#vanity selection

[aetherdesign]

The Importance of Size and Proportion in Choosing the Perfect Bathroom Vanity

Selecting the right bathroom vanity is about more than just choosing a beautiful design; it's about finding the right balance of size and proportion to create harmony in your space. A vanity that’s too large or too small can throw off the room’s flow, making it feel cramped or unbalanced. On the other hand, a well-chosen vanity will naturally complement the layout, enhancing both the room's functionality and aesthetic appeal. Understanding the significance of size and proportion helps guide your decision, ensuring the vanity aligns with both your bathroom's needs and your personal style.

Optimizing Space Utilization

The size of your vanity directly impacts how effectively your bathroom’s space is used. In smaller rooms, a bulky vanity can dominate the area, leaving little room for movement or other essential fixtures. Opting for a more compact vanity can free up space while still providing ample storage. In larger bathrooms, however, there’s more flexibility to choose a vanity that offers generous counter space and storage. By working with a bathroom vanity service, you can ensure your vanity is appropriately sized for your space, contributing to an efficient, well-balanced layout.

Striking the Right Proportions

Along with size, proportion plays a crucial role in achieving a balanced look. If the vanity is too large for the space, it can overwhelm the room; too small, and it may seem out of place. The key is to select a vanity that complements the size of the room, maintaining visual harmony. For bathrooms with high ceilings or expansive layouts, a larger vanity with clean lines or double sinks can create a sleek, modern vibe. Conversely, smaller spaces benefit from more proportional designs that blend smoothly with the rest of the fixtures. Properly proportioned vanities contribute to a cohesive and inviting atmosphere that feels spacious, without being too crowded or too bare.

Maximizing Storage without Compromising Space

The right vanity is not only about appearance but also about practical functionality, especially when it comes to storage. A vanity that fits your space will provide just the right amount of storage for your needs—whether that’s towels, toiletries, or other essentials. In larger bathrooms, you might need a bigger vanity to accommodate more items, while a smaller powder room may only require a minimalist design. By assessing your storage needs alongside the room’s size, a bathroom vanity service can help you choose a vanity that meets your aesthetic preferences while providing the functionality you need.

Creating an Open, Airy Feel

With the right choice of size and proportions, a vanity can help make a bathroom feel more spacious. In smaller rooms, opting for floating or wall-mounted vanities can create the illusion of more floor space, making the room appear larger. Even in more expansive bathrooms, the right-sized vanity can help maintain a sense of openness by avoiding overcrowding or unnecessary clutter. By carefully selecting the perfect vanity size and design, you can enhance the feeling of your bathroom, ensuring it’s both practical and visually appealing.

By focusing on size and proportion, you can find a bathroom vanity that not only fits your space but also enhances its usability and charm. With the expertise of a bathroom vanity service, you can select a solution that is perfectly suited to your bathroom’s layout and your everyday needs.

[alisonzai]

[thegreatyin]

the scoundrel is such a humble creature.

[coochiequeens]

She's only 21 and she's already planning on using multiple women for vanity surrogacies?

JoJo Siwa recently shared her plans to become a mother of three children with the help of surrogacy. The 21-year-old singer and former Dance Moms star revealed that she wants to have three babies carried and delivered by three different surrogates. This decision is due to JoJo being gay and needing to plan her pregnancy differently than a straight person.

In a video posted by Cosmopolitan, JoJo explained that she intends to fertilize three eggs and have three surrogates carry them. This way, the babies will all be from the same batch but born separately. She even mentioned that she hopes their birthdays will land on different days so they can be like triplets, but not exactly.

JoJo has already picked out names for her future children, a baby girl named Freddie and twin boys named Eddy and Teddy. She even has a sperm donor lined up and is ready to start the process, although she acknowledges that she needs to be patient and wait a few years.

The singer emphasized that she makes it clear to her partners early on that she plans to have three children with specific names. JoJo expressed her excitement about welcoming her future kids, referring to them as her “nuggets” and stating that nothing comes before them.

Aside from her surrogacy plans, JoJo Siwa has undergone a significant transformation from her early days as a child star to her current status as a pop icon. She has achieved various milestones throughout her career, from winning awards to giving back to the community.

JoJo has also been open about her personal life, coming out as gay and celebrating Pride with her girlfriend. Her journey in the entertainment industry reflects her growth and evolution as an artist and individual.

