.

He kept his phone close, just in case you needed him.

He finally felt his eyelids getting heavier, when the shrill buzz of his phone brought him back.

Your name lit up the screen and he instantly sat up.

His lips curled up into a small smile.

He picked up, anticipating your sweet voice.

But the moment he answered, all he was met with, were soft, broken sobs.

He felt the blood in his veins freeze.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

His voice missing its usually composure.

His was already moving before his mind had even caught up.

His posture was rigid as he got off the bed.

“Xavier, can you come get me, please?”

Your voice cracked, barely being above a whisper.

Before you could even hear his reply, Xavier already teleported across the city, he couldn’t be bothered to grab a jacket or change his clothes.

The moment he appeared before you, his heart broke.

You were standing under a flickering streetlight, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as if to hold yourself together.

Tears were running down your cheeks and there was a slight tremble throughout your body.

But what made his hands curl into fists, were the bruises on your face, ugly, purple marks marking your perfect skin.

He didn’t move at first.

He couldn’t.

The fury raging inside of him was dangerous, violent.

He felt, that if he moved a muscle, he’d lose the weak grip he had on his restraint.

His jaw was locked, eyes raking over your form, taking in all your injuries.

His voice came out quietly, deathly calm but laced with barely contained anger.

“Who did this to you?”

You sniffled, forcing out the words,

“I thought he was a friend. The others left, we were standing here together and then-“

You interrupted yourself by choking on your words,

“He was-“

You inhaled deeply, trying to pull yourself together,

“When I rejected him, he got angry. He hurt me.”

The world around Xavier blurred momentarily, he felt consumed by the rage running through him, his ears were ringing.

But louder than that, was the sound of you, crying.

That’s what pulled him back.

You first

You were always first

He approached you, slow, careful steps, with his arms open but he wasn’t forcing you.

He was waiting, waiting for you to come to him.

You stumbled forward, collapsing into his chest.

The way he held you was oh so tender, one hand caressing the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles into your back.

He was shaking now, not out of anger but the overwhelming desire to protect, to heal, to be enough to make all your pain go away.

“I’m here.”

He whispered into your hair,

“You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you again. I swear to you.”

Your sobs only came out stronger and he simply held you tighter, encouraging you to let it all out.

Minutes passed like that. Hours, maybe. Time didn't matter.

Once your cries finally turned softer, becoming hiccuping breaths, he pulled back just enough to tilt your head up.

His usually bright eyes were burning with something darker, colder.

“His name. Tell me.”

His voice was low, dangerous

You hesitated but you knew Xavier.

You knew he wouldn’t let this go, not when it came to you.

You whispered the name and watched Xavier’s expression harden into something even more terrifying.

“Let’s get you home.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, brushing away any left over tears.

“I’ll have to go for a bit after.”

There was a finality in his words, a promise.

You grabbed onto his sleeve weakly,

“Xavier, don’t. It’s not worth it.”

He looked down at you, pausing and his gaze softened again.

“For you,”

His voice a murmur,

“there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

In the blink of an eye, he brought you home, before turning.

The night swallowed him up, like a silent predator.

He was going to hunt down the man who dared to hurt the one who was most precious to him.

Zayne

Zayne stepped out of the hospital, watching as the last golden rays of the setting sun stretched across the city.

It had been another long day and he couldn’t wait to see you again.

Just as he reached his car, his phone buzzed up.

A smile immediately curled onto his lips, as your name flashed on his phone screen.

Maybe you had finished up shopping just in time for him to come pick you up.

He answered on the first ring,

“Hello, darling-“

But he stopped mid sentence, when he heard a soft sniffle.

His heart plummeted.

Your name softly left his lips,

“What happened?”

His voice was sharp with panic now, he felt his muscles tensing.

Fighting your sobs, you tried to explain, while tripping over your words.

You ran into this guy you barely even knew.

At first, it seemed harmless enough, just engaging in some casual small talk with him.

Your answers were short and clipped, trying to be polite.

Then, when you tried to leave, he wouldn’t let you.

He blocked your way, getting increasingly more aggressive when you made it clear you weren’t interested.

Zayne tighten his grip on his phone, something tightening in his chest as he heard how the situation had escalated.

How you had gotten hurt.

You sounded so small. So scared.

“I’m on my way.”

He said firmly, getting into his car.

“Stay on the phone with me, alright? Tell me where you are.”

You gave him the name of grocery store, telling him you were waiting in the parking lot.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, as he weaved through traffic, dreading every second he wasn’t by your side.

You kept talking.

Or rather, he kept you talking.

His voice was low and steady, even when you fell silent, he didn’t rush you, didn’t push.

Just making sure you knew he was there.

When he pulled into the parking lot, his breath caught in his throat.

You were sitting there, curled up on the curb.

Bruises visible on your skin, he noticed your wrist swelling from afar and the blood drying on the corner of your mouth.

But what really got him, was the hollow look in your eyes.

He wasted no time getting out of the car, he crossed the distance with long strides.

The moment you lifted your head and saw him, the tears started back up and you let out a broken sob.

You got to your feet, feeling almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Zayne. You’ve been working all day, I shouldn’t have dragged you here-“

He cut you off, his hands cupping your face gently, so carefully as to not hurt you further.

“Don’t. Don’t apologise for needing me.”

You could hear the emotion in his voice,

“I’m glad you called. You could never be a burden. Never.”

You finally let your body relax, falling into him and he caught you, arms wrapping around you, securely.

You two stayed still like that for a long moment, he was holding you safe against him and you clung to him.

He pulled back slightly, he brushed your hair out of your eyes, tenderly.

"Let’s get you taken care of."

He said softly.

He lead you to his car, opening the door for you and helping you in, a display of gentle care that made your eyes well back up.

The drive to the hospital was filled be a comfortable silence.

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other rested on your knee in a silent reminder, showing you that he was by your side.

As soon as you arrived, Zayne parked hastily.

He held your hand as he helped you inside.

His face was grim and his whole body was tense but every time he looked at you, his gaze softened.

Once inside, he immediately called over Dr. Greyson.

After a few short, urgent words, Greyson took you under his care, leading you to a hospital room.

Zayne squeezed your hand before letting go.

"I'll be right here."

He said, voice low but certain.

As the door shut behind you, your boyfriend stood still before it.

He could feel his usually steady hands clenching at his sides.

His mind was racing, needing to make sure the man who did this to you would never come near you, or anyone else for that matter, again.

He sighed, thinking of how to best comfort you later.

Zayne would take care of everything.

You were safe now.

Rafayel

Rafayel stood off to the side of the gallery’s floor.

He thought tonight’s exhibition to be especially insufferably boring, the pretentious crowd leaving him annoyed.

He would’ve flat out refused Thomas if it hadn’t been for your soft kisses earlier that evening and your promise that you’d be fine hanging out with your friends.

That, however, didn’t stop him from mourning the time he knew he could’ve spend together with you instead.

All night, his mind kept drifting to you, your smile, your hand that had lingered on his cheek as you said goodbye.

He kept checking his phone, hoping for a message from you.

Nothing yet.

Some keen socialite kept trying to converse with him, throwing buzzwords around that he couldn’t care less for.

His phone finally vibrated against his palm.

Rafayel didn’t excuse himself, he simply turned and left, not sparing them another glance.

He lifted the phone to his ear, a grin pulling at his lips.

Then, he heard you.

You were crying.

His playful demeanour vanished in an instant.

He felt his heart constricting in his chest and his body snapped to attention.

“Where are you?”

His voice was low and commanding, not leaving any room for arguments, sounding like he was ready to tear through anything that stood in his way.

You managed to choke out your location through your sobs, somewhere a few blocks away from the location you had initially met your friends at.

You softly asked if he could pick you, not wanting to cause him any trouble.

“Trouble?”

He echoed darkly,

“I’m on my way already. Find a store and stay inside. Don’t leave until you see me.”

Rafayel hung up without another word, heading straight for the exit, ignoring the confused calls from the people around him and Thomas’s protests.

Non of that mattered. Nothing aside from you mattered.

The drive to you was a blur of red lights and the sound of cars honking, nothing that made him slow down.

His hands clenched around the steering wheel so tightly, the leather was creaking under his grip.

It was like the only thought on his mind was you.

You were standing by the door of a small convenience store, when he finally pulled up.

Your eyes were wide and red from crying.

Once you spotted his car, relief washed over your posture and Rafayel was out of the car and by your side in seconds.

He reached for you, one hand gently wrapping around your elbow and the other ghosting above your waist as he looked you up and down.

Bruises. Bloody fabric. The fear still lingering in your wide eyes.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched so hard the thought his teeth might end up cracking.

His body and mind were screaming for him to do something, to destroy someone but he forced himself to stay soft and gentle with you.

“What happened, cutie?”

He asked in a low tone,

He noticed the way you hesitated first but then you opened up.

You told him how your friends had all left one by one until you were alone with a man you barely knew.

You tried to leave before things got weird, but things ended up getting weird anyway.

He started making gross, inappropriate comments and when you tried to shake him off, he followed.

And lastly how when you turned him down for good, he decided to hurt you.

Rafayel didn’t interrupt you once as you were speaking.

He listened in silence, drinking in every word, every tremble of your voice and every tear that slid down your cheeks.

Once you finished, he pulled you into his arms, the way he touched you was so soft, so careful, almost reverent.

Like he was afraid any amount of pressure could hurt you.

As he held you close, he pressed his face into the top of your head, inhaling deeply.

“I got you.”

He murmured.

“I’m not letting go.”

He wasn’t pushing for the man’s name, not yet.

He wouldn’t ask for details he could find out later.

Right now, all you needed was him.

He carefully lead you to his car, helping you settle in.

You two spend the rest of the night relaxing.

Once you had gotten back home, he took all the time in the world to tend to you.

He gently cleaned the scrapes on your arms and knees.

He gave you one of his sweaters, having it frame you like a shield.

He made you drink water, brought you warm towels and curled around you on the couch.

Once exhaustion overtook you, you drifted off to sleep, leaning against him, your fingers curled loosely in his shirt.

And only when he was certain, that you were fast asleep, your breathing steady, did Rafayel slowly and carefully remove himself from under you.

He made sure to tuck you in properly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And then his expression hardened into something sharp and dangerous as he picked up his phone again.

No one would hurt you and walk away.

He’d make sure of that.

By morning, that man would regret ever laying a hand on you.

Sylus

Sylus was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while the meeting was dragging on.

The men sitting across from him kept talking and talking about things he could easily fix in his sleep.

His mind was elsewhere, with you.

He couldn’t wait until this was done and he could get home, grab a bottle of something decent and have you curl up against him, just as you had planned.

Thinking about you, waiting for him, a sleepy smile grazing your lips, was the only thing keeping him from snapping at the idiots in the room.

Then his phone vibrated in his jacket’s pocket.

He knew it was you but that thought didn’t exactly excite him.

As he read your name on his phone, he straightened.

You never called him while you knew he was working, not unless something was wrong.

Sylus quickly lifted his hand, silencing the man who was mid sentence.

He stood up casually, answering the call with his usual teasing charm.

"What's up, kitten?"

The moment your broken sobs reached his ears, his expression shifted.

You were crying so hard you could barely breathe.

He didn’t care about anything else but you, didn’t care for the men hearing the desperation in his voice,

“Talk to me, love. Breathe. Tell me what’s wrong.”

It took you a few seconds, your voice shaking but you finally managed to gasp out,

“Can you please come pick me up?”

He stalked out of the room, offering no explanation.

“I’m coming.”

There was no need for Sylus to ask where you were, you had stayed late at the Hunter’s Association to finish some reports.

He was familiar with your routine.

He quickly send Mephisto to your location.

On his way, he broke more than enough traffic laws as he ripped from the N109 Zone to Linkon City.

Your broken sobs kept replaying in his head and it caused him to lose focus multiple times, you were the only thought running through his mind.

When he finally screeched into a street near the Association, his gaze locked onto you immediately.

You were sitting on the sidewalk, looking so small.

Mephisto was protectively perched near you.

Luke and Kieran look out from the car, feeling bad seeing you like this.

Sylus moved without thinking.

He dropped to his knees right in front of you, the expression he was wearing was heartbreakingly soft.

One of his hands landed on your leg.

You looked up at him with tired and red rimmed eyes, a weak smile tugging at your lips,

“Hi.”

You whispered hoarsely, voice weak.

His chest tightened as he looked at you.

The desire to tear the city apart burning inside of him.

He controlled himself,

“Ready to go home, kitten?”

You nodded, lips trembling.

Sylus helped you up, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you as if you were made of glass.

Once you were standing again, you quickly covered your mouth with your hand and started sobbing again.

Sylus was hurting with you.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, whispering calming things, trying anything to ease your pain.

You clung onto him as he lead you to the car.

Once you were both settled in, Luke took off, driving back to the N109 Zone, while Kieran was glaring daggers out of the window.

You two were sitting in the back together and he was cradling you against his side.

His fingers brushed through your hair.

When you gained the strength to open up, you did.

While your voice was hitching here and there, you told him about the man, some guy you only knew through mutual friends, who ended up cornering you once you left the association’s building.

You told about how he kept pestering you, making disgusting comments, refusing to leave you alone.

How, when you finally turned him down firmly, he got violent.

Sylus listened to every word, not interrupting you once.

He didn’t ask for the guy’s name.

He didn’t need to.

He already had everything he needed.

For now, you were all that mattered.

Arriving at the base, Sylus carried you inside like you weighed nothing.

He set you down on his bed, covering you with the soft blanket.

He cleaned your wounds with a patience he wasn’t known for.

His touch never hurt.

Every single one of his movements was an unspoken promise,

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

He stayed close all night.

Held you until you felt better.

Ran his fingers through your hair until morning came and you fell asleep, curled up in his arms.

And once he was sure, absolutely sure, you were truly asleep, did he slowly pull away.

He softly kissed you on the lips.

Then, he straightened.

Rolling his shoulders, his eyes turned dark.

He wasn't going to leave this to his men.

No, Sylus was going to personally make sure that bastard understood exactly what it meant to touch what belonged to him.

By morning, the world would be free of one more pest.

And Sylus would be back before you had even woken up.

Caleb

Night was just starting to roll around when Caleb finally returned home.

His uniform felt suffocating after such a long day.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his coat, when his phone buzzed.

Your name lit up his screen.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He figured you and your friends must've wrapped up earlier than expected, and you needed him to come pick you up.

He picked up immediately.

But the moment he heard your voice, that smile crumbled.

You were crying, not the usual soft sniffles from watching a sad movie or dropping your snack.

This was gut wrenching, helpless sobbing.

Caleb stilled, his body tensed, something deep inside of him breaking at the sound of your pain.

“Hey, hey,”

He quickly said, voice gentle.

“What wrongs, pips? I’m here.”

You were stumbling over your words, hiccuping,

“Do you think you could pick me up now?”

You sounded so small, so weak.

“Of course.”

He answered without hesitation,

“Stay where you are and keep your location on.”

Not that he needed it.

He already knew where you were.

Near the old library.

He always kept tabs, not because he didn’t trust you, but because he needed to make sure you were safe in a world that wasn’t always.

Caleb wasted not time, not even bothering to change out of his uniform.

The streets were relatively empty but even if they weren’t, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Caleb wanted to get to you as quickly as he possibly could, that meant ignoring speed limits and red lights.

When he spotted you, his heart broke.

You were sitting on a pair of steps, rubbing your eyes sore.

You looked up when you heard the screech of his tires and the slam of his car door.

Caleb was running towards you.

He stopped a few steps away.

His purple eyes roamed over you quickly, taking in the bruises that were forming and how disheveled you looked, the way you were shrinking in on yourself.

His eyes darkened, hands balled into fists at his sides and his muscles were flexing under his uniform.

“Who did this?”

Voice rough, barely a restrained growl.

His whole body was screaming for violence, to hurt someone back, inflict what they had done to you.

You shook your head, tears spilling again.

Caleb instantly softened.

The fury on his face was replaced by a loving look.

"Come here."

He murmured, stepping forward.

His arms pulled you into an embrace, so carefully that it made you feel like the most precious thing in the world.

And to him, you were.

You leaned into him, your sobs were muffled and he was whispering sweet nothings against the crown of your head.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice trembling.

You started explaining,

how your two friends had to leave early and how the guy one of them had brought along, had stayed behind.

At first, it wasn’t too weird.

A few uncomfortable jokes, some flirting you politely brushed off.

But it didn’t stop, even when you mentioned Caleb, your boyfriend.

He just became more aggressive, more persistent.

Until you tried to leave, that’s when he became physical.

Caleb didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You knew what he felt through his arms tightening around you.

Showing his anger, how he was hurt for you, telling that no one would touch what’s his.

The kiss he pressed to your forehead was grounding.

He lead you into the car, buckling you in himself.

Once you two were back in his apartment, he ran you a warm bath.

He was staying close, helping you clean up if you as much as asked.

He fetched you some soft towels, your favourite hoodie of his, anything that he knew would comfort you.

He was sitting right outside of the bathroom door while you soaked, close for you to call his name so he could be there in an instant.

Later, as you were curled up in his bed, wearing his hoodie, lying under a mountain of blankets, Caleb sat beside you.

He was reassuring you, squeezing your hand that was holding onto his.

He kissed your knuckles, he lingered, murmured promises against your skin.

He whispered,

“I won't let anyone touch you ever again."

You eventually drifted off to sleep, coaxing you to.

And once he was sure, Caleb stood from the bed quietly, moving like a ghost.

He headed straight for his office.

He overlooked his screens, fingers flying over the controls, looking into camera footage, facial recognition, movement trackers.

It didn’t take long to find that bastard.

Caleb’s eyes were cold as he tapped a finger against his cheek, calculating.

Joining the fleet and ever had taught him how to fight in ways that left no witnesses, no survivors, no traces.

The man who hurt you would find his life dismantled piece by piece.

His reputation, his finances, his freedom, all gone in the blink of an eye.