As JoJo continues to pursue her dreams of motherhood and musical success, fans can expect to see more of her inspiring story unfold in the years to come. Her courage and authenticity serve as a reminder that it’s essential to stay true to oneself and follow your heart, no matter the challenges that may arise.

"Not only that, but she rehearsed her new choreography with her new girlfriend and professional dancer, Madison Rouge Alavarado. The two were even seen kissing outside of LAX on May 30."

[burnt-tortellini]

stressing abt y10 mocks is so stupid because like… im gonna enlist into the RAF in like two years guys this literally doesnt matter

[earthling-wolf]

Unseelie (Disagreeable Te-Fi)

Selective Approval & Devotion

The Unseelie attitude will constantly and unconsciously pinge their emotional register for how they feel about everything, responding with affection or acute repulsion reactions. They will be disgust-sensitive, carrying a specific emotional and aesthetic palate, registering things as tasteful or "gross." They will not be afraid to call something unethical or revolting by its rightful name and will make their opinion known without apologizing. Unlike the Seelie attitude, who is willing to be generous towards people and situations --seeking to highlight the beauty beneath things-- the Unseelie person feels there is no excuse for something unseemly, amoral, or cruel that does not deserve to be excused. However, this may cause them to appear highly selective and difficult to please. They may develop a reputation as being standoffish or cold. They may be misunderstood as being ill-willed when they are instead merely standing for what they value and consider good. While initially guarded, the Unseelie attitude will be a very gentle and sweet presence to all who can get past their initial barriers, revealing themselves to be loyal and ever-honest friends.

Self-Focus & Idiosyncrasy

The Unseelie person will be self-possessed, righteously independent and exhibit that through unusual habits and appearances. They will dress in ways that encapsulate their individuality, having little regard for how aligned it is to the cultural norm. Unafraid to be seen as bizarre, the Unseelie person is eccentric, idiosyncratic, and bold. Focusing on their own needs and values first, these adamant non-conformists will fight for their right to their body, their gender, and their expression. Like a rose behind glass --poised, elegant but protected-- they may elicit the feeling of being ever out of reach. Moreover, while the Unseelie individual may enjoy this adulation, they are not primarily motivated by it. Their conscious goal may be to allow their existing nature --or nature itself-- to speak through them, becoming a vessel or vehicle for what is already inside. If they take a liking for theatre, music, or dance, their illustrations will be dramatic, carrying themes of sexuality, primal displays, and romance.

Bluntness

The Unseelie type is notoriously blunt in their verbal delivery. Not beating around the bush, they will convey their opinion with a deadpan face. Wonderful or bad news may be relayed with the same monotone voice or with a glimmer of sarcasm. They may have no problem telling someone they are fired, telling a lover their relationship is over, or negatively criticizing people's works or art. However, this can eventually expand into a highly calloused view of life where any appreciation for sensitivity is omitted. They may respond to the tragedies or hardships of others with "get over it" and lack sympathy for themselves or anyone else. Over time, this habit may excommunicate them from friend groups- a causality they may feel indifferent to initially but personally weighed by later. They may be branded the local "asshole," shrugging it off or biting back in equal measure. Hiding behind this rebellious front, the Unseelie person may have lost the ability to convey their transparent feelings to others when it truly matters to them. They will struggle with vulnerability and the opening of their heart. Coming off as guarded even when they intend to appear sincere, the Unseelie person may be forced to show their affection for others through indirect means, being highly generous with their time, money, or resources and hoping their feelings can somehow reach the other person.

-Under Stress

Vanity & Self-Obsession

When highly distressed, the Unseelie attitude becomes obsessed with their appearance, social status, and personal value. As hardships cause devastation to their self-esteem, it starts to matter terribly that others think them beautiful and valuable. What was once genuine self-expression becomes a necessary channel for attention. Their self-focus deteriorates into vanity. Their desire to embody beauty becomes an obsession to receive external approval and to fill an emotional abyss. They may come to feel they only matter if they are beautiful and can embody elegance in the world. They may become exhibitionists, raising the stakes higher and more revealing than most in their attire and words. Narcissism grows in them, which can progress into a desire to be exalted and adored as royalty. However, unfortunately, one is never enough: never beautiful enough, rich enough, or important enough, which eventually devolves into jealousy, bitterness, and petty hatred towards others who sit higher than them in any competing domain.