No one could protect him from Caleb’s wrath now.

And when Caleb finally returned to bed, slipping under the covers and pulling you close to him, he softened once again.

He held you, trying to make you feel his silent promise.

The promise that no one would ever hurt you again.

Not while Caleb was still breathing.

[theonottsbxtch]

THE STATION DOWN THE ROAD | MV1

an: everyone seemed to love the flat next door so consider this a second instalment in the flat next door universe

wc: 15.6k

summary: she was too young to be taken seriously. he’d spent his whole life holding the world at arm’s length. they found home in each other, slowly, quietly, completely. not a love story with fireworks. just one that stayed.

MAX DIDN'T TALK MUCH ABOUT WHERE HE CAME FROM. Not because it was secret, exactly, but because some things sounded worse when said out loud. Like once you named them, they could crawl back in through the cracks and settle in your chest again.

He grew up in a council flat in Croydon, the sort where neighbours knew each other by the sound of arguments through the wall more than by name. His dad was loud. His mum was quieter, but not in a good way. Max learned early which floorboards creaked and how to move through silence without stirring it.

By sixteen, he was already trying not to be like him. He joined cadets. Signed up for any scheme that kept him out late. Police work hadn’t been a dream, not really. It was just something that looked like order. Something solid. Something with rules.

Now he lived a little further out. The town had just enough grey to feel real, but enough green round the edges to breathe properly. His flat was above a barber’s, with creaky stairs and a window that stuck when it got cold. But it was his. No shouting, no smashed plates. Just silence. Peaceful most of the time, though it could feel a bit hollow on Sundays.

He’d just finished a late shift, Friday, bit of a messy one, a pub scuffle that ended in a bloke crying on the kerb about his ex, and the streets were that in-between kind of quiet. Late enough that the buses were mostly empty, but not early enough for the milk floats. Streetlamps buzzed softly. His boots scuffed against the wet pavement.

Max didn’t mind nights like this. He liked the hush, the permission to think without interruption.

He unlocked his front door, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the sofa, still in uniform. The radio buzzed from his jacket pocket. He clicked it off. Enough for today.

It had been just past ten on a Thursday when the call came through.

Max was halfway through a lukewarm cup of tea in the station kitchen, watching condensation bead down the windows. One of the younger PCs had left a jam doughnut half-eaten on a napkin, sugar stuck to the table. Rain pattered soft against the roof. He'd been hoping for a quiet shift.

Dispatch crackled through on his radio, voice clipped and tinny. “Units for immediate. Child located in the high street, possibly lost. Caller states child appears unharmed, mother not present. Caller’s staying on scene.”

Max pushed back his chair with a sigh and clicked his radio. “PC Verstappen, responding. I’m five minutes out.”

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and headed out into the drizzle, the kind that didn’t soak you straight away, just lingered like damp breath on the back of your neck.

The high street wasn’t busy. A few shops still had lights on. Off-licence, the late-night bakery that always smelled too good for its own good, and the nail bar with the flickering sign. Max spotted the pair straight away, just outside the pharmacy.

The kid couldn’t have been more than five, maybe six. She was sat on the low brick wall, swinging her legs, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Beside her stood a woman, not much more than twenty, holding a phone in one hand and trying to coax the child into zipping up her coat with the other.

She wasn’t wearing a coat herself. Just a big hoodie with the sleeves half-pulled over her hands, trainers slightly scuffed, eyes flicking up as he approached.

“You the one who called?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

She nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, she was standing by the crossing, no adult in sight. Looked like she was about to leg it across the road.”

Max crouched down a little, level with the girl. “Hey there. You alright, poppet?”

She gave a tiny nod but didn’t say anything. Her thumb hovered near her mouth before she pulled it away, glancing uncertainly between Max and the woman.

“She wouldn’t say much,” the woman added, quiet now. “Just told me her name’s Elsie. Didn’t know her mum’s number.”

“Right,” Max said, nodding slowly. “You did the right thing. Staying with her, I mean.”

The woman gave a little shrug, like it was nothing. But it wasn’t. Most people walked past.

Max clicked his radio again. “Verstappen here. Found the child, safe. Waiting on possible parent. Could we run a check for any missing child calls in the area? Name’s Elsie, about six.”

He glanced at the woman again. She was standing close enough to keep the kid calm, far enough not to hover. No umbrella. Her hair was damp, clinging to her forehead. Still no coat.

“You cold?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten. “Bit. Doesn’t matter.”

He almost offered her his jacket. Didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the wall.

“Why don’t you sit a sec? You’ve done enough standing about for one evening.”

She gave him a faint smile, like she wasn’t used to people saying that sort of thing.

They waited like that for a bit, Max crouched beside the kid, the woman perched nearby, rain threading through her sleeves.

Eventually, the update came through.

“Mum’s just rung in. Panicked. Apparently thought the girl was with her sister. She’s on her way now, seven minutes out.”

Max relayed that gently. Elsie’s face didn’t change much, but she shifted a little closer to the woman beside her. Her shoulder pressed against her arm, just briefly.

“She likes you,” Max murmured once Elsie was distracted by a cat in the window across the street.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Kid doesn’t know me.”

“Still. You kept her safe. That counts.”

She glanced down, then back at him. “You’re not from round here, are you?”

Max tilted his head. “What gives it away?”

She smiled, small. “You’ve got that careful voice. Like you learnt it on purpose.”

Max smiled faintly. “Maybe I did.”

A beat passed.

Then the sound of a car pulling up, too fast, a woman jumping out, clutching a handbag, tears already running.

Elsie ran to her mum without hesitation, and the moment hit hard, the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Max let them have a minute. Once the mum had calmed, offered her breathless thanks, and filled out the basics on the clipboard he handed her, they left in a rush of apologies and relief.

Then it was just the two of them again. Him and the girl in the hoodie, now stood with her hands stuffed in the pockets like it was suddenly awkward.

“You alright getting home?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m only up past the church. Ten-minute walk.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Done it loads.”

He paused. Then held out a hand. “Max.”

She looked at it for a second before shaking it. Her hand was colder than it should’ve been.

“I know,” she said, not quite smiling. “You’ve got your badge on, officer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair point.”

She stepped back slightly, hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, trainers scuffing the wet pavement.

“Thanks again,” he said. “For sticking with her.”

She shrugged, but there was a softness behind it. “Someone had to.”

He nodded. “Still. You didn’t have to be the someone.”

That got a small smile. Barely there, but it settled somewhere beneath his ribs.

“Get home safe, yeah?” he added.

She looked at him then, properly. Rain clinging to the ends of her fringe, cheeks a little pink from the cold. “You too, Max.”

And with that, she turned and walked off into the drizzle, footsteps light on the pavement, her hood still down despite the weather.

He watched her go, just for a second longer than he needed to.

Didn’t even know her name.

But he figured he might like to.

She didn’t look back, but she felt his eyes on her as she crossed the road.

Max. That had been his name. Short. Solid. The kind of name that felt steady, even when spoken quietly.

She walked the long way home, just for the space. The drizzle had turned into proper rain by the time she reached the alley behind the bookshop. She ducked through the side gate, keys already in hand, and climbed the narrow staircase that led to her flat above the shop. The steps were worn down the middle, edges scuffed from years of deliveries and clumsy tenants.

Inside, the flat was small but warm. The radiators ticked softly. Her boots squeaked faintly against the entryway mat. There was a distinct smell of paper and damp glue that always drifted up from the shop below. She’d grown to like it. It was hers.

She peeled off her hoodie and hung it on the hook, already thinking about the morning, early shift again. The café opened at seven, but she always arrived by half six. Just enough time to sort the pastry delivery and set up the machine before customers started begging for oat milk lattes and toasted bagels with no butter.

The flat was quiet. No telly on, no music. Just the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car tyre splashing outside. She boiled the kettle without thinking and stood by the window while it hissed behind her, watching the glow of the town bleed faintly through the rain. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed, but distant. Not urgent.

She didn't miss living at home. Not really. Her mum still texted most days, usually some variation of “eating properly?” or “when are you visiting?” but it was easier like this. Cleaner. She’d gone to uni a year early, skipped the last year of school because someone at her old place had said she was “a bit too clever to be hanging round with the rest of them.” It had seemed like a compliment at the time.

Now she was twenty, degree in hand, trying to convince café customers she could do more than steam milk and remember four regular orders without writing them down. Most didn’t believe she was old enough to rent a flat, let alone have studied economics. One bloke last week had called her “kiddo” and asked to speak to the manager. She was the manager. Sort of. They just hadn’t updated the name tag yet.

The next day, the rain had cleared, but the air still had that freshly wrung out feeling. Cold and clean. Her shift started like most, juggling coffee orders, wiping down tables too early in the morning, answering "what time do you open?” while clearly standing inside an already open shop.

It was just after eight when she saw him again.

Max.

He didn’t walk in with a swagger. More like he hadn’t planned to be there at all. Just ducked through the door with a slightly wind-blown look and the faint kind of hesitation that said he was deciding whether to stay.

She spotted him from behind the counter. He hadn’t clocked her yet.

He looked different out of uniform. Less official. Hoodie under a coat, hair slightly tousled like he'd towel-dried it in a rush. He scanned the board briefly, then looked up, and saw her.

Recognition flickered. Nothing dramatic. Just the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, like a smile that hadn’t made up its mind yet.

She nodded. “Morning.”

He stepped up to the counter, hands in his pockets. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah, super fancy,” she said, pouring a filter coffee for another customer. “You after anything complicated?”

“God, no. Just a tea. Strong. Normal milk.”

She smirked faintly. “Classic.”

“I try.”

She got to work, kettle already boiling, and busied herself with a spoon and teabag while he stood awkwardly on the other side, like he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“You alright?” she asked eventually, not looking up.

“Yeah. Just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Don’t normally come in here. Didn’t realise you worked this close to the station.”

She poured the tea, slid the mug toward him. “Most people don’t notice the small places.”

He gave a small shrug. “I notice more than I used to.”

She tilted her head slightly. “That a police thing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe just a getting older thing.”

She gave him the kind of look that could’ve meant anything. “Must be ancient, then.”

He huffed a laugh, accepting the tea. “Cheeky.”

She wiped her hands on a tea towel, then leaned on the counter, her shift apron tied loosely round her waist. “So. What brings you here, Max?”

He paused, tea in hand. “Dunno. Just fancied a quiet one. This place looked not terrible.”

She gave him a proper smile then, dry and amused. “High praise.”

He took a sip. Winced. “Bloody hell. That’s hot.”

She smirked. “You said strong. Not lukewarm.”

He grinned, and for a second, they just stood there, that comfortable pause settling again. The quiet kind. Familiar. No rush to fill it.

Eventually he gestured toward the corner table. “That alright?”

She nodded. “Go on. Table service is extra, though.”

He walked off, still smiling to himself, and she turned back to the espresso machine, the warmth from the encounter still tucked somewhere beneath her ribs.

Max stayed longer than he meant to.

He nursed his tea like it might reveal the meaning of life if he just sipped slow enough. The café was quiet now, post-breakfast lull, just a couple of old regulars in the corner and one student with headphones in, typing furiously and ordering nothing.

She wiped down the counter and glanced his way. He caught her eye. She raised an eyebrow.

“You alright over there? Or waiting for a second round?”

He smiled, tilted his mug. “Still working through the first. Dunno what you put in it, but it’s strong enough to resuscitate a corpse.”

“That’ll be the house blend,” she said dryly, making her way over with a cloth in one hand. “Bit intense, but does the job.”

She leaned against the table next to his, arms folded. He watched her for a second, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear without thinking, the way she still had a bit of flour dust near her knuckles.

“So,” he said eventually, “how long have you worked here?”

She gave him a look, not cold, but evasive. Like she'd been asked that question one too many times by people trying to figure out what she was doing with her life.

“Mm,” she said casually, “how long have you been a police officer?”

Max chuckled. “Alright. Fair. Seven years. Became a cadet as soon as it was legal then took a break. Worked in security, bit of door staff stuff in that in between then decided I wanted to be on the side that got called, not the one that got kicked out.”

She nodded like she understood more than she said.

He glanced up. “And you?”

She didn’t answer straight away. Just moved the cloth absently across a spotless bit of wood. Then, quietly, “Six months. Been working here since I graduated.”

He blinked. “Graduated?”

“Mm. Uni. Last summer.”

He tilted his head. “What’d you study?”

“Economics.”

That gave him pause. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She smiled, wry and small. “Skipped a year at school, went straight through. Finished my dissertation with a kettle that didn’t work and a housemate who thought pasta went in before the water.”

He let out a soft laugh. “And now you’re here?”

“Now I’m here,” she repeated. “No one wants to take a twenty year old seriously in finance, turns out. Doesn’t matter how good your marks were if you look like you should still be doing your GCSEs.”

He sat back, thoughtful. “Ever considered working for the police?”

She raised an eyebrow. “As what, a teenage detective?”

He grinned. “Not everyone wears a stab vest. We’ve got departments for everything. Finance. Logistics. Budgets. Payroll. People who make sure Danny from transport doesn’t blow the whole annual allowance on cola bottles and petrol receipts.”

She laughed, properly this time. A low, warm sound that made his shoulders relax without realising.

“Serious, though,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out his wallet, slid a card across the table. “That’s me. My PC number’s on there. If you ever want to come by the station, chat to someone about the admin side, see what’s what, you should.”

She looked down at the card. His name was printed in neat block letters. It didn’t have a fancy title, no big flourish, just PC Max Verstappen and a contact number.

She turned it over in her fingers, then glanced back at him.

“Bit of a jump from latte art and sourdough, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But so was door work to front-line response. You never know.”

She tucked the card into the front pocket of her apron. Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no either.

“You offering this to every café girl you meet?” she asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“No,” he said honestly, finishing the last sip of his tea. “Just the one who called in a lost kid and didn’t flinch once.”

She looked away, just slightly. But her smile stayed.

It had been a week since she’d seen Max.

Not that she was counting. But the card he’d given her was still tucked in the side of her mirror, propped up behind a stray hair bobble and a nearly empty bottle of dry shampoo.

She looked at it most mornings. Didn’t touch it. Just looked.

The flat had started to feel smaller since then. It wasn’t awful, not really, a bit damp in the corners, taps that squealed, windows that didn’t shut properly in the bathroom. But it was hers. Sort of. If you ignored the landlord, anyway.

That morning, she’d found a note shoved under the door. Crumpled, biro-scrawled, barely legible.

Rent due on the 1st. No delays. Don’t forget the increase. Cheers.

No “hello.” No signature. Just another reminder that everything cost more than it used to, and she wasn’t earning more than she used to. At the café, hours had been cut slightly, “just while trade’s slow”, and she’d started skipping lunch without noticing. Tea and toast at home would do.

Then the night after, something happened next door.

She heard it first, a shout, then a crash, maybe glass. Someone swearing, a door slammed. She’d frozen for a second, standing barefoot in the kitchen with the kettle halfway to boiling. It wasn’t her flat. Wasn’t her business. But she crept to the peephole anyway, breath held like that could stop whatever was happening outside.

Police had shown up a few minutes later. She watched the flashing lights bounce across the opposite wall, hands curled around a cold mug of tea. A robbery, apparently. Second one in a month down that street. No one seriously hurt, but still.

She barely slept. Every creak sounded wrong.

By morning, her mind was already half made up.

The station was quieter than she expected. Not loud or chaotic like telly made it look, just tired and slightly beige. The reception desk had a cracked laminate top, and someone had left a half-eaten pack of biscuits beside the computer monitor.

She stood just inside the doorway, rain still clinging to her coat, her trainers damp around the toes. The woman at the desk gave her a polite smile.

“Can I help you, love?”

She cleared her throat. “Erm. Yeah. I was wondering if I could speak to someone about jobs. Admin side, I mean. Not… not the front line.” while fiddling with the card Max had given her.

The woman nodded. “Alright. Let me see who’s about. Name?”

She gave it and the woman typed it in like it might mean something. Then she picked up the phone.

Two minutes later, footsteps sounded from the hallway. And there he was.

Max.

He looked surprised, but not in a bad way. Just a small lift of the eyebrows and a soft, “Hey. You alright?”

She nodded. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Course. Come on.”

He led her into a side room, plain, with a kettle and a stack of mugs that had clearly been borrowed from someone’s nan. He gestured for her to sit, then closed the door behind them.

She stayed standing.

“I thought about what you said,” she began, fingers curled around the strap of her bag. “About the jobs. The finance side. Is that a real thing? Or were you just being polite?”

He smiled faintly. “Bit of both. But mostly real.”

She nodded once. “Right. Because I’m looking. I mean, I’ve been looking, but I need something more stable. Somewhere that doesn’t cut my hours the minute it starts raining. And somewhere I can actually use my degree. I’m good with numbers. Just not very good at being patient with people who think I’m twelve.”

Max leaned back slightly, arms folded across his chest. He looked at her like she’d already passed some kind of test.

“We’ve got a couple of posts open,” he said. “Civilian roles. Budgeting team, HR, resource planning. You wouldn’t be out on the beat, don’t worry.”

She smiled at that, a little dry. “Don’t think I’m quite stab vest material.”

He chuckled. “We’ve got an application portal online, but I can put your name forward, make sure someone actually reads it. If you want.”

“I do,” she said, firmer than she meant to. “I really do.”

He nodded once. Then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper, looked like he’d written something on it already.

“Go online, use that reference,” he said, handing it to her. “Should take you straight to the vacancies. If you want to list me as a referral, feel free. Might help. Don’t think they’ll hold the tea against you.”

She looked down at the note in her hands. His handwriting was neater than expected.

“Thanks,” she said, softly. “Seriously.”

Max tilted his head. “You alright, though? Really?”

She hesitated. “Just had a rough week. Landlord’s a tosser. Place got broken into next door. I keep telling myself I’ve got it under control, but it’d be nice to have something that is actually under control, you know?”

He didn’t say much, just nodded like he understood that far more than he was letting on.

“Then let’s get you something solid,” he said. “Yeah?”

She folded the slip and tucked it into her pocket, next to his card.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”

The weeks that followed unfolded in slow, steady steps, like crossing a stream on uneven stones.

The interview process was less terrifying than she'd expected, and more exhausting. Two rounds, plus a phone call with someone in payroll who seemed very invested in her knowledge of procurement software. She answered every question as clearly as she could, kept her voice level, tried not to overexplain or sound like she was trying to prove something.

Max didn’t make a big deal of it. He never hovered. An email here and there, a simple “Good luck today” or “Let me know how it goes”, always signed just with M from his work email. She appreciated that. The quietness of it. No pressure. No assumption. Just presence.

And then it happened. The job came through. A real one, with proper hours and paperwork and more than enough acronyms to get lost in. She stared at the offer email for five full minutes before she let herself believe it was real.

She handed in her notice that same day. Her manager barely looked up. Just muttered something about how it’d be hard to cover weekends and told her to print out her P45.

She didn’t tell Max right away. Not because she didn’t want to. But because the moment felt too raw, too personal. Like a small flame she wanted to protect from the wind.

He showed up at the café that Saturday. Not in uniform, jeans, a coat that had seen better days, and trainers that looked like they’d done a few too many miles. She saw him before he saw her, and by the time he reached the counter, her hands had stopped shaking.

“Alright?” he asked.

She nodded, wiping down the steam wand. “Still doing strong tea, or have you developed a taste for vanilla oat lattes?”

He made a face. “I’d rather chew glass.”

She poured his usual without asking.

“You busy?” he asked, glancing round. A couple of students hunched over laptops, a man reading the Metro with the patience of a monk.

“Quiet enough.”

She handed him the mug, their fingers not quite brushing.

“I got it,” she said.

He frowned. “Got what?”

“The job. I start on the twelfth.”

Max blinked, then his face softened in that way it did, like the smile hadn’t quite reached his mouth but had settled somewhere just behind his eyes.

“That’s brilliant,” he said. “You deserve it.”

She gave a small shrug, looking down. “Was starting to think maybe I wasn’t good enough for anything that didn’t come with a chipped mug and a dodgy boiler.”

He shook his head. “You were always good enough. Some people just take longer to be seen.”

That stopped her for a second. The way he said it, like he wasn’t talking about just her.

She nodded once. “Thanks. For you know. Putting my name forward. And not treating me like I was a child.”

“I figured,” he said quietly, “if anyone knew what it felt like to be underestimated it’d be me.”

A small silence opened between them. Comfortable, if a bit heavy.

She looked at him then, properly, saw the wear in the corners of his eyes, the carefulness in how he held himself. Like someone who’d spent years learning to take up as little space as possible.

“I owe you a coffee once I’m on the other side,” she said.

Max gave the faintest nod. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Then, like always, he paid without a fuss, nodded his thanks, and left without lingering.

But when she wiped down the counter a few minutes later, she found he’d left behind a folded napkin with a short note scribbled in careful block capitals.

You’re not inexperienced. You’re just getting started. M

She kept it in her pocket for the rest of the day.

The building looked different when you walked in with a pass.

She’d picked it up from reception half an hour before her shift, a plastic rectangle with her photo laminated on it and her name in blocky type underneath.

It felt strange, official. Like someone had finally let her into a room she’d been standing outside for years.

Her desk was on the second floor, tucked behind a stack of filing cabinets and two dying spider plants. The office buzzed in that low, fluorescent way, humming computers, quiet phone calls, the occasional cough. Everyone had a mug, she noticed. Bright colours. Slogans. Some in-jokes she didn’t get yet. Someone had taped googly eyes to the printer.

Her new manager, Hannah, was friendly in a brisk, no-nonsense way. She showed her how to log in, gave her a binder full of things she’d definitely forget by lunch, and introduced her to the people she’d mostly be emailing, not speaking to.

Then she was left to it. A screen, a login, an inbox that was already judging her.

She took a slow breath, rolled her shoulders, and got stuck in.

By eleven, she’d answered three emails, deleted seven spam messages about an expired toner contract, and double-checked a spreadsheet of overtime claims twice, just in case she’d missed something. Her tea had gone cold.

There was a knock on the doorframe.

She looked up.

It was Max.

In uniform this time, sleeves rolled, radio clipped to his vest, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her.

“Alright?” he asked.

Before she could answer, someone behind her desk piped up. “You’re not Danny. What are you doing here?”

The voice belonged to Gianpiero, she’d met him briefly that morning. Looked like he’d been working here since dial-up.

Max gave a faint smirk. “I’m here to check on a friend.”

That pulled a couple of glances. One or two eyebrows.

She stared at him. “A friend?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah. Thought I’d see how your first day was going.”

Before she could think of what to say, something witty, probably, or at least something that didn’t make her sound like she’d forgotten how speech worked, he reached into a paper bag and pulled out a mug.

He set it down on her desk.

It was mint green, slightly oversized, and in big white letters across the front it read, World’s Okayest Civilian

She blinked. Then laughed.

“Classy,” she said, picking it up. “Did you pick this yourself?”

“Course,” he said. “Had to fight someone for the last one.”

“Bet they were twelve.”

“Thirteen, actually.”

The moment hovered. She held the mug in her hands like it was something fragile and warm all at once.

“Thanks,” she said, quieter.

Max just nodded, a little smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

Then his radio crackled, and he glanced down at it, frowning.

“Sorry,” he said, already stepping back. “Gotta go, duty calls.”

She nodded. “Go be heroic.”

He gave her a look over his shoulder, something amused and gentle and gone too fast to pin down, and disappeared through the door.

GP leaned round the filing cabinet once he was gone.

“He your boyfriend?”

She stared at him. “What? No. He’s just helped me out. That’s all.”

GP shrugged, already turning back to his screen. “Alright, alright. Didn’t say anything.”

She looked down at the mug again. Bright green against the grey desk. Not subtle. But not loud, either.

She poured herself a fresh tea.

It tasted better than the first.

The rest of the day passed in fits and starts.

She read through a ten-page PDF on procurement protocols, half of which seemed written in another language, and tried not to look completely lost when Hannah came over to ask how she was finding things.

“Good,” she lied, with enough conviction that it almost sounded true.

Her new mug sat proudly on the desk, even though she caught one of the interns sniggering at it. She didn’t mind. It felt like a small anchor. Something that said, I belong here. Sort of.

By half five, she’d answered enough emails to feel useful and learned how to book meeting rooms without breaking the calendar system. A victory, by all accounts. She walked out of the building with her coat buttoned to the neck, the cold biting just slightly, her ID badge tucked into her bag like a ticket she didn’t want to lose.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t changing the world.

But it was hers.

The following weeks found their own rhythm.

Mornings started with the steady hum of the office, printer noises, people comparing meal deals, the occasional dodgy ringtone no one wanted to admit to. She kept her head down mostly, but people started to learn her name. GP brought her a KitKat on a Tuesday “just because” and muttered something about “decent work on that leave audit.”

Hannah let her lead on a supplier review. Nothing massive. But still.

Max didn’t appear often. Maybe once a week. Always at odd times, catching her by the printer, or standing by her desk with a coffee in one hand, looking like he’d just wandered in but had probably known exactly where she’d be.

Their conversations were still brief. Uncomplicated. But the tone had shifted. Warmer. Less formal. Like they were slowly building something that didn’t need naming yet.

One Wednesday, she came back from the loo to find a Post-it on her monitor that said Tea? 3:15. Downstairs. -M

She found him by the vending machine, leaning against it like he was waiting for the universe to deliver a snack. When he saw her, he stood up straighter and handed her a flapjack.

“Thought you might need a break,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “You psychic now?”

“More like observant. You’ve got your ‘I hate spreadsheets’ face on.”

She tried not to smile. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Same one I pull when someone says ‘let’s do a briefing.’”

They sat on the low wall outside, flapjack split between them, coats zipped up against the wind. No deep talk. Just quiet companionship. It was enough.

Another time, he popped by during her lunch and helped her fix a jammed stapler with surprising patience.

“You don’t seem like the stapler-fixing type,” she’d said.

“I contain multitudes,” he’d replied.

And once, when the fire alarm went off during a drill, they ended up standing together at the far end of the car park, watching clouds roll in.

“Didn’t realise you were still around,” she’d said.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he’d replied, then winced. “That sounded creepier than I meant.”

She laughed. Properly.

After a month, it wasn’t strange to see him. Wasn’t strange to hear his voice across the office, or find a text on her phone that just said, You still alive in that finance dungeon?

It was a slow friendship blooming between the two of them, nice.

She liked that he didn’t push. That he let silences be silences, instead of trying to fill them.

And sometimes, when she caught herself smiling at her phone, or watching the doorway in case he happened to walk past, she wondered if maybe he was doing the same.

That night the cold had settled in with a kind of quiet that always made her uneasy.

The shop below had gone dark an hour ago, shutters clattering down with a rattle that shook through the floorboards. Upstairs, her flat was dimly lit, the glow from the small lamp by the sofa doing its best against the flickering overhead bulb she'd never quite got round to replacing. The air smelt faintly of toast and damp. Someone’s car alarm had gone off earlier, again, but the street was silent now, save the occasional rumble of late buses and the hum of faraway traffic.

She was curled on the sofa, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly around a chipped mug of tea gone cold. The telly was on, volume low, some forgettable panel show she wasn’t really watching. Just noise, really. A buffer against the emptiness.

It had been a long week. Work had been full-on. The finance team were in the middle of quarterly reconciliations and someone had managed to delete half a spreadsheet with four days to deadline. She’d sorted it, eventually, but her eyes were still aching from staring at formulas that barely made sense. All she’d wanted tonight was to switch off.

Instead, she heard the window.

A sharp noise, not quite a smash, but something wrong. The back room. The one with the bathroom and the tiny kitchen window that never shut properly.

She sat up, heartbeat stuttering.

Then, footsteps.

Not above. Not beside.

Inside.

She didn’t think. She just moved. Grabbed her phone off the coffee table, keys from the hook, and slipped her feet into her trainers without even bothering to tie them. She didn’t even stop for her coat.

The flat door stuck slightly, as it always did in the winter, she wrenched it open with more force than was needed, and bolted down the narrow staircase two at a time. Her breath came short. Hands cold. She didn’t look back.

Out on the pavement, she kept walking until she was a few doors down, then turned and pulled out her phone.

The patrol car showed up just under ten minutes later.

Blue lights spilled across the shopfronts, dancing over wet tarmac and bins left out from the morning collection. She was standing beneath the streetlamp, arms crossed over her chest, trying to look smaller than she felt.

When the driver’s side door opened and Max stepped out, something in her tensed, not fear. Something closer to relief, though she didn’t want to admit it out loud.

He spotted her instantly and came over, calm and focused in his uniform, radio clipped to his shoulder, expression unreadable but softer than she’d seen him at work.

“You alright?” he asked, tone low.

She nodded, though her voice stuck. “Think someone broke in. I was in the living room. Heard the back window, then footsteps. I didn’t see anything, I ran.”

“Good,” he said, gently. “You did the right thing.”

He glanced toward the stairwell, then gestured to one of the officers behind him. “Take a look inside. Back entrance too. Let me know what you find.”

She stayed rooted to the spot while Max remained beside her, not too close, but enough that she felt anchored. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t drown the silence in empty words. Just waited.

Eventually, the officer returned. “Window’s been forced. Back one, like she said. Looks like they scarpered out the rear alley. Nothing major taken, far as we can tell, but flat’s been rifled through.”

She nodded slowly. “Right.”

Max turned to her. “You can’t stay there tonight.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“No, you won’t,” he said, firm but not unkind. “You’ve just been through a break-in. You shouldn’t be on your own.”

She hesitated. “I don’t really have anyone. Mum’s up in Cumbria and I’ve not got any friends who’ve got spare sofas knocking about. I’ll sort something, I just, I need to think.”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, simply, “Come back to mine.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I’ve got a spare room. It’s quiet. Heating works. I’ll be on shift most of the night, but you can sleep, lock the door, not worry. I’ll give you a lift in the morning. Deal?”

She wanted to argue. To prove she was fine. Independent. Capable.

But she wasn’t, not really. Not tonight.

So she swallowed her pride and nodded once. “Yeah. Alright.”

He offered the faintest of smiles. “Come on, then. I’ll stick the kettle on before I head out.”

And just like that, she wasn’t standing under a flickering streetlamp anymore. She was in the backseat of the police car, hoodie pulled tight around her, and for the first time all night, she didn’t feel like she was bracing for the worst.

The inside of the police car was warmer than she expected. Not fancy, but oddly neat. The kind of neatness that came from routine, not effort. She settled into the seat slowly, still holding herself like a coiled spring, and glanced around, not at Max, but at the car itself.

“Bit weird being in one of these and not in trouble,” she said, mostly to fill the silence.

Max huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s the goal, really.”

She ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the door, taking in the scratch marks and rips on the seatbelts. “Thought it’d be more gadgety. Like in the shows.”

He flicked a look at her. “Sorry to disappoint. We’ve got a dodgy radio and a cup holder that doesn’t actually hold cups. Welcome to glamour.”

She smiled, faint but real, and leaned back in the seat as he pulled away from the kerb. The city passed them by in smeary amber streaks. Shopfronts closed. Streetlights flickering overhead. Her fingers finally unclenched from around her phone.

“You sure this isn’t against a rule or something?” she asked after a minute. “Letting civilians crash at yours?”

“Oh, almost definitely,” he said. “Walking HR violation.”

She turned to look at him. “So why’re you doing it?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. Just said, quietly, “Because I’d rather get bollocked for that than find out you stayed and something happened.”

That shut her up, but not in a bad way. Just left her sitting there, heart beating a bit too loud in her chest, unsure what to do with the warmth creeping up the back of her neck.

His flat was on the top floor of a squat red-brick building, she recognised the type where builders once tried to make it look nice, then gave up halfway through. There was a crack up the side of the stairwell wall and the communal carpet smelt faintly of bleach and damp socks. Still, it felt private.

Inside, it was simple. Two rooms, one half-decent-sized living area, a cramped kitchen with slightly newer cupboards than hers. It was lived-in, but not messy, odd bits of kit from the job, a battered bookshelf, a pair of trainers by the door. A mug sat by the sink with I’m not yelling this is just my voice printed across it in fading capitals.

“Not much, but it works,” he said, locking the door behind them and flicking the hallway light on.

“It’s bigger than mine,” she said honestly, toeing off her trainers and glancing around. “Less mould, too.”

He gestured to the smaller room. “Spare bed’s in there. Sheets are clean, promise. Bathroom’s next door, if you want to shower or whatever. There’s toothpaste in the drawer, unless the cat nicked it.”

She blinked. “Wait, you have a cat?”

Before he could answer, a low, gravelly mrrrp echoed from down the hall.

A large, grey bengal appeared in the doorway with the kind of swagger usually reserved for ex-cons. One bent ear, slow-blinking dark eyes, and an expression that said he’d seen things and had no time for fools.

“That’s Jimmy,” Max said, tugging off his boots. “He hates everyone.”

Jimmy ignored him entirely and padded over to her. With all the ceremony of a royal inspection, he sniffed her bag, then her hand, then hopped up onto the bed, circled once, and plonked himself down beside her like she belonged there.

She blinked. “Right. Apparently not me.”

Max stared, dumbfounded. “He bit my last girlfriend. Through a sock.”

She grinned, scratching behind Jimmy’s ear as he purred like a small, lumpy engine. “Guess I’ve got better vibes.”

Jimmy butted his head against her elbow, still rumbling.

Max gave the cat a deeply betrayed look. “Traitor.”

She smirked, kicking her bag gently under the bed. “You’re lucky I don’t take that personally.”

He leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with a look that didn’t quite reach his usual quiet sarcasm. “You alright in here?”

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly, earnestly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to head off in a bit, can’t be slacking on shift when the lady doing the pay is watching me. You’ll be alright locking up after?”

“Course,” she said. “Jimmy’ll protect me.”

Jimmy sneezed.

Max shook his head with a quiet laugh. “I’ll wake you in the morning. Lift to work’s on offer. Try not to nick the telly.”

She smiled, not just amused, but something a little deeper than that. Warm, settled. For the first time in a while, she felt like the world had stopped spinning just enough to catch her breath.

The following morning the kettle clicked off just as she stirred.

The spare room was still dim, lit only by the grey spill of early morning light through the blinds. The sheets smelled faintly of fabric softener and something warm she couldn’t name, like clean jumpers and leftover sleep. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented, before memory caught up with her.

Max’s flat. The break-in. Jimmy curled up at her feet like a lumpy guardian angel.

She sat up slowly, careful not to jostle the cat, and rubbed her eyes. Her hoodie was twisted from sleep, hair sticking out in too many directions. She hadn’t meant to sleep so well, but she had, solid and deep, like her body had finally stopped keeping score for a night.

The knock came soft on the doorframe.

“You awake?”

His voice was low, hoarse from overnight silence.

“Yeah,” she called back, just above a whisper.

Max stepped into view, still in his uniform trousers but with a plain grey T-shirt now, hair slightly rumpled, a mug in one hand.

He passed it to her without ceremony. “Tea. Still figuring out how you like it. Had a guess.”

She took it with both hands, fingers brushing his. “Thanks. It smells right, at least.”

He lingered just a second longer before leaning against the doorframe. The hallway light cast him in soft silhouette, shadows under his eyes but not sharp, just tired in that familiar, lived-in way.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

“Better than I should’ve,” she said honestly. “Didn’t realise how tired I was.”

He nodded. “That’s how it gets you. You power through, then one quiet room and a cat with poor boundaries and you’re done for.”

She smiled into her tea. “Speaking of, he didn’t move all night. Like a warm rock.”

“Rude. He usually abandons guests halfway through.”

“Guess I’m winning him over.”

“More than I ever have.”