Bitchiness

This pettiness degrades over time into a foul character marked by passive-aggressiveness, slandering, and prejudice. Here, the stressed individual exemplifies genuine malicious intent towards others, coordinating underhanded tactics to sabotage relationships and defame their enemies. They may gossip behind their backs, distorting people's opinions and setting people up for public humiliation. The Unseelie type under stress comes to be known as a "bitch" or snob, rejecting people based on lower status and power. They will use these tactics to secure their position in power, simultaneously validating their opinion of themselves. However, this power dynamic may just as easily backfire and cause the Unseelie type to become the subject of ridicule and excommunication when their ill-willed motivations are known. They play a dangerous game of fraud and fame, risking love and reputation. However, deep down, they may be indifferent to these outcomes, motivated not just by a desire for status but just as much by a misanthropic view and resentment towards people.

Morbidity & Macabre

However, an Unseelie attitude never loses its ability to glare directly into the character of living beings, including themselves. More than anyone, they may become painfully aware of how their life stress, disenchantment, and bitterness have corrupted their heart into a thrashing, injured, disfigured life form. Like the Seelie attitude, they intrinsically understand humanity as having an animal nature. When injuries have distorted their hearts, they will view themselves as a certain kind of monster --one that is wretched, desperate, and irredeemable. However, not only them; the Unseelie type peers into the depths of our human carnality and finds every grotesquerie imaginable. Moreover, they often embody this in art forms through morbidity and macabre. The art of the Unseelie person may be deeply offensive, shocking, explicit, and saturated with horror themes as they seek to paint as undiluted an image as possible of what they sense constitutes the uncensored reality of being. Often disturbingly sexual, frightening, and taboo -- they shy not away from any content matter, wanting to capture pain, sorrow, heartbreak, hopelessness, and every human experience in as true a form as can exist, bizarre as it may seem, the Unseelie individual is fulfilling their original mission of providing a transparent lens into the human soul, all that we shun and repress becomes the content matter for Unseelieness to elucidate.

[derbophobia]

the absolute worst thing about me is that i write poetry and yet often do not want to read other peoples poems. i just have such specific taste and worry i will find their poem to suck shit and no matter how hard i try they will be able to tell i think their poem is dookie nonsense. but i am always like "well yes obviously my poem is not dookie nonsense and everyone will love it regardless of taste"

[bradshawplumbing]

key Factors for Selecting the bathroom vanity for Toronto

The vanity serves as the focal point of the bathroom, combining storage, style, and practicality. With a myriad of options available, selecting the right one can be overwhelming. Here are five essential factors to consider when choosing the perfect bathroom vanity:

Size and Layout: Begin by assessing the size and layout of your bathroom. Measure the available space carefully to ensure that the vanity fits seamlessly without overcrowding the area. Consider the placement of plumbing fixtures and doors to optimize functionality.

Style and Design: Your bathroom vanity should reflect your personal style and complement the overall aesthetic of the space. Whether you prefer modern minimalism, classic elegance, or rustic charm, there is a wide range of styles to choose from. Select a vanity with finishes and hardware that coordinate with other elements in the bathroom, such as faucets, lighting, and tiles, for a cohesive look.

Storage Needs: Evaluate your storage needs to determine the type of vanity that best suits your requirements. Consider the number of drawers, cabinets, and shelves needed to organize toiletries, towels, and other essentials. A combination of open and closed storage allows for easy access to everyday items while keeping clutter at bay.

Countertop Material: The countertop material not only contributes to the vanity’s aesthetic appeal but also affects its durability and maintenance requirements. Popular options include marble, granite, quartz, and laminate, each offering unique advantages in terms of appearance and functionality.

Budget and Quality: Establish a budget for your bathroom renovation project and prioritize quality when selecting a vanity. While it may be tempting to opt for the most affordable option, investing in a durable and well-crafted vanity will pay off in the long runme.

[ahqkas]

Do you think you could a reverse of you "attractive things they do without realizing" with the bat boys?

♯ ATTRACTIVE THINGS YOU DO . . . that make them go crazy ! — part 1

— fem!reader, suggestive thoughts, mention of reader’s hair

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE

simply attending gala with him

the gala was in full swing, the soft hum of conversation and the tinkling of crystal glasses weaving through the grand hall. bruce wayne stood at the center of it all, the undisputed star of the evening, yet his focus wasn’t on the crowd. it was on you.

you stood beside him, your hand lightly wrapped around his forearm, a subtle yet intimate gesture that spoke things without saying a word. the way your fingers rested there, so effortlessly claiming him as yours, sent a warmth spreading through his chest—a feeling that, for once, wasn’t from the weight of responsibility or the burden of his double life. it was softer, lighter. it was you.