They stayed there a beat, just sipping quietly. Jimmy meowed from somewhere down the hallway, clearly annoyed breakfast hadn’t been served yet.

Max scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’ve just come off and I’ve got no intention of seeing the station until tomorrow, but I’ll give you a lift in.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in, soft but firm. “But I’m doing it anyway. I’ll sleep better knowing you got there alright.”

She looked down at her tea, then back up at him. “You’re allowed to be looked after too, you know.”

His mouth tugged into a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. Maybe. Just not today.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded, because she understood what he wasn’t saying. Some days you needed to be the strong one, not because you had to be, but because it was easier than letting someone else try.

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “Don’t want you crashing the car from lack of sleep.”

He huffed a tired laugh. “I’ll be fine. Coffee and spite’ll carry me through.”

She set the mug down and stood, stretching out stiff shoulders. “You’ve got cereal, yeah?”

“Top cupboard. Might be some toast if Jimmy hasn’t nicked it.”

She padded past him toward the kitchen, brushing his arm as she passed. Nothing big. Just a moment. The kind that warmed the edges.

He watched her go, the weight behind his eyes not quite heavy enough to dull the faint lift in his chest.

Outside, the world was starting up again. But inside, it still felt like early. Like maybe they had a little time before the noise came back in.

She didn’t know where anything was at first, rummaging through unfamiliar cupboards with Jimmy underfoot, offering helpful grumbles every time she opened the wrong one. Eventually, she found what she needed: bread, butter, a slightly dented jar of raspberry jam, and a mug she recognised from last night still on the side. I’m not yelling, this is just my voice.

She ate at the kitchen table, one leg tucked beneath her, Jimmy sprawled across the other chair like he paid rent. The place was quiet, warm in that lived-in kind of way. A small radio played quietly from the corner, some breakfast show with people laughing too early for comfort, and she watched the kettle steam in the light, toast crumbs on her plate, feeling oddly still.

Somewhere down the hall, the shower started running.

She finished her tea, wiped her hands on a napkin, and stood to rinse her plate. Jimmy followed her to the sink, tail flicking, clearly judging her speed. She bent to scratch behind his ears.

“You’re very needy for a cat who hates people,” she murmured.

He blinked, slow and smug.

She padded out into the hallway a few minutes later, intent on grabbing her bag from the spare room, and stopped dead.

Max.

Midway between the bathroom and his room, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping, steam still clinging to his shoulders. He was walking away, back turned, completely unaware of her presence.

She froze. Eyes wide. Brain short-circuiting slightly.

It wasn’t that she’d never seen someone in a towel before. Just not him. Not like that. Not with his back all bare and shoulders solid and everything else her eyes weren’t supposed to linger on.

She spun on her heel, face burning, practically tiptoed back into the kitchen like she’d just walked in on national television.

Jimmy watched her, unimpressed.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

By the time Max reappeared, fully dressed in a grey tracksuit, towel now wrapped round his neck instead of his waist, she was sat at the table again, pretending very hard to scroll through her phone.

He looked good. Ridiculously so. Comfortable in his own skin, hair still damp, sleeves pushed up slightly. The kind of good that made her teeth ache.

“Toast alright?” he asked, slinging his keys into a bowl on the counter.

She nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Think Jimmy wanted half of it.”

Max eyed the cat, now snoozing on the windowsill. “He’s always starving. Don’t fall for it.”

She finally looked up then, just briefly, and caught him mid-sip of water, one hip resting against the counter, his tracksuit clinging a little too well to his frame.

Unfair.

He noticed her looking but didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow like he’d clocked something and let it pass.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Just need to grab clothes and my laptop from mine. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Right,” he said, straightening. “Let’s go, then.”

The drive over was quiet in the best kind of way.

Soft radio on in the background, something low and acoustic. Houses rolling by in a blur of greys and browns. Her bag tucked at her feet, seatbelt clicking gently as Max took corners like he’d done them a thousand times before.

He didn’t fill the silence. Just let it be. Every now and then, she glanced over, at the line of his jaw, the way his hand rested loose on the gearstick, the quiet concentration on his face, and wondered when things had started feeling like this.

They pulled up outside her building, the shop shutters still halfway down, her window just visible above.

“I’ll wait,” he said, shifting into neutral.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You’ll be five minutes tops, right? What could possibly go wrong?”

She gave him a look. “Don’t tempt fate.”

He smirked. “Go on, then.”

She dashed up the stairs, keys already out, and grabbed what she needed. Work bag, fresh clothes, a spare charger. She changed quickly, jeans, jumper, warm coat, stuffed the rest into a tote, and took one last glance round the flat before locking up again.

Still didn’t feel quite like home.

Max didn’t ask questions when she slid back into the passenger seat, slightly breathless, Jimmy’s fur somehow still clinging to her sleeve.

“All good?” he asked.

“Yeah. Think so.”

“Alright,” he said, pulling away smoothly. “Let’s get you to work.”

The station came into view just as the sun started to peek out, weak and watery, but trying. The morning moved on. But something between them had shifted like a needle on a record finding the next groove.

Quiet. But playing the same song.

The week frayed around the edges.

Work was steady, spreadsheets, supply reports, someone in IT shouting gently at their screen, but she was off-kilter. Snapping pencils without meaning to. Forgetting her mug on the printer. Laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, just to stop the silence swallowing her whole.

Because on Tuesday, folded inside an envelope with no return address and stuffed through her letterbox, was an eviction notice.

The wording was polite enough. “Due to recent concerns regarding property safety and tenant suitability”, whatever that meant. She read it three times before the meaning settled in her stomach like a brick.

She was being kicked out. For being burgled.

Apparently, the break-in had made the landlord "nervous" about her "ability to keep the premises secure.” Which was rich, considering he hadn’t fixed the lock on the back window in over a year.

She didn’t cry. Not then. Just sat on the edge of the bed, heart thudding in her throat, and stared at the wall like it might blink first.

By Thursday, Max noticed.

She hadn’t said anything. Didn’t want to make it a thing. But she must’ve looked different — hunched in slightly, her eyes that bit too sharp and tired, because he caught her by the vending machine after lunch and didn’t let her wriggle out of a conversation.

“You alright?”

She blinked, halfway to tapping the hot chocolate button. “Yeah. Fine.”

He tilted his head. “Liar.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He waited.

Eventually, she sighed. “Got an eviction notice.”

Max stared. “What?”

“Apparently I’m a ‘risk’. Landlord reckons the break-in proves I’m not a reliable tenant.” She did air quotes so hard her fingers nearly cracked. “It’s nonsense, but it’s legal nonsense, and I’ve got to be out by the end of the month.”

“That’s—" he stopped himself. Took a breath. “That’s bollocks.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t afford anywhere else round here. Not unless I fancy living in a cupboard with six other people and a damp problem.”

They stood there in silence. The vending machine buzzed faintly behind them.

Then, quietly, he said, “Move in with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Spare room’s yours. You’ve stayed before. You know where everything is. Heating works, cat’s already in love with you. Makes sense.”

She folded her arms, defensive without meaning to. “I’m not just going to freeload off you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“I’ll pay rent.”

He looked at her, steady. “Can you cook?”

She frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve been living off pasta and beans for the last ten years. If you feed me something with actual flavour, you can stay for free.”

She stared at him. “That’s your pitch?”

“Take it or leave it.”

A beat passed. Her mouth twitched.

“I make a decent lasagne,” she said.

“I’m sold.”

“Bit manipulative, don’t you think?”

He shrugged again. “You can always poison me if I get annoying.”

She laughed then, the stress cracking at the edges just long enough to let the sound out. He smiled, quiet and soft, watching her.

“Seriously,” he said, more gently now. “Spare room’s there. You’ve got enough to deal with. You don’t need to fight on this one too.”

She looked at him. Not just his face, but all of it, the steadiness, the way he didn’t flinch when things got uncomfortable, the way he never tried to rescue her, just stood there until she felt steady again.

“Alright,” she said at last. “But I’m making you eat vegetables.”

He grimaced. “Bit harsh, but fine.”

“And I’m not doing the washing up.”

“Jimmy does it,” he said deadpan.

She grinned. “I’ve made worse deals."

She moved in on a Sunday.

No fanfare. No removal van. Just three overstuffed bags, one suspiciously heavy box, and a carrier with Jimmy’s new scratching post that she’d insisted on buying because, “If I’m moving in, the cat needs enrichment.”

Max picked her up in his car just after lunch. He offered to help carry things before she’d even asked. She tried to protest, said she was fine, really, but he just raised an eyebrow, took the heaviest box without blinking, and carried it like it weighed nothing. She didn't argue after that.

“Alright,” he said, setting it down inside the flat with a quiet grunt. “You packed bricks?”

“Books,” she said, shutting the door behind her with her foot. “And maybe one casserole dish.”

“Just the one?”

“It’s versatile.”

He smirked. “You’re not allowed to judge my three frying pans, then.”

They unpacked slowly, without pressure. She tucked clothes into the drawers in the spare room, stacked her tea bags next to his in the cupboard without asking, and set her alarm clock by the bed like it had always been there.

It was easy. Too easy.

Every so often, Max appeared behind her with another bag or a box. At one point she turned to find him hanging her coat on the hook by the door, like it was already her hook. She stared for a second too long, and he glanced over, half a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just weird how not weird this feels.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

They stood like that for a moment, the kind of quiet that wrapped around them instead of falling between them.

Jimmy wandered in, tail flicking, and leapt straight onto her new bed like it had always been his.

“Right,” Max said, clapping his hands together. “We’re in. Now what?”

She looked round, hands on her hips. “I’m starving.”

“You’re the cook.”

“You have pasta, don’t you?”

He snorted. “Obviously. Question is which kind of sad student meal do you fancy?”

She grinned. “Leave it to me.”

That evening, the flat smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something warm and real. She moved round the kitchen like she’d always known where everything was. Max sat on the edge of the sofa with a beer in hand, watching as she stirred, tasted, adjusted.

“You’re very calm in a kitchen,” he noted.

“Years of being the only one in my uni house who could read a recipe,” she said. “That and my mum used to make us all cook one dinner a week from the age of twelve. Builds character.”

“You trying to impress me?”

“Obviously. You’ve got top-notch cutlery and a slow cooker. I’m trying to earn my keep.”

He smiled into his bottle. “You already have.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Dinner was nothing fancy, pasta with a sauce that took more effort than she let on, garlic bread from the shop round the corner, side salad that Max prodded at suspiciously.

But they ate together on the sofa, plates balanced on knees, Jimmy snoring gently on the rug, telly on but muted. And when she looked round the room, laundry folded on the radiator, a half-done crossword on the table, her mug already in the sink, it didn’t feel like she was staying over.

It felt like she’d come home.

Over the next month and a half, things blurred in the loveliest way.

She was still technically looking for a new place. She had a spreadsheet and everything, bookmarked listings, a budget column, a list of must-haves like “no mould” and “close to bus stop” and “not run by a complete knob.”

But she wasn’t rushing. Not really. Not anymore.

Max never brought it up. Not once. Just carried on like this was normal, her using the last of the milk, her socks in the laundry, Jimmy choosing her lap more often than his.

They fell into a rhythm without meaning to.

He worked late, came in quiet, sometimes left a note on the fridge if he missed her, cat’s a menace, save me leftovers if you love me. She worked days, brought home biscuits from the office when someone had a birthday and they’d bought too many. They watched telly together more often than not, her on one end of the sofa, feet tucked under her, Max half-stretched out on the other side, always warm and within reach.

Sometimes she fell asleep there, curled up with a blanket she hadn’t unfolded properly, the end credits of some quiz show still playing. And when that happened, she’d wake up hours later, back in bed, hoodie tucked round her shoulders, everything dark and still.

Max never mentioned it. But she knew it was him.

He’d carried her. More than once.

The first time she caught on, she nearly asked. Stopped herself at the last second. Didn't want to make it weird. Didn’t want him to stop.

She started seeing him shirtless more often, too. Not on purpose, just mornings, usually. He’d stumble into the kitchen half-awake, hair all over the place, joggers slung low and no top, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling about the kettle being too slow.

The first time, she’d dropped a spoon.

He didn’t notice. Just yawned and opened the fridge like he hadn’t just ambled in looking like an advert for domestically competent, emotionally repressed men with decent arms.

She told herself it was fine. Just a normal thing. Totally standard flatmate experience.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

Because now, whenever he sat next to her on the sofa, all warmth and sleepy weight, or reached over her for something in the cupboard, or knocked her foot with his under the table and didn’t move it straight away something in her chest shifted.

Something small. And slow. And real.

There were moments, too. Quiet ones that almost said too much.

Like when she made him soup from scratch on the day he came home drenched, muttering about road closures and paperwork soaked through with rain. He didn’t speak much, just sat at the table while she stirred, and when she put the bowl in front of him, he said, “No one’s ever made me soup before.”

Like that meant something.

Or the night she came in late, soaking and fed up, and found her dressing gown warm on the radiator and a note beside it that just said, Shower’s free. Thought you might need it. — M

Or how he always waited up, even if it was just half an hour. Even if he didn’t admit that was what he was doing.

One morning, she came into the kitchen and found him standing barefoot by the sink, tea in one hand, phone in the other, bare-chested and blinking against the light. The sight hit her like it always did, a little spark of heat in the chest, the kind that stayed, even after she looked away.

He turned to her, sleep-mussed and soft-eyed.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied, opening the cupboard for a mug. Her fingers were steady. Just.

He didn’t move. Just watched her for a second longer than usual. Then turned back to his phone like nothing had happened.

Jimmy meowed loudly, possibly offended by the lack of food. She reached for the cat biscuits, heart thudding far more than the situation required.

Something was happening. Quietly. Gradually.

And neither of them had said a word.

Then something happened and it was GP’s fault.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve run the other way the moment he said, “He’s from the fire station, lovely bloke, good pension,” like he was reading from a checklist.

But she’d laughed it off and said, “Why not?” before she could think too hard.

The date was fine. Technically. Polite. Predictable. His name was Jack, he was good-looking in a catalogue sort of way, talked a lot about protein shakes and the gym. Ordered a steak, rare, and made a comment about vegans being “a bit militant.” She wasn't even vegan. Just tired.

By the end of the meal, her smile felt stapled on.

He tried to kiss her by the bus stop. She leaned left instead of right and it ended in a half-hug that was more tragic than polite.

She let out a breath the moment she got home.

The flat was quiet, warm. The hall light was off, but the living room lamp glowed. Jimmy blinked at her from the windowsill like he was judging her outfit.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, kicking off her shoes.

She half-hoped Max would be asleep. That she could sneak past with her dignity intact and pour herself a glass of wine in peace. But he wasn’t.

He was on the sofa, legs stretched out, hoodie on, hood down, telly muted. Just a low hum of street noise drifting in through the cracked window.

She froze for a second in the doorway.

He looked up. Took her in, hair curled from the wind, lipstick smudged, expression tired in that bone-deep way.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Not really.”

He sat up without a word, patted the space next to him.

She hesitated. Then crossed the room, dropped onto the sofa beside him, and let her head fall back against the cushion with a sigh.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Fireman.”

She groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

“GP was grinning like he’d set up a marriage and he has a habit of trying to liaise police and fire.”

“He said he had a 'feeling'. That’s never a good sign.”

Max chuckled. “Was it awful?”

“Not awful. Just off. You know when someone ticks boxes, but none of the ones that matter?”

He didn’t reply straight away. Just nodded, slow and quiet.

“I kept thinking, ‘I’d rather be on the sofa with a cat and a blanket and a packet of bourbons,’” she admitted.

“Reckon Jimmy’s offended he wasn’t invited.”

“He’s got standards.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that hummed with more than it said. She turned her head and found him already watching her.

Their eyes met.

Something shifted.

It was the smallest thing, a pause, a breath, a fraction too long of looking, but it crackled in the space between them like static. Like standing too close to a fire.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them smiled.

The room felt still. Suspended.

He looked at her mouth.

And she felt it. That low, aching pull in the chest. That heat blooming at the base of her throat. That sense of this means something.

If someone had walked in just then, they’d have apologised. Backed out slowly. Closed the door with a whispered sorry, like interrupting a prayer.

Max blinked first. Not away, just slower. Softer.

“You deserve better than someone who makes you feel ‘off’,” he said, quiet like a promise.

She swallowed. “I think I already have better.”

His fingers twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for her. But he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he nodded once. Barely. Like something had been agreed on without needing to be spoken.

The moment passed. Kind of.

But it stayed there, too. Settled in the air between them. Waiting.

And when she stood a few minutes later, brushed her hand against his arm just a second longer than necessary, he didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Another month slipped by. Quietly. Intimately.

She told GP, quite firmly, that she was no longer accepting any romantic recommendations from someone who thought George from dispatch was “a bit of a catch.” He sulked for half a day, then brought her a custard cream and muttered an apology. Peace was restored.

Life continued in the in-between.

Work. Shared dinners. Him pouring the tea, her washing up. Jimmy playing favourites depending on who fed him most recently. Everything felt ordinary on the surface, still platonic, still friendly, but the edges had started to fray.

The kind of tension that builds slowly, like heat from a radiator you didn’t notice had been turned on.

Max was quieter than usual. Not cold, just a bit more deliberate. Lingering less. Looking longer. He still carried her to bed when she fell asleep on the sofa. Still left mugs out for her in the morning. But something about him had shifted.

And she knew exactly when it started.

It was a Tuesday. She’d been half-asleep, padding to the kitchen for a glass of water after a late shift, barefoot and bleary-eyed in an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. No bra. Shorts underneath, technically, though they barely showed. The shirt hung off one shoulder, neck wide, worn soft with age.

She didn’t think twice.

Until she walked into the kitchen and found Max already there, lit only by the open fridge. He’d frozen mid-sip of orange juice straight from the bottle. Looked up. Stared.

Then blinked like he’d forgotten how light worked.

She’d mumbled something, probably sorry or just water, and edged round him to the sink, painfully aware of how much leg was on show.

Max hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, completely still, like someone trying not to spook a deer.

When she left the room, he didn’t follow.

And since then something had been off. Not wrong. Just aware.

It didn’t blow up. It wasn’t like that.

But one Friday evening, with the flat quiet and warm and the telly playing some old detective drama they weren’t really watching, it finally cracked.

She was curled in her corner of the sofa, knees tucked up, hoodie zipped halfway. He was beside her, arms folded, head leaned back against the cushion, eyes closed but not asleep.

It was raining, softly, rhythmically, against the windows, and Jimmy was snoring on a tea towel someone had left on the radiator.

She turned her head to say something. Maybe a joke. Maybe do you think they’ll actually solve it this time.

But he was already watching her.

She paused. “What?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at her, really looked, like he was trying to decide something.

And then, quietly, almost like it surprised him as much as her, he said, “This is getting harder.”

She blinked. “What is?”

“Pretending this isn’t something,” he said. Soft. Honest. No edge to it, just quiet resignation.

She sat very still. Her heartbeat felt louder than the rain.

“I thought maybe I was imagining it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You weren’t.”

Another beat passed.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” she said. “What we’ve got. Living here. You.”

“You’re not,” he said simply. “You couldn’t.”

And that was it.

Not some grand declaration. No fireworks. Just that shift, the tension giving way like breath finally released.

He leaned in, slow, like he wanted to give her a chance to move away.

She didn’t.

Their lips met, soft, unsure, careful at first. Like testing something fragile. And then, not so careful. Warmer. Familiar.

When they pulled apart, his hand still resting lightly against her knee, she exhaled shakily.

“Well,” she said.

Max gave a faint smile. “Bit overdue, that.”

She huffed a laugh. “Little bit, yeah.”

Their mouths met again, slower this time.

Like neither of them could quite believe it had happened the first time, like they needed to check it was real.

She shifted closer, knees brushing his thigh, hand resting lightly on his chest. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch. Just let her move, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow as her fingers found the edge of his hoodie and slipped underneath, brushing bare skin.

He exhaled, sharp and low. Like he’d been holding it in for months.

She climbed onto his lap, straddling him easily, her legs folding around his hips like she’d always belonged there. The hoodie rode up, and his hands found her waist instinctively, warm, steady, tentative only in the way they lingered.

Her forehead pressed to his. They breathed the same air.

“Max,” she murmured, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Tell me to stop if you need to.”

But he didn’t.

He pulled her back in, kissing her like he meant it this time, like he’d finally let go of all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

It was slow, and deep, and so full of longing it hurt.

And then.

He broke away, suddenly, jaw clenched.

“Ahh, fuck,” he muttered, hands dropping from her waist. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

She blinked, still breathless. “What?”

He looked up at her, properly looked, the guilt already forming.

“You turn twenty-one in two weeks,” he said, voice low and pained. “This is bad. I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You know when my birthday is?”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the cushion, hands covering his face for a second. “Please be serious.”

“I am serious!” she said, a little breathless still. “You know my birthday. That’s kind of sweet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, dragging his hands down his face, “I also know I’m twenty-eight and I’ve seen you barefoot in the kitchen and I just spent the last six weeks pretending I didn’t want to touch you every time you fell asleep on the bloody sofa.”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold.

He just looked wrecked. Not because he didn’t want this, but because he did.

“I’m not a kid,” she said, gently.

“I know,” he replied, just as quiet. “You’re brilliant. You’ve lived more than most people my age. You pay council tax, you make your own soup, you talk back to Jimmy when he gives you attitude.”

She snorted despite herself.

“But,” he continued, softer now, “part of me still feels like I should be the grown-up here. The boring, sensible one.”

She tilted her head. “Are you saying you don’t want this?”

He looked at her, and it was all there, in his eyes, his hands, the way he still hadn’t let go of her entirely.

“No,” he said. “I’m saying I want it too much.”

She was silent for a beat.

Then, “Right. Well. If it helps, I’m the one on top, so technically I’m in charge.”

Max gave her a flat look.

She grinned.

“Alright,” she added, softer now. “We can slow down. If you need to.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. “Yeah. Just for now.”

She climbed off his lap gently, settling beside him instead, pulling her hoodie down with exaggerated modesty.

They sat there for a moment, hearts still thudding, the air still warm and charged, but calmer now. Closer.

“I wasn’t joking, though,” she murmured after a moment. “About you knowing my birthday.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s in your HR file. I’m not a stalker.”

“Still sweet.”

“Shut up.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, still smiling.

And even though they’d stopped, even though everything was still complicated and just slightly tangled, neither of them moved away.

Because whatever this was it wasn’t going anywhere.

In the week leading up to her birthday, something shifted.

Not suddenly. Just gradually. Like snow melting.

They were still careful, still hadn’t talked about what they were, exactly, but hands lingered longer. Shoulders brushed more deliberately. Her fingers found the crook of his elbow when they passed each other in the kitchen. His hand slid into the small of her back when he reached for the kettle behind her.

Once, in the middle of an episode neither of them were really watching, she’d tucked her feet under his leg. He didn’t blink. Just adjusted, like that was normal now.

And then, one Thursday night, they both fell asleep on the sofa.

She was curled into her usual corner. He’d stretched out beside her, hoodie half-zipped, one arm slung lazily across the back of the cushions. Jimmy, with the authority of someone who owned every surface in the flat, had nestled himself directly between them, a warm, furry barrier, tail twitching against her knee.

They hadn’t meant to sleep.

But the telly was quiet, and her head had tilted onto Max’s shoulder at some point, and when she blinked awake at three in the morning, the world was dark, and Max was still there, breathing slow and even beside her.

Neither of them moved.

Not until the next morning, when she woke to find Jimmy sitting on her hip like some triumphant gremlin king and Max already in the kitchen, clattering about with suspicious urgency.

Her birthday arrived grey and drizzly, the kind of typical early spring morning where the light couldn’t decide what it was doing.

She padded into the kitchen in her pyjamas, hair rumpled, blinking blearily at the smell of toast and something distinctly sugary in the air.

Max was by the counter, back turned.

“Morning,” she mumbled, rubbing one eye.

He glanced over his shoulder, slightly sheepish.

“Happy birthday.”

She froze. “Wait. Did you—?”

He stepped aside.

There, on the kitchen table, sat a birthday cake.

Well. Two, technically.

One clearly shop-bought, neat icing, little sugar flowers, a ribbon round the base.

The other was less successful.

Lopsided, slightly sunken, icing already starting to slip down one side. A single candle jammed into the middle, tilting at an alarming angle.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

Max folded his arms. “Don’t look in the bin.”

She laughed, really laughed, that open, surprised kind that bubbled out of her chest.

“Was it that bad?”

“Looked like a victorian crime scene by the end,” he said, deadpan. “Flour everywhere. Jimmy fled.”

She reached for the shop cake instinctively, then paused.

“I kind of want to try yours.”

He looked horrified. “Don’t. You’ve got so much to live for.”

She grinned, grabbing a fork. “It’s my birthday. I’ll risk death.”

After a heroic effort of politeness and three mouthfuls of dry sponge, she gave in and set the fork down, laughing as she reached for the proper cake.

Max, still pretending not to be slightly proud of his culinary chaos, handed her a box.

“Before you accuse me of being sentimental,” he said, “this was Jimmy’s idea.”

She opened it.

Inside was a mug. Big. White. With you’re brew-tiful printed in bold, terrible lettering above a smiling teabag.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is horrendous.”

He looked smug. “Thank you.”

She clutched it to her chest. “I love it.”

“Thought you might.”

But then he reached into his pocket, suddenly quieter, and pulled out something small, neatly wrapped in brown paper with a red ribbon tied round it.

“This one’s less awful.”

She blinked. “There’s more?”

He shrugged. “S’pose twenty-one’s a proper one. Thought you deserved something that didn’t come from the bargain mug aisle.”

She unwrapped it slowly.

Inside was a delicate silver chain, fine and simple, with a tiny engraved pendant, a moon on one side, her initial on the back.

She didn’t speak.

Not straight away.

When she looked up, her eyes were shining. Not crying. Not really. But close enough.

“No one’s ever done this for me,” she said, voice quiet.

He stepped forward, hand brushing her cheek. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked at him and something in her chest cracked wide open.

Then she kissed him.

Soft. Properly. No hesitation. No build-up.

Just something full and warm and real.

He kissed her back instantly, hands finding her waist, drawing her in. No overthinking this time. No rules. Just them.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

She smiled, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Best one I’ve ever had.”

After her birthday, something shifted, but not in a loud, dramatic way.

It was gentler than that. Quieter. Like slipping into clean sheets after a long day. Familiar, and lovely, and soft at the edges.

They didn’t have a conversation about it. No sit-down, no labels, no awkward what are we now moment.

They just were.

Some mornings she woke to find him already dressed, coffee in one hand, his other trailing lightly down her back as she stirred. Other mornings, it was her brushing the hair off his forehead while he snored into the pillow, one leg hanging off the bed like he’d lost a fight in his sleep.

They went food shopping together on Sundays, her with a list, Max pretending they didn’t need one.

“We’ve got pasta,” he’d say.

“You’ve always got pasta.”

“That’s preparation. It’s not my fault I’m efficient.”

She’d roll her eyes and chuck a bag of spinach into the trolley, only for him to sneak in a multipack of crisps when she wasn’t looking. Jimmy once tried to climb into the shopping bag when they got home and got stuck in a packet of brioche rolls in hopes there were treats there.

At work, they were still careful. Sort of. But people noticed.

She made him packed lunches, proper ones. Left notes on napkins, little drawings of cats and reminders to eat the fruit. He acted like it was embarrassing. Always finished everything, though. She caught GP smirking once, and just raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” she warned, a phrase she kept for Jimmy and GP only.

“Didn’t say a word,” he replied, smug.

Sometimes, Max would come up behind her in the kitchen, no fanfare, just a warm hand on her hip, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder like it was second nature. And it was.

She started leaving things in his room. He started stealing her shampoo. They bickered over the thermostat. Shared tea in bed on Sundays. Found themselves existing together in the kind of easy silence that spoke more than words.

Their official hard lunch was at the end-of-year service gala and it was a bit of a production.

Not black tie, but close enough to make Max grumble when he realised he’d need to iron a shirt. She caught him halfway through, sleeves rolled, top button undone, looking unfairly good and pretending not to notice.

She spent longer than she wanted picking a dress. Nothing too much, just something that felt nice. Her hair refused to behave, Jimmy tried to eat her mascara wand, and Max, to his credit, didn’t rush her once.

When she finally emerged, he actually froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something clever, then closed again.

“You alright there?” she asked, smirking.

“Yeah,” he managed. “You, uh. You look incredible.”

She smiled. “So do you.”

He offered her his arm like a gentleman. “Come on then. Let’s go drink prosecco out of plastic and make polite conversation with people I avoid during the week.”

The venue was buzzing by the time they arrived, a function room done up in serviceable navy and gold, clusters of uniforms dotted around high tables, the occasional gleam of medals. The kind of affair with a cheap bar, a decent buffet, and an overenthusiastic DJ on standby.

She stuck close to Max as they wove through the crowd. He greeted a few people with polite nods, muttered “don’t ask” to someone from traffic enforcement, and made a direct line for the drinks table.

He handed her a glass of fizz with a lopsided smile. “Alright so far?”

She nodded. “Still standing. You?”

“Just about.”

Then someone called out from across the room.

“Oi! Verstappen! Thought you weren’t showing!”

Max turned, already smiling, the proper kind. Soft and real.

Two men approached, one in a dark suit with the top button undone, the other in a tailored jacket and expression that said I’ve got my eye on you, even while smiling.

“Gentlemen,” Max greeted them, nodding. “Didn’t think I’d find you vertical past eight.”

“Rude,” said the man in the suit, grinning. “This your better half, then?”

Max turned slightly, hand resting lightly on her back.

“This is, yeah” He paused, just a beat. “She’s with me.”

The man stuck out a hand. “Lando. Fire service. He hates us.”

“Not all of you,” Max muttered.

The other one leaned in, charming as anything. “Oscar. Also fire. Don’t hold it against us.”

She shook both hands, surprised by how easy it felt.

“So,” Lando said, glancing at Max with raised brows, “you’ve managed to not scare this one off?”

“Not yet,” she said, dry.

Lando smirked. “You might be alright.”

They chatted a while, light stuff, easy, Oscar talking about some botched catering order at their station, Lando teasing Max about the time he once fell asleep in the back of a van during academy.

And through it all, Max stayed close.

Not possessive. Just present.

When someone called the fire lads over to the buffet queue, Lando saluted with mock solemnity.

“Pleasure meeting you. If he gets weird and quiet later, it’s because someone mentioned budget reviews. He’ll recover.”

Once they were gone, she turned to Max. “They’re nice.”

He gave her a look. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can see why you like them.”

He shrugged, a bit bashful. “They’re alright.”

She bumped his arm lightly. “You proud of yourself?”

He gave her a soft smile. “Yeah. Bit.”

The night droned on and thankfully the speeches were mercifully short.

A few awards handed out, a couple of polite laughs, someone from HR choking up halfway through a thank-you. Then the music shifted, something slower, older, the kind of song you’d recognise if you’d ever grown up hearing it from a kitchen radio.

She looked up from her glass and found Max already watching her.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

He didn’t answer. Just extended a hand.

“Dance with me?”

She blinked. “You don’t dance.”

“I make exceptions.”

She let him lead her to the edge of the makeshift floor, where a handful of couples were already swaying gently, some more tipsy than romantic. The lights had softened; the music curled around the room like a warm duvet.

Max rested one hand low on her back, the other catching her hand, fingers slotting between hers like they belonged there. No fancy footwork. Just the two of them, slow and quiet, bodies close enough to hush the world.

He leaned in slightly. “You alright?”

She nodded, pressing her cheek lightly to his shoulder. “More than.”

His hand moved, sliding up to rest against her neck, thumb brushing just beneath her jaw.

And then, right there, in the middle of everyone, he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not cautious. Just real. Solid. Like something he’d meant to do for a long time and finally had the nerve to finish.

A few people glanced over. Lando nudged Oscar. Someone let out a very unsubtle “finally” from the bar.

She smiled against his mouth. “Bit bold, Verstappen.”

He smirked. “Bit late for subtle.”

Back at the flat, it was quiet again, the kind of late-night hush that wrapped round your shoulders like a cardigan.

She kicked off her heels by the door with a groan. “I’m never wearing those again.”

“Want a brew?” he asked, slipping off his jacket.

She shook her head. “Come help with the zip.”

He followed her into the bedroom, fingertips light as he tugged the fastening down, slow, careful, like the fabric might bruise. She let the straps fall from her shoulders, the dress pooling at her feet as she stepped out and reached for her pyjamas.

But then his hand found her waist.

Still soft. Still careful.

He kissed her shoulder, warm, open-mouthed, right where her skin met the curve of her neck, and her breath caught.

She turned, and he was already there, mouth meeting hers with more heat than either of them meant, hands sliding over her back like he was trying to learn it by feel.

She kissed him back, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

It didn’t go further than that.

But his hands stayed on her waist when they stopped, his forehead rested gently against hers, and when she whispered, “Stay?” he didn’t even nod.

He just reached for the duvet, pulled it round them both, and held her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

The years folded in quietly, without fanfare but full of little milestones.

Max met her mother one damp autumn afternoon, the kind where the sky refuses to clear and the scent of wet leaves clings to your coat. It was awkward at first, polite smiles and cautious conversation, but by the end of the visit, her mum had accepted him with a nod that said, I like him. That was all Max needed.

They moved out of the cramped flat not long after. The place had served its purpose, but it felt right to leave it behind, to find somewhere that felt like theirs.

The house was modest, just around the corner from the station, nestled on a quiet street where the noise of the city softened to a gentle hum. It had two floors, a small garden they barely kept tidy, and, best of all, a study where she could work from home a few days a week. Max sometimes teased her about turning the place into a number cave, but he’d settle into the living room with a book or just his thoughts, content.

They got Sassy a bengal kitten not long after she’d started working from home, a wild splash of grey and black spots that darted around the garden chasing shadows. Jimmy, ever the grumpy old king, had at first regarded Sassy with thinly veiled disdain, but even he softened as the weeks went by, especially when she’d settle in Max’s lap, purring loud enough to drown out the news on TV.

They didn’t rush anything. No grand declarations, no shiny rings flashing in the light, just slow mornings with shared mugs of tea, soft banter across the kitchen table, and the quiet certainty of someone always being there.

They’d cook together, usually something simple and quick, a stew or pasta, but the way Max would peel the vegetables while she chopped herbs made the ordinary feel special.

Some nights they’d fall asleep tangled up, her head on his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling her. Other nights she’d wake first and watch him, marvel at how someone who’d seemed so guarded could become her home.

Work days were often rushed, rushing to get ready, grabbing breakfast on the run, getting to the car first or walking to the station together. She liked how it felt, the rhythm of their mornings syncing without effort.

Birthdays came and went, each one marked not by big gestures, but by shared mornings and lazy evenings, takeaway boxes on the sofa, candles only lit because one of them remembered.

When she turned twenty-three, the air was just beginning to change, that first hint of spring stretching into the afternoons. They were in the park near the house, one they always walked through when Max was off-shift and she wanted to stretch her legs after a long day at her desk.

He stopped beneath a tree that was just beginning to bloom, fingers brushing nervously against the inside of his coat pocket. She was mid-story, something about a spreadsheet disaster and too many biscuits, when he dropped down on one knee.

She’d blinked at him. “Max. What are you—?”

And then she saw the ring.

Simple. Silver. Unfussy. Just like him.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered.

He gave her a soft look, that lopsided, uncertain smile she’d fallen for ages ago. “Don’t panic. I’m not expecting fireworks. But if you’ll have me I’d like to make this a bit more official.”