bruce’s sharp eyes, trained to assess every detail in a room, couldn’t help but linger on you. the dress you wore was nothing short of perfection—not that it could have been anything else. he had ensured it. every stitch, every line, every fold of fabric had been crafted with you in mind. he had selected the finest material, rich and smooth beneath the touch, ensuring it draped over your figure with the kind of elegance that turned heads the moment you stepped into a room.

the deep hue of the gown complemented his suit nicely, catching the light in subtle ways, as though it, too, was vying for his attention. the neckline framed your collarbones delicately, and the way the fabric hugged your form made it impossible for his mind not to wander to how well he knew every curve beneath. the gentle train swirled around your heels like liquid, moving with you in an almost hypnotic rhythm, every step making his heart beat just a little faster.

bruce had commissioned it specifically for you, worked with the designer himself to ensure it would fit you like a second skin—tailored to highlight everything he found most captivating about you. it wasn’t just vanity, though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t relish the way every person in the room couldn’t help but notice you. no, it was deeper than that. dressing you in the finest fabrics, wrapping you in elegance, was his way of saying what words often couldn’t: you’re extraordinary, and the world should know it.

to you, he wasn’t just bruce wayne, gotham’s elusive billionaire. he wasn’t the brooding vigilante who prowled the night. he was just . . . bruce. and in that moment, he felt more real, more whole, than he had in years.

he tilted his head slightly, glancing down at you, and his lips tugged into the faintest of smiles—a rare expression, softer than most would ever see. the subtle scent of your perfume reached him as you leaned closer to whisper something, your voice a low melody against the backdrop of the room. he didn’t even catch the words; he was too lost in the curve of your smile, the way your lashes brushed your cheeks when you blinked, the warmth of your touch radiating through the fabric of his suit.

his thoughts betrayed him, wandering ahead to a quieter moment later, when the gala was over, and it was just the two of you again. but for now, he stood tall, the perfect host, his hand moving to cover yours on his arm. his thumb brushed against your knuckles, a silent gesture of affection and gratitude. he didn’t say it aloud—he didn’t need to—but he was thinking it with every fiber of his being: you’re the most beautiful thing in this room, and you don’t even know it.

seeing you work at his office

bruce leaned back in his leather chair, the polished desk between you serving as the only barrier to his unraveling thoughts. you stood on the other side, flipping through a file with the kind of focus that made his chest tighten, utterly oblivious to the effect you were having on him. the pencil skirt you wore hugged your hips in a way that felt almost sinful, every line and contour designed to torment him. the fabric clung just right, emphasizing the curve of your waist and the sway of your body each time you shifted. and then there was the blouse—white, crisp, and perfectly fitted, the faintest hint of skin peeking where the buttons strained against your figure. it was driving him to the edge.

the sharp click of your heels echoed softly as you moved around the room, your voice calm and professional as you recounted details of a recent meeting, flipping a page in the file without missing a beat. but bruce wasn’t listening. not really. his gaze followed the way your fingers smoothed the papers, delicate but deliberate, and his mind betrayed him. those same hands . . . what would they feel like tangled in his hair, tugging him closer? or splayed against his chest, nails dragging lightly as he pressed you against the wall?

he shifted in his seat, jaw tightening as he tried to force himself back to the present. but it was impossible. the way the soft material of your blouse tucked into that pencil skirt left just enough to the imagination while teasing at everything he wanted to do to you. his mind raced ahead, envisioning the fabric bunched around your hips, your voice losing its composed edge as he silenced every word with his lips

you glanced up at him suddenly, your eyes catching his, and for a moment, his composure faltered. his sharp blue gaze was darker now, focused entirely on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. his tongue darted across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“are you almost finished?”

“just a few more minutes.”

his thoughts raced ahead, imagining the way your name would sound falling from his lips, low and rough, as he pulled you into his lap. how your soft gasps would fill the room, mingling with the shuffle of papers and the creak of leather as his control finally slipped. bruce’s mind was already plotting, already deciding just how many minutes he’d let you finish your work before he gave in.

DICK GRAYSON

the quiet hum of the city filtered through the slightly cracked window, the distant sounds of gotham settling into the night. dick sat cross-legged on the couch, his hair still damp from a quick shower after patrol, wearing a loose gray shirt and sweatpants. you were tucked into the corner of the couch, legs pulled up to your chest with your arms wrapped around them, your chin resting on your knees. there was something so effortlessly comfortable about the way you curled into yourself, the