She stared for a beat, heart hammering.

“You didn’t need to get on your knee, old man,” she teased, even as her voice caught. “You’ll do your back in.”

He laughed, breathless and relieved. “Bit late for that.”

She didn’t cry. Not properly. But she said yes, and kissed him like it meant something big, because it did. And when they walked home, hands laced, the whole world felt settled somehow.

Two years later, curled up on the sofa on an ordinary Tuesday night, she’d said it, offhand, like it had only just crossed her mind.

“I think I’d like a kid. Not mine, though. Just someone. You know.”

Max had looked up from his book. Quiet, thoughtful.

Then, “Yeah. I think about that too. Not a baby. But maybe someone who’s had it rough. Someone who needs a place.”

They didn’t say much else about it that night, but something had shifted between them, a thread laid down gently.

A few months later, it happened. A boy, quiet, with wary eyes and shoes that didn’t quite fit. From the same estate Max had grown up on. Same school, even.

Max saw himself in the boy before anyone else did.

They didn’t talk about fate. That wasn’t their style. But when they brought him home and showed him the freshly painted room where the study used to be, she noticed Max pause in the doorway, saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his eyes softened.

The boy didn’t say much, but he let their older Bengal sit on his lap that first night. That felt like enough.

Life settled into new shapes. School runs and packed lunches. Late-night whispers under duvet covers. Burnt toast and forgotten PE kits. Laughter, low and real. They were a family now, not by blood but by choice, and that, in every way, felt more honest.

They still had the mugs from their old flat, mismatched and chipped. Jimmy and Sassy still ruled the house, often found curled together in the warm patch beneath the living room window. Max still left his boots by the door and she still grumbled about it every single time. Nothing perfect. Everything real.

And in the quiet moments, when the house was still, when the rain tapped soft against the windows and the cats dozed in warm corners, she’d look across at Max, the man who’d once offered her a chance and ended up offering her a whole life, and she’d feel it down to her bones: the peace of being truly seen, truly chosen. Not for what she could prove or pretend to be, but just as she was. And as he reached for her hand without looking, like he always did, she knew, this was the kind of love people didn’t always get. Not loud or perfect or shiny. But steady. Built in quiet kitchens and long drives and shared jokes. Built in the softest, bravest ways. The kind that stayed.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[noisilyscreechingsong]

I was thinking of those prompts where Danny is placed (most of the time by Clockwork) into the Batfam. Danny believes he’s been there the whole time and it’s after Bruce comes back from being trapped in time so they chalk it up to time shenanigans. Also, Danny is now Tim’s twin.

Warnings: some language

Danny skips down the stairs leisurely, headphones in to some rock song Damian would hate.

The Cave is damp and cold, as usual. The music blares out the sound of his sneakers tapping as he walks. He waves to B’s back as he continues on to the work bench. The project he had started the day before was still there.

One of the grapple hooks was lagging so he was fixing it up and added a few more safety measures on the device. His brothers were using this, he wanted it as safe as he can make it.

Behind him he hears a voice over the music, interrupting his work after only about half an hour. He turns and sees Bruce looking at him with a raised brow.

Danny pulls out an earbud.

“Huh?”

“I thought you were going to visit your friends?”

Danny thinks back to the last conversation he had with his dad. It had nothing to do with his friends actually, it was about his stupid English test and how he was going to call Jason if he could help tutor him since he was so hopeless.

“No, I’ll see them on Monday.”

“Monday?”

Danny pauses halfway to putting the earbud back in his ear.

“Yea? At school?”

“School?”

Bruce stands to step closer to him but still at a distance.

Danny rolls his eyes and chuckles.

“Are you just going to keep repeating what I say?”

His dad looks him over critically. Danny pauses his music and takes out the other earbud.

“Did you change your hair?”

Danny reaches up reflexively to pat down his bangs. If anything he probably needed a haircut soon.

“Um, no? Are you okay? When’s the last time you slept?”

He tosses his headphones on the workbench but keeps his phone in his hand in case he needs to call someone.

“I’ve recovered,” Bruce dismisses. Like his year long trip in the time stream could be easily forgotten after a few months.

“Sure,” Danny agrees anyway when they both know he doesn’t agree.

“Tim,” Bruce sighs.

Danny immediately presses the button on his ring three times to alert the others. The computer beeps and the man turns to look at the screen. Danny grabs the closest weapon — a screwdriver — and holds it behind him.

Only Alfred, Damian, and Duke were at the manor. Hopefully backup would arrive soon.

“What were you doing, Dad?”

Not-Bruce freezes and then relaxes. It was only a second but Danny noticed. Any of the Bats would have, they’re trained for it.

“Just going over reports,” Not-Bruce replies with a smile. A smile.

His grip on the tool tightens.

“Which reports?” He tests.

What was he doing? There’s no telling the kind of information this imposter got a hold of.

“The Bennet case.”

Danny moves. Casually, he takes a step to the left, where the more heavy duty weapons were stored. The man matches him threateningly. Danny stills.

“That was solved over a month ago.”

There was no reason to look at a case from a month ago that was solved and closed. Bruce would have no reason to look at something like that, especially since it was Tim who solved it and submitted the report.

“By you,” Not-Bruce says in an odd tone.

He was getting Tim and Danny mixed up. Nobody in the family gets them confused anymore. That only applies to outsiders.

Danny tenses, ready to bolt toward the weapons. Not-Bruce is fast to intercept, but Danny is smaller and more agile.

He dodges and goes to stab the man in the leg when there is a prick to his neck that makes him stumble. Not-Bruce uses that opportunity to disarm him and slam him into the floor. It’s jarring, but the sedative is already working its way through him.

He blinks twice before everything is forced to black.

He knows he’s tied to a chair before he’s even fully awake. There’s been numerous kidnappings and training exercises that had his hands and feet tied down to know exactly in what position he’s in and for how long depending on how numb his limbs are.

He’s still in the Cave because he can feel the damp chill and hear the faint chattering of the bats. There’s a barrier though. Along with how hard the chair was he knew exactly where he was.

The containment cell is tucked away in a separate cavern. It had thick microfiber see through walls and a single chair with restraints.

The imposter put him in their own cell.

Danny is positively livid with the disrespect.

“You’re awake.”

Danny jerks his head up.

Oh thank the Ancients, his twin is here.

“Tim,” he breathes. “Okay, I know this looks bad, but trust me. It’s Bruce. He couldn’t tell us apart. Something’s wrong. He’s not himself.”

Tim is silent for much too long, just staring at him. He’s in his uniform like he just got back from patrol when Danny knew he had been in California with his team.

“Just talk to me,” he demands. “What’s going on? Where’s B?”

Tim’s mask narrows.

“Why should I trust you?”

Danny blinks wide.

“Why should- okay, first of all, screw you. Second, now is so not the time to be petty with me. I already apologized for messing up your photo shoot. I even made up for it, so legally you can’t be mad at me anymore.”

“My photo shoot?”

Danny rolls his eyes. This seat was getting uncomfortable.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Stop being such a jerk. This is serious. I’m telling you something is off with B. Did you guys check him? I hit the emergency button.”

Danny can tell his twin raises a brow at him.

“You hit the emergency button?”

“I literally just said that. Do you listen at all?”

“I was just confirming,” Tim shrugs it off.

“Whatever. Tim, I think there’s someone else here. I got hit with a tranq. Someone is in on this. And can someone please get me out of these? I’m not the problem here.”

Unfortunately, Tim does not get him out of his bonds. He just stands there watching him until he turns on his heel and leaves the cavern where Danny can’t see.

“What the- Tim! What the hell, dude?!”

Danny wiggles in his seat, but the more thrashing the more it hurt. Instead he sits there for a while, just tracing the rock and counting, until someone comes back in.

It’s Dick. The one big brother who he can always count on to at least be there.

“Hey there,” he smiles through the glass.

“Dick, what is happening? Tim isn’t listening. Did you find Bruce? Why am I in here?”

“Yea, Bruce is here. He’s safe. I saw the tapes. It looked like you were going to attack him,” he reasons gently.

“Yea because something is wrong with him. Maybe he’s compromised or mind controlled or something. You need to investigate. He needs to be cleared,” Danny insists.

“Okay,” Dick nods. He squats down to get comfortable outside the barrier instead of going to find Bruce though. “What made you think he’s compromised?”

“He kept confusing me with Tim!” He emphasizes because just the thought is outrageous. “He hasn’t done that in years. Yea maybe a mix up when he’s not paying attention but he was looking right at me and called me Tim. And he kept asking me these weird questions, like he had no idea who I was. Something is wrong.”

Dick puts a hand over his lips in thought, clearly going over something in his head.

“I’ll be right back,” Dick rushes out the door in a flash.

Danny’s jaw drops in protest but no words come out. He yells in frustration instead.

No one was listening to him! They were all freaking him out.

Maybe this was training. Like on their sixteenth birthday. It’s similar to what happened then. So what is his next course of action?

“You make it sound like we should know you.”

Danny finds his little brother in the shadows, lurking by the entrance. He’s also dressed in his vigilante attire, just like Tim and Dick.

“Damian, could you stop being a little gremlin for two seconds?” He glares at the younger boy.

“Answer the question.”

“It wasn’t a question,” he snarks back.

Damian grinds his teeth and Danny smirks nastily. He wasn’t in the mood for sibling rivalry right now.

“Who are you?”

Danny’s expression twists.

“That isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

A cold dread settles in his chest. What if it wasn’t a training exercise?

“You know who I am. Stop playing games.”

“You say you’re not Tim. Claim you’ve known Father for years.”

“Damian.”

Bruce steps out followed closely by Dick and Tim.

There is a cold sweat on his brow now. Danny’s heart is beating loudly in his ears. He can feel the panic in his chest.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t go out to fight crime. He just trained with them because they all knew he needed to know those things to live in their life.

He wasn’t prepared for something like this.

“Guys, you’re really freaking me out.”

“Answer the question.”

No one defends him from Damian’s demand. They all look at him with caution, like he was the enemy. A stranger.

“You know me. What are you guys talking about?”

When no one answers he’s close to a damn panic attack.

“It’s me. Danny. You know? Tim’s twin. I’ve lived here since me and Tim moved in when we were twelve. Please tell me this is just training. You guys didn’t- didn’t forget me or something, right?”

Something in Dick’s expression looks unsure, but they all are withdrawn and completely in their roles. They weren’t acting like family.

“Prove it,” Tim commands.

Danny can’t believe his ears.

“AN-4729,” he recites the emergency code to prove authenticity they all know.

He can tell they recognize it, but wait for more.

“The sun shines in the east,” is the next security code to show safety.

Danny can tell it’s still not enough.

“There’s a file of me on the computer. Tim has pictures of us since childhood hidden under the floorboard under his dresser. My room is to the left of Tim’s. Inside the closet, in the ceiling, is a box. Inside the box is a medallion. It holds my entire life. You could also call Mr. Fox. I work with him often. I’m his favorite. I’m even on the payroll. Or you could just Google Daniel Drake-Wayne. I’m sure I’d pop up. Or call Gotham Academy since I’m enrolled there and everyone has seen Alfred pick me up and drop me off. I have a Christmas stocking with my name on it. My picture is literally all over the manor. I know the ins and outs of all your equipment and tech. The password to the Bat computer is 35G4s@2b-“

“Okay,” Dick gently interrupts. “I think that’s enough for now.”

Danny can feel how wet his eyes are. He stiffens his upper lip as Alfred would say so he doesn’t show how much of a disappointment he is to fail this test. Because this has to be a test. It has to be.

“Tim, you and I could always tell when we’re lying. We call ourselves our own personal lie detectors. So… am I lying?”

Tim studies him hard. His twin looks into his eyes for longer than it should take.

“I don’t know.”

And Danny breaks.

[strwbrychffoncke]

"ah, ah, you're obsessed.. ah, ah, you're obsessed!,, 1.8k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: sometimes caleb just wishes to devour you whole contains: nsfw! lnds caleb x afab!reader ,obsessed!caleb but whats new ,soft?dom caleb ,pipsqueak/baby/princess used as petnames ,kissing ,praise ,slight body worship ,teasing ,facesitting ,cunnilingus ,caleb eats u out through ur panties (later they come off) ,edging ,orgasm ,overstim but barely ,implied u keep going ,i think thats it note: (edited!) releasing this late just for it to be a new concept to play with :p editing this was so hard for no reason sigh

-

if someone asked him, caleb would say, in a roundabout way, that he was utterly obsessed with you.

though honestly, it wasn't hard for anyone to decipher that on their own given the way he takes any opportunity to mention you, much less if anyone were to catch sight of him with you— the little lovesick eyes he'd be staring at you with resembled a puppy, trailing after and following your every whim (not without some of his own teasing). furthermore, the shift in his eyes that he'd give to anyone that recognized you was usually enough to demand them not to interrupt your time together.

if you were to ask him, he might even confess that you were the very air that he breathed.

maybe thats why he's kissing you with so much fervor now, stealing your breath from your lungs to fuel and burn into his, but even then its not enough, not really.

he has you caged against his bedroom door— he didn't let a second pass after it clicked closed when he tugged your arm lightly to pull you against it, back hitting the wood with a light thud— arms coming up on either side of your head to trap you against him as he devours your lips.

your hands are clutching at the front of his shirt, left with no space to fight back as caleb's kisses grow almost desperate, borderline trying to consume you. after several minutes of this, you start tugging at his thin shirt, trying your best to push him back just enough to fill your lungs with oxygen.

"cale— mmph— caleb!"

he gets the message, breaking the kiss and watching as your eyes flutter open, one of your arms coming up, back of your hand hovering over your mouth almost acting as a barrier against any more subsequent kiss attacks as you gasp for much needed air.

you're looking up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and holding a mix of shock and... shyness?

caleb thinks the flustered look is the cutest on you.

his hands come let go of the wall in favor of holding your face in his hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks for a moment before his touch goes lower, hands sliding down your neck and down your shoulders and further, rubbing up and down your sides before settling on your waist.

he feels the way you shiver at his touch, and he can't help the satisfied and pleased curl of his lips.

he leans in close, lips hovering right above your ear.

"i think i could just eat you up, pipsqueak."

expecting to fluster you further, his eyes widen in slight shock when he feels you wrap your arms around his neck, leaning up to plant a soft kiss against his jawline.

"then do it."

your whisper of encouragement is all that he needs.

-

he takes his time feeling your skin under his fingers, unintentionally teasing you, not realizing until you whine and tell him to hurry up, already! coaxing a fond chuckle from his lips before he's on his knees before you, his fingers ghosting over your shorts, tugging them down your legs and helping you step out of them, tossing them to the side.

he rubs his hands over your thighs back and forth, looking up at you with a fond look in his eyes.

he begins to nip at the fat, unable to suppress the need to squeeze at the plush flesh as he leaves loving marks (ones that you'll look back at and probably reprimand him for later).

but he couldn't help it. he wanted, needed to plant his lips on you, on anywhere he was able to reach.

"take them off already!"

when you squirm under his touches, body slumping against the door and head thrown back in frustration, whining again at the feel of his mouth so close yet so far to where you need him the most, he suddenly pulls back, patting your thighs as he moves to stand up.

"get up, baby," he mutters, reaching for the bottom of his shirt and slipping it over his head, tossing it to a corner of the room. you watch as he then makes his way towards his bed, laying on his back before beckoning you over.

"come and sit on my face."

your eyes widen in shock at the demand while a lazy grin is spread on his face.

"b-but, caleb—"

"c'mere already," his voice is soft but the demand within it is firm.

you take a deep breath, taking slow steps towards the bed. caleb's eyes are on you the entire way, feeling how the mattress dips under your weight and watching you crawl to sit over his lap.

his hands reach out for you, grabbing hold of your hips and pulling you towards him, dragging you up over his abs and onto his chest.

"caleb, wait—"

your hands shoot out to grab onto him but he ignores your protest, lifting you up with ease right over his mouth.

"been waitin' all day to do this, baby," he breathes, hastily lowering your core closer and closer to his awaiting mouth.

"but caleb, i still have my—"

"keep them on, ill eat you out through them," he murmurs against the thin barrier, sticking his tongue out to lap at the spot of arousal as he sits you completely on him, licking and sucking at your heat through your panties.

you moan at the sensation of his tongue through the thin barrier, pleasure teetering between being not enough and a little too much as he licks and sucks at you as if he were starved.

it seems these panties in particular are doing something to him. you feel the way he's groaning against your core as his movements grow faster, tongue curling around where your entrance would be, ears red from the sounds and small begs you breathe out into the cool room.

when you notice his face going a little red, you lift yourself off of him just slightly, looking down at him concerned.

"caleb! are you okay?"

a displeased growl escapes his throat, his eyes stern as they meet yours, hands gripping your hips just a little bit harsher— you wince under the increased pressure.

"'m just fine, pipsqueak, but i can't promise you'll be if you get up again."

"but i—"

"i don't care if it looks like suffocating," he tugs at your hips, sly smirk curling up his lips.

"you know how much i hate when my mealtime gets interrupted."

with that, you're planted firmly back over his mouth, a moan ripped from your throat as he immediately gets back to work. you can't help the involuntary jerk of your hips against his mouth, seeking further friction in the pleasure with the barrier in place.

you're not sure how long has passed but you feel your core begin to tighten, your release steadily approaching.

"caleb, close," you pant, fingers tugging at his hair, practically riding his face at this point to increase the pressure enough to cum.

"yeah? gonna cum, baby?"

the thin fabric of your panties is practically soaked at this point, and caleb seems to be going a little crazier at the feel while at the same time, desperate to be tasting you properly.

with a single finger he moves the fabric to the side, slipping two long fingers into your leaking entrance as he laps at your folds. you throw your head back at the full sensation— no longer deterred from the barrier— moans increasing in volume as you continue riding his face.

his mouth is desperate as he slips his tongue in and out of you, curling his fingers just right and when he uses a thumb to play with your clit at the same time, it all feels like too much, and you tell him so, lifting your hips ever so slightly—

but caleb notices, and he's not happy.

his eyes rake up to your almost-gone expression, wondering if you've even realized what you did.

without saying anything, you feel yourself sit completely and firmly against caleb once again. when he begins the onslaught of pleasure once more, your body shaking from the sensations, you feel yourself being held down.

your eyes shoot to his narrowed ones, looking right back at you.

he's using his evol so you can't get away again.

you cry out, overwhelmed with pleasure and with a few more thrusts from his tongue and presses against your clit, you're coming all over his tongue and fingers, hips bucking against his face and satisfied hums and moans escaping your lips.

this is how it should be.

caleb keeps working his fingers inside of you, groaning and chest rumbling in satisfaction at the way your release spills into his mouth and down the bottom half of his face, welcoming the way your thighs squeeze around his head, letting you ride out your high against him.

he feels the way your body trembles above him, weak hands tugging at his short hair as he continue lapping at you, fingers still alternating their curling motions within you, albeit slower.

"too... m-much, too much caleb—"

he decides to be nice.

he slowly pulls his fingers from you, grabbing your hips steady and setting you down on his chest.

you watch each other catch your breaths, and take a look at the state the other is in.

caleb loves the dazed expression you're sporting, panting out into the air, looking absolutely spent already.

meanwhile, in the midst of your hazy high you're slowly coming down from, embarrassment begins to crawl up your system at the sight of caleb's messy hair and drenched face, no thanks to you.

you scoot back further, sitting on his abs as your hands lay flat against his pecks.

"sorry about—"

"nuh-uh, this is exactly what i wanted," he interrupts you, grinning in satisfaction.

"though..."

his voice trails off as his eyes drift down to your soaked panties.

"these," he hooks a finger through the twisted portion of it, "might be ruined."

you only laugh, sitting up on your knees. he watches you make quick work of taking them off before planting yourself back down on top of him. you lean forward, a little daringly, sly smile making its way onto your face as you rub your hands over his chest.

"those were new," you feign a pout, one hand curling into itself, index finger pointed out to drag your touch over his heart.

"you'll have to make it up to me," you lean back slightly, hands withdrawing to trail over the hem of your top.

caleb's eyes are glued to you.

"oh, do i, now?"

"yeah," you meet his teasing yet curious gaze, lifting your shirt over your head and tossing it carelessly on the floor, leaning forward again, hands flat on the pilot's chest.

you tilt your head innocently.

"how will you do it?"

in a swift motion, he grips your hips again, lifting you back up , holding you just before his lips.

"sit back down and you'll find out, princess."

-

a/n: would he be in to this? i cant tell ,but i can see it

-

[cowgirlvi]

mdni. sub-bottom ellie. top-fem reader. strap-on usage. vaginal sex. loss of virginity. squirting.

wc; 1,396

you’ve thought about fucking ellie before, but never like this—you never imagined she’d be so shy, flushed as pink as a tea rose, desperately attempting to quiet her huffs and whimpers while you kiss along her neck. for as long as you’ve known ellie, she’s been loud and unapologetic. the juxtaposition of her in bed is a startling contrast.

“hurry up,” she mutters, and her voice is so quiet it’s almost cute—unmistakable nervousness scratching at her throat.

it all started the other day when the two of you wandered into an adult toy store on a whim, giggling at the ridiculous names of different phallic-shaped objects. this is, until you spotted one in particular—

it was a black leather harness accompanied by a jelly-pink dildo, translucent and glittery on the inside. it spoke to you immediately, and not just because it was on sale.

you stretched onto your toes, plucking the beat-up box from its dusty shelf. skimming over the instructions with a slow, knowing smile, you glance up at ellie through your lashes. and the moment she caught on, her entire face burned crimson, taking a wary step back.

“huh? no way! absolutely not!”

and yet, here she is now—nude beneath you, pale legs spread, and her skin hot to the touch. your hands glide down her sides in a slow, soothing motion, mapping every dip and curve, savoring the softness of her small breasts and the subtle jut of her hipbones. though, when your eyes settle between her legs, ellie inhales sharply and tries to close them like a prey animal hiding from a predator.

”you were the one that wanted to do this, so get on with it,” ellie says lightly, but her tough facade is slipping.

”what’s with the attitude? i’m treating you nicely, aren’t i? all you’ve done is complain,” you wonder, fingers tracing lazy circles over her thigh. your voice softens, dipping into something honeyed and coaxing when you say, “you know what i think? i think you just need your pussy filled right, baby? yeahhh, you just want me to stuff your hole with my cock, maybe that’ll shut you up.”

ellie’s face burns even hotter. ”don’t say shit like that! god, you’re so weird—“

but you interrupt her, rubbing the head of your strap against her hole. it catches against her opening once, twice, three times. ellie shivers and involuntarily spreads her legs wider.

yeah. she needs her pussy filled, alright.

you hear the squelching sounds her juices make against the silicone, and the noise alone makes you throb. “your pussy’s so loud, els,” you murmur, voice heavy with desire. “wetter than i’ve ever seen before, too.”

she shoots you a glare, so you heed her silent warning and ease off, smoothing a hand up her stomach. “you sure you don’t want me to finger you some more?” you ask, serious now.

”i’m not made of glass,” ellie’s quick to reply. “just—put it in already. please.”

and really, who are you to deny a girl with such good manners?

you press the tip against her opening, watching ellie’s face for any signs of pain. finding none, you push in further, watching the soft, wet heat of her body suck you in until the head of your strap pops inside entirely.

ellie gasps, twisting her fingers in your bedsheets, creasing the baby pink fabric as she stares between her legs. she’s completely transfixed by the sight of you inside her, how her pussy is stretched around you—but the moment another inch eases inside her tight hole, her head drops back against the pillows with a whimper.

“holy shit,” you breathe. “you’re so tight, baby. i don’t know how i’m gonna fit the whole thing.”

”you’re s-seriously so embarrassing,” ellie mutters, raspy and as quiet as a whisper.

minutes pass as you work her open—slowly, gently—until you’re buried to the hilt. her pussy visibly clenches around your strap, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of having her hole filled so deeply. you stroke slow circles into her waist with your thumbs, admiring how she’s glazing your shaft with her juices.

it’s hard for you to hold back from describing the vulgar scene before you, from telling ellie how cute her pussy looks stuffed to the brim, how hard you want to fuck her, but you keep your mouth shut for her sake while she adjusts.

”okay, you—you can move now,” ellie exhales. her green eyes are hazy as if she’s already cockdrunk. 

you draw your hips back, admiring the way her walls cling to you, slick and needy. her little clit twitches where it peaks out of her labia, aching for some relief, but remembering how sensitive the little nub is, you know to save that part for last.

you thrust forward and ellie sucks in a sharp breath.

again. again. a slow, measured rhythm as you adjust your angle, and then—

”mmnh—oh, that’s g-good, babe—ahh!”

found it.

“you like that, els?” you ask, syrupy and teasing, “you look—fuck—so cute like this. mmf, can’t get enough of you.”

the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with ellie’s soft, breathy moans that are steadily escalating in volume. 

your hands slide down to grip the back of her thighs, pressing them further apart, and your fingers dig into her soft flesh, no doubt leaving marks behind. her small tits bounce with every thrust and she’s a visionary. 

one of your hands moves to paw at ellie’s breast, squeezing the small mound like a stress ball, making her hips jump. you let out a moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure when she grinds back against your thrusts, pressing the strap roughly into your clit.

ellie is completely at your mercy, all she can do is lay there and take it as your hips piston forward, the thick length of your strap plunging deep inside her warm pussy.

leaning over her, your lips brush against the shell of her ear, grunting due to the immense amount of strength behind your thrusts. 

”you’re, hah, seriously so fucking tight,” you say right against her ear, husky and wanting. “i swear i can feel you gripping me.”

”you’re fucking—ngh!” ellie’s trembling now, clenching harder around your cock as if she, too, believes you can feel her tight heat. “you’re obnoxious.”

you brace one hand on the mattress beside ellie’s head, the other one gripping the headboard tightly as you loom over her, then you start fucking her in earnest—with animalistic fervor. the force of your thrusts drives little gasps from her lips, her hips twitching up to meet yours.

you simply giggle at her and tease, “oh, i am? i’m just giving you—mmf, fuck—what you asked for.”

then, you roll your hips in a deep, filthy grind that alights goosebumps all across ellie’s skin. “holy sh—oh, fuck, right there! i’m sorry, j-just please don’t stop!” ellie cries while her back arches off the mattress.

”you close, sweetheart?” you coo and ellie nods her head quickly, so feverishly that you laugh at her again, “you love this, don’t you? who knew all you needed was my cock inside your little pussy? fuck, you’re shaking so much.”

you’re just about to drop your hand to her clit when—

ellie tenses. her pussy flutters around your cock, and all too quickly, a wild gush of liquid escapes her pussy, soaking your your abdomen and bedsheets. the force of her orgasm pushes your strap out of her hole, her body trembling as if she’s out in the dead of winter, her mouth open on a silent scream. her eyes roll back into her head, tongue lolling out dumbly, completely fucked out of her mind.

for a moment, you're just in awe, frozen in place at the intensity of ellie’s orgasm, basking in the warm wetness that drenched your torso. then you bring your fingers to her clit, massaging it in hard, slow circles to help her ride out the rest of her orgasm. 

it feels like her orgasm lasts minutes, hours, until ellie chokes on a sob and pushes your hand away. she lays on your bed, spread out like a starfish, while panting all the oxygen back into her lungs—lost in the white noise of her release.

(2/1/25)

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Danny Is A Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

(not in a necessarily bad way and it's by Clockwork's design)

Bats, or Constantine, or the JL, or whoever you want to be close to Danny in this prompt, don't notice it right away. It takes them a while to figure out its not purely coincidence. And even after they do figure it out, they still have their doubts.

The thing is, it doesn't work all the time. It also doesn't seem to have a system or a schedule to it, nor is it any kind of a superpower, as far as they can understand. By God, does Danny have way too many superpowers, but most of them are consistent, and yet this one... is weird. Weirder than anything they've seen before, and they've seen a lot, okay.

It also only works if Danny does it without thinking.

"You know what'd be perfect right now? A cheese sandwich," Danny says over the comms, in the middle of the fight with Dr. Freeze, "A warm, grilled cheese sandwich just out of the toas- Owch, what?" There's a pause. And then, "Guys, you're not gonna believe it, a cheese sandwich just smacked me in the face! I think someone threw it out of the window or something!" Danny sounds bewildered, but excited, and there's a sound of chewing from his comm now. At least he is eating, so that's good.

"I fucking hate robots," he grumbles the other day, punching his way through the Brainiac invasion in Metropolis, with no comm and only for the Supes to overhear, "No, correction, I hate only evil robots. The ones that interrupt my astronomy class. The ones that shoot motherfucking lasers and walk like crabs, and ruin a perfect day, and- I wish- aw, fuck, no, that's bad wording. Don't wish for shit. But if all these robots would just suddenly, miraculously malfunction and stop attacking me and the whole city, that would be, like, real nice of them."

A few minutes later, something goes wrong with the Brainiac's control over the army of robots, and all of them just stop moving and fall down at once. It is deemed as a chance, a lucky shot, a coincidence. Supes keeps quiet over what he heard Danny say.

"Oh, you bitch-ass fruitloop, you know what I want?" Danny yells at Plasmius, as the ghost is laughing like a madman, "I want a fucking brick to fall down right on your head, like, right now! Maybe that can set your brains straight for at least five minutes!" And even before he is finished talking, there's something falling down from the sky and hitting Plasmius's head. It's not a brick, to be exact, it's Miss Martian's shoe, though. She has no idea how it even came undone and fell from her foot. But it did somehow knock Plasmius out cold, so there's that.

It doesn't happen all the time. Red Robin does the math - the improbable accidents only happen in about 26% of the situations, given that Danny says something. It's by no means a reliable power. It also doesn't happen only during the fights: there were numerous times when Danny just said something like 'I wonder if the cafeteria serves garlic bread today' and sure enough, there's garlic bread there. Even if it was not on the menu. Ever.

They try to question Danny himself, but he has no idea. He doesn't even notice the coincidences most of the times - which is not surprising, knowing that they only happen in one out of four situations and Danny is known to have a short attention span. So, after a few unsuccessful investigations and failed attempts at calculating how this even works, they all give up. It has never jinxed anything, as far as they know, so everyone just leaves it be.

Danny is just magically lucky like that.

Meanwhile, Clockwork is having a good laugh about it. Danny's suggestions amuse him, and it's funny to watch the other superheroes having a mental breakdown over it, so he rigs the timeline from time to time. Just a little.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: noncon, yandere, omegaverse, subjugation, some type of sexism, angsty, also a little fluffy?

fem reader

Discussions about superiority and inferiority between Alphas, Betas, and Omegas have become more popular lately. It’s always been many people’s opinion that the weak should cater to those stronger than them—but a debate with that as its topic is unsavory. Unfortunately, they’ve found new ways to phrase it. 

A resonating “Unmated Omegas are a danger to themselves!” garners much more sympathy…

And with the rise of people talking about it in the media, it was only natural to move the conversation into school as well.

You keep your head bowed in class as the chill runs down your spine. You feel the glare of thirty fellow students—the points of their teeth, too, and how they snicker under their breath. It’s always been rather scary being an omega, but you can’t say you’ve ever felt quite so alone.  

The teacher’s an alpha, so why should he care how what he says impacts you? He’s preaching to the choir, and you’ve never had the right to sing. The three other Omegas in your class have all chosen to stay home. They probably have the right idea—wait it out until it all blows over.

But you don’t know when that might be… You don’t know if that will be.

Society is on the precipice of critical change—new politics, new laws, new systems, new rights that separate you from them. You wallow in fear of the outcome, lying awake at night and scrolling through the news under the safety of your duvet. The statements seem endless. You wonder, why are all politicians Alphas?

You don’t want any of the things they’re suggesting—mating homes to help you find the perfect Alpha to bond with, systematic pairings done from birth, auctions. Is no one going to suggest they put shock collars on all Alphas and Betas to keep them in check? They’re the ones who need to—

“Your scent is distracting the whole class—don’t you feel ashamed?” 

It’s too easy for him to have you bent over the desk, your wrist on your back in his big fist as he wraps his tie around them. He and his goons stand around, all smiles—watching—enjoying it. It’s as if they’ve planned the whole thing, the way two of them peel away from the crowd to grab each their pick of your feet. Parting them, they use your own shoelaces to tie them to the desk legs.

The ringleader laughs. There’s an awful smell coming off him in waves—it makes you quiver. He flips your skirt up and whistles at the sight, showing everyone your ass and cotton undies. The bulge he presses against you is enough to make your tears spill despite how hard you’d fought to keep them at bay, knowing it only arouses them further.

“Aww, don’t cry, little bitch. You should be happy,” he coos, leaning over your trapped form to whisper right at your ear. “Don’t you know? You’ll never feel happier than you will bouncing on my big Alpha dick. It’s all your little Omega cunt dreams about, isn’t it?” He snickers, fiddling with his belt buckle—you flinch at every sharp clink as he jostles the metal. “Well, salvation is here—”

“Keep it to yourself.” Another voice breaks through the sounds of hollers and cheers.

Your eyes open to see him. You despise how your heart jumps in relief.

“Oi, you—” the guy at your back challenges, stepping away from you and toward the interruption.

“Yeah, me,” he states blankly, jaded. He eyes the rest of the guys with disinterest—five betas, zero threat—before telling them, “All of you. Scram.”

They all take a step to walk out as if his voice alone had compelled them, but then the previous guy interjects, making them stop in their tracks again. “Tch—you know what they’re saying. All unmated Omegas are free game, and I won this one. So back off.”

It was like watching a match of tug-of-war.

“Heh,” the intruder laughs. “That rule only counts for Alphas.”

You spot your aggressor's fists curl—there’s a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. “I am an Alpha, asshole.”

“Really?” he feigns, sizing him up with a cocky tilt of his head. “Couldn’t tell.” He doesn’t seem fazed in light of the aggression—actually, it seems to amuse him if anything. “To me, you smell no different from all these other Beta losers.” 

He takes a casual step forward, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face—baring canines with grace.

“But if you wanna prove it, I’m ready when you are.”

It’s quiet after the declaration. The betas are unsure who’s side to pick, none of them eager to get caught in the middle. It becomes a competition purely between the two Alphas.

Without backup, your aggressor backs down and leaves.

“Thought so,” your savior jeers, showing the crowd out, closing and locking the door behind them.

It’s quiet after they’ve left.

You hide your face. Listening to his footsteps approach—he sighs when taking the place of the former guy. He doesn’t touch you, though.

“Y’know…” he starts. “That guy might be trash, but he isn’t wrong…” He picks up your skirt and drapes it back in place. “None of this would ever happen if you weren’t unmated.”

You speak through grit teeth. “Untie me.”

He chuckles familiarly at that, clicking his tongue at you. “What? Aren’t you gonna say please?” But he does what you say anyway. Squatting down, he starts with your ankles.

The scent of your fear still lingers in the air despite your tough act. You’ve always been so steadfast, ever since you were kids, even when it does you no good. He frees your feet—one, then the other, slowly—he even reties your laces into pretty bows before he’s done. 

He remembers it being so obvious. The sun rose in the morning and the moon at night, and you were supposed to be an Alpha while he a Beta at best. You promised you’d be by his side to keep him safe forever, and he wanted nothing more.

But then puberty hit, and nothing was as you’d imagined.

He stands and unknots the tie keeping your wrists restrained.

You immediately push him off—already storming away.

“Do I get no thank you, no nothing? Always so stubborn—” He grabs your arm.

You spin around, an unnatural snarl on your face. “Let go!”

You’d have been a terrifying Alpha. But as fate has it, you’re not. And you shouldn’t act like it. It only lands you in trouble.

But he doesn’t say that. 

“You been watchin’ the news?” he says instead, ignoring your cry and keeping a firm grip on your arm. “Seems like auctions are winning the voters. You know what that means?”

He feels you flinch, followed by a quiver. He can tell. No matter how good you are at hiding it. He can see—the way you’re fraying at the edges, barely holding it together. Always acting so strong. He can’t tell whether you enjoy torturing yourself or if you’re just that good at convincing yourself you’re fine.

“Pretty soon, new authorities are gonna come storming in here, roundin’ up every sorry unmated Omega they find, and put ‘em all on a farm where pompous Alphas can have their pick of the litter.”

He can never tell what you’re thinking, but he knows he doesn’t need to tell you any of this. You’re not stupid, you never have been. He knows you already know. But…

“You should decide now while it’s still your choice.” 

You must be terrified. He understands. But truly… it’s obvious what you have to do, isn’t it?

“It’s not like you have many options.”

It’s obvious. It always has been.

You don’t meet his eyes. You haven’t for a long while. Actually, you haven't since both of you got your test results. He understands this wasn’t what you had in mind, but you can’t afford to mope about it forever—

“How am I supposed to choose any Alpha when you’re all such assholes…”

Your mutter stunts him. It wasn’t what he expected. Or, the words were more or less exactly something he’d expect from you, but that voice—quiet and soft, dangling on the brink of sweet. If you’d said anything else, he’d have taken it as a confession.

“Can't argue with that,” he ends up chuckling again.

You hate how easy this is for him. He would cry at every turn when you were kids. It’s unfair. 

“But you can’t keep doing this, either,” he states. His voice is soft, paired with that ugly authority they all have when talking to you—talking down to you. “Just look where it gets you—scared and exhausted because of it. At least have the brains to stay home.” He says it as if it’s a joke, but you both know it isn’t. His chuckles are light—far from fullhearted.

He bends down, trying to find your eyes. He still holds onto your arm, knowing you’d sooner stomp away than listen to him. His other hand brushes your cheek gently, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You hear the call from the rafters—it’s not about what you want anymore. It’s about what you need.”

That’s what they say, isn’t it? What you need. You want to slap him. Scratch him with claws, bite his throat out—make him choke on his own words. Need? What you need is for them all to fuck off.

You mean to say it with the same sentiment, but something hard and rough in your throat makes all your words come out wobbly. “Mate an Alpha to stay safe from other Alphas. What a joke.”

You bow your head further. The tears return. They burn as they trail down the sore streaks from before.

He’s never seen you like this. He won’t lie, it makes his pants tight—feeling the urge to suck your cheeks, hold you close and comfort you. But knowing you right, you’d probably never let him. Your face would probably scrunch up in disgust, punch his gut, knee his groin, then turn on your heel and leave him on the floor wheezing.

You really would have made the most terrifying Alpha. 

“The world isn’t fair,” he agrees. “But you get nowhere cryin’ about it—do it my way, and you’ll never—”

“Have any freedom,” you cut him off with a sniffle. 

It’s about the most adorable thing he’s seen in his life.

He gets why you don’t like Alphas—they’re all gross. He makes himself sick sometimes. He can’t believe he’s getting off on watching you have a mental breakdown. There’s something seriously wrong with his side of the species. His throat’s tight, mouth watery with the urge to reap your vulnerability. 

Suppressing it only makes his inner beast furious. Some of that aggression comes out in his next words.

“I’m sorry, but the world doesn’t give a shit about your freedom.” 

The grip around your arm tightens, and you look up in shock—watching his narrowed eyes through your watery ones. 

“What you need is safety—now more than ever. Or do you like being preyed on by every Alpha around the corner?” 

Your bottom lip trembles at the reality of it—a little while ago, you were almost— 

“One of these days, I'm not gonna be here in time, and you’ll be a slave to some fucking—” 

He huffs and hangs his head. His hand loosens up—it trembles where he holds you in place.

“In all honesty, I think I’m more scared than you,” he whispers under his breath. “I think I might kill—”

He stops himself again. You don’t know if it’s in an effort not to frighten you or himself.

“Speak about needs…” he begins anew, now softer. “I need to know you’re safe. I need to—” He looks up. His eyes are back to being round. “I need you more than you need me, probably.”

There’s a desperation on his face. It almost looks like he’s on the verge of tears himself.

“So… please?” he begs. “Will you keep me safe like you promised and stay by my side?”

Your tears dry and prickle. Looking into his eyes now, you see the same boy you knew back in your childhood—that one who’d chase you all over even when you’d call him a sniveling crybaby. You realize, Alpha or not, he hadn’t changed all that much at all. 

“It’s not like you need my permission,” you end up saying.

You’ve always been so hard-headed. He has to smile. “No, but I want it.”

You nibble your lip. You can’t believe you’re at the mercy of this big dumb hunk of… you don’t have the words to describe him. He wasn’t exactly a crybaby anymore. 

“Okay. You win.” 

His eyes widen as you bear your neck with a stretch. Head high and shoulders slack. 

You swallow thickly. “Get it over with.”

He shudders at the sight. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but now it almost seemed too soon. 

“We should be supervised by a professional—you know how wrong things can go—”

“Hurry up before I change my mind.” Your eyes remain shut, and your lips pursed.

His tongue grows thick in his mouth at your bark. A sudden stroke of performance anxiety makes his palms sweaty, hands heavy and shaking. But then the sight of your soft neck has his mood shift, becoming drowsy.

He has no control over the growl that begins rumbling from his gut.

But he doesn’t apologize for it either.

He bends forward—breaths on your chest before he licks your throat. You can’t help but whimper at the warmth. He watches you through hooded eyes—your usually angry face is now all cute, riddled with anxiety you try hiding paired with the grim anticipation of pain.

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing the spot softly. He sways you against him, then lifts you up on the desk for you to sit. Grazing your neck with teeth when feeling your hands tangle two fistfuls of his shirt. He expects you to push him away, but you don’t—you tug him closer instead as if silently telling him to hurry up.

But he doesn’t want to rush, doesn’t want to lose himself—that’s how accidents happen. So he sticks to sucking gently, only tiny nibbles that leave your skin hot and lightly bruised in their wake.

You give a moan once he finds the spot, and he growls in restraint upon the pretty sound—feeling you relax despite being threatened with his teeth right at your artery. He almost humps your leg in return, feeling the boil of blood pump him hot and heavy in his pants—breaths turning equally hot and heavy, each one laced with rust.

Drool coated your neck in a cool sheen, soothing the marks made beneath it, while his lips and fangs aroused pleasure in the spot that now ached for the sting of his bite.

“Please,” slipped from your mouth while tugging him closer. 

His eyes, completely drunk on the pretty prayer, had only a slim rim of color left surrounding the hungering bottomless pits, blown full and black with opium.

No one could come and take you away from him now. Not with his print so pretty on your neck. You were his—just as you were always supposed to be.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Natsuo, Amajiki, Mirio ♡ JJK – Yuji, Yuuta ♡ HQ – Kuro, Miya twins ♡ DS – Tanjiro, Zenitsu

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[starkeyisthelastname]

Dilf/Husband!Rafe who could spend hours between your thighs 👅🍍 (thank you to my babe @rafesthroatbaby for being my muse for this!)

He may have been in his thirties, but he didn’t shy away when it came to eating pussy. When he did eat you out, he took his time and didn’t want any interruptions. He’d make sure the kids were gone, leaving the house empty so that you could moan as loud as you wanted while he made you feel good. He’d spend all day spoiling you, new Chanel still in its box, full set fresh, a beautiful dinner out on the water. He gave you the best because you deserved it. He certainly wasn’t easy to put up with and you were such a goddamn good mom, an amazing wife, and he loved to give you everything he possibly could.

He’d make sure you were comfortable, admiring your curves as you laid naked on the plush mattress. He’d settle between your thighs, spreading you open as he looked at the gorgeous view of your cunt right in front of him. “Such a beautiful fucking pussy.” He mumbled, his blue eyes then glancing up at you. It was a look that always sent a shiver down your spine and made your stomach flutter.

As soon as his tongue got his first taste of the night he was devouring you whole or at least that’s what it felt like. His striking cerulean eyes never left yours as he watched you come undone from his skillful mouth. Your expensive manicure would dig into his soft hair, holding him still as he sucked greedily on your aching clit. His deep groans vibrated against your soaked core, your sweet taste leaking onto his tongue non stop.

“R-rafe baby… shit…” You moaned loudly, curling your pretty toes against his muscled back. The way he ate pussy was a gift, and was all for you to have. His nose rubbed perfectly against your clit as he buried his tongue inside you, making you cry out beautifully.

Your lower stomach was on fire, your breath catching in your throat as you felt your orgasm starting to approach quickly. He let out a breathless laugh, tongue coming out to lick at your swollen pearl before sucking it into his mouth again. “Cum all over my fucking tongue baby. You know how I love that sweet shit.” He spoke low between taking sweet nips at your clit.

You threw your head back against the fluffy pillows, squeezing your thighs together as you cried out his name through an intense orgasm. He was quick to make you remember who was still in charge here and yanked them back open. “Keep your fuckin’ legs open, you know better when I’m trying to taste you.” He told you firmly, before the sound of his mouth taking a thirsty gulp made your head spin all over again.

[livwritesstuff]

i went on a deep dive of the Steve & Hopper ao3 tag yesterday and and it got me thinking about what would happen if Chief of Police Hopper ran into Steve and Eddie while he was on patrol after pseudo-adopting Steve, and it’s been long enough that Hopper is sort of a safe-person for Steve so Steve goes into full-fledged bitch mode when Hopper tries to pull cop stuff on them, and Eddie (who knew about none of this because Steve is a chronic under-sharer) is so totally baffled.

He’d spent years watching Steve sweet-talk his way out of trouble. Even before they started hooking up it used to drive Eddie goddamn insane, because if (when) Eddie pulled any of this shit Steve gets away with, he’d be totally screwed, but all Steve has to do is flash a sheepish grin and run a hand through his hair once or twice and say, all baleful, “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” and he’s home free.

It has its perks though, or so he's learned during his last few months of hanging around with Steve, so when Steve and Eddie’s make-out session is interrupted by the tell-tale red and blue lights of a cop car pulling up behind where Steve parked the Beemer a few hundred yards down a maintenance road, Eddie’s not all that worried. In fact, he’s got a pretty good amount of faith in Steve’s ability to spin up some story to keep them out of any real trouble, and as Chief Hopper ambles over to them, Eddie prepares himself for a whole show of, “Yes Chief, sorry Chief, it won’t happen again Chief.”

So imagine Eddie's complete and utter surprise when Hopper barks, “Hey, morons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” and Steve only rolls his eyes and says, “What’s it to you?”

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

“Steve,” he mutters through gritted teeth. He tries to elbow Steve into shutting the hell up, but he misses because Steve has already taken several steps forward to meet Hopper, his face turned up in a kind of defiance Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him before.

“What’s it to me?” Hopper repeats, glowering at Steve, “It’s midnight. I’m on patrol. You’ve got one of the most recognizable cars in this entire damn town parked in a restricted-access zone with this idiot–” Hopper gestures at Eddie (Eddie didn’t think the pointing or the idiot were necessary, but clearly, clearly, he’s missing something here), “–who’s been dragged into my station more times than I could count.”

“The town line, Hop, is over there,” Steve says, pointing at an indiscriminate spot over Hop’s shoulder that may or may not be part of the Hawkins town line, “We’re not even in Hawkins anymore. You’re totally out of your jurisdiction.”

“You wanna know something about jurisdiction, smart-ass?” Hopper asks, “If my report says shit happened in my jurisdiction, it happened in my jurisdiction.”

“Wow,” Steve deadpans, “Way to not sound totally corrupt. Nice work, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw twitches for a second, and he’s clearly debating if he wants to keep arguing with Steve who, to Steve’s credit, looks like he’s got debate in him for days. Ultimately though, Hopper decides against it and stalks back over to his squad car.

“If you’re not home by one there’s gonna be hell to pay. You hear me, Harrington?” Hopper yells, “One AM. Hell to pay.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve rolls his eyes, “Totally hear you. One AM. Loud and clear or whatever.”

Steve flips the cruiser both birds as it peels away, which Hopper only flashes his high beams at a couple times before he’s gone, kicking up a bunch of dirt and mulch and leaves in his wake, and Steve is wearing an exasperated expression as he turns to face Eddie again.

“God, he’s so annoying. Let’s just go to my house.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie repeated, gesturing wildly towards where Hopper’s car had just been.

“Wha– you mean with Hop?”

“Uh, yeah?!?”

Steve just brushed him off, “Whatever, just ignore him. He’s basically my dad.”

“What?”

EDIT: read the expanded fic on AO3 :)

[g1rld1ary]

bothersome - james potter x gn!reader

wc: 1047

summary: you and james can't help but bother each other whenever you sit together in class

me: this was so sweet and fun to write i love having someone to annoy in classes <3 it's also 2:30am rn so if anything doesn't make sense its coz im delirious! i believe r is gn/no pronouns used by lmk if i have slipped up!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“shut up!” you hissed, a laugh threatening to spill out of you. james shook his head with a devious grin.

“am i not entertaining you?” he pretended to be hurt, pulling puppy dog eyes as he leant closer.

“you,” you pushed his face away with your hand, “are impeding on my education. i would like to listen to mcgonagall, thank you.” you really did try to focus on what your professor was saying, but james was making it exceedingly difficult.

james was twirling his wand between the fingers of his non-dominant hand, a habit you both found entrancing and incessantly annoying. you loved watching the muscles and ligaments stretching and transforming, james’ hands were endlessly interesting to you. however, it was really impacting your ability to focus on transfiguration.

“five galleons for you to flick it on the floor,” you whispered, shifting even closer so only james would hear it. he looked over at you, momentarily surprised by the lack of space between your faces, then straightened himself out, pulling on his signature mischief-making smile.

“you really should know better than to make a bet with me, love,” he chided playfully.

then you were watching it happen. the wand running smoothly between james’ long fingers before flinging through the air, halfway across the classroom. because james potter never did anything by half, the wand gained impressive velocity, flying over the head of marlene mckinnon and lily evans who sat in front of her, clattering loudly on the floor by lily’s feet.

mcgonagall paused her lecture, eyes zeroing in on the wand. before she could ask any questions, james was up like a rocket, apologising loudly and dramatically to the whole class as you slapped a hand over your mouth to stop any mortified giggles seeping out.

“mister potter, may i suggest keeping your wand out of your hands when not casting spells?”

“of course, professor. honestly, i don’t know what came over me — some sort of seizure, perhaps?” james was far too coy to be genuine, and everyone knew it. still, mcgonagall only gave him a long stare, then resumed her lecture as james made the humiliating walk of shame back to his seat.

“pay up,” james whispered, nudging you enthusiastically. you sighed, dramatising your upset. you drudged around in your robe pockets for a few coins, putting them silently in james’ outstretched hand.

you quickly redirected your focus to the lecture unfolding before you, naively believing james was done with your attention.

“do you think if we asked really nicely, minnie would let us hex all the slytherins so their skin’s green for a week?” he asked in what was definitely too loud for the circumstances, affirmed by mcgonagall reprimanding him.

“mister potter, i hope this is not you trying to interrupt my class.” she stared him down as you covered your face with your hands beside him. “if you were creating distractions after your… medical episode, i would suggest that you were perhaps ill? perhaps unable to attend quidditch training this afternoon?”

that certainly got james’ attention and he shook his head vehemently, falling dead silent for the remainder of the lesson.

whilst you were safe for the remainder of transfiguration, in potions he was back in full force.

“why do you do this to me?” you sighed good-naturedly as james slipped into the bench next to you. “what if i was saving that seat for someone?”

“you don’t have any other friends. it’s not kind to lie, love.” james’ eyes twinkled in a way that distracted you for a moment before you came to your senses and huffed.

“i have friends, idiot. you just keep taking up all my time so i can’t ever hang out with them.”

“you love me,” james sang, throwing an arm around your shoulder. you shrugged it off, trying your best to look annoyed.

“i tolerate you, and even that’s being kind.” you pushed him away as slughorn approached the front of the classroom to start his spiel.

you barely got through the first five minutes before james was getting restless, straying from class notes to writing dumb jokes and poking you until you caved and read them.

a particularly dirty one had you snorting down at your desk and praying no one would notice. james delighted in your breaking, grasping your arm and shaking you around as he laughed until you had to hit him.

“you’re so annoying,” you hissed, your tone unfortunately lacking any bite.

you reached your quill over to james’ paper, scratching out a childish james potter is a huge idiot!

james’ mouth dropped open in faux despair, screwing his features and thinking up a reply.

you’re an idiot he replied.

so creative

shut up. you’re annoying

“are we having issues over here? does anybody need another piece of parchment?” slughorn surprised you both. you didn’t realise you’d been so distracted writing stupid messages over james’ notes you hadn’t even heard him approach.

“no!” you jumped away from james, inches between you. “i just wanted, uh, clarification on the, uh, application. sorry.” james did nothing to help you, just nodding serenely and relying on the charm of his smile.

“alright,” slughorn nodded as if he didn’t believe a word you said, “if you need any help you’re more than welcome to schedule a meeting with me after class.”

“of course, thanks, professor.” you smiled meekly, embarrassment clear on your features.

as soon as slughorn’s back was turned, you were hitting james in the bicep repeatedly, punishment for humiliating you. unfortunately, he took it in stride, easily overpowering you and manhandling you so you were facing back towards your paper.

“you heard him,” james teased, “and if you have to stay back after class you’ll lose all that precious time to hang out with your alleged other friends.”

“i literally hate you.”

sirius and remus sat behind you both, observing the class with identical disbelieving looks.

“there is no way they don’t realise,” sirius said, eyes wide and eyebrows raised.

“i really don’t think they do.” remus shook his head, scribbling down the instructions slughorn was listing from his desk.

“are they stupid?”

“worse. crushing.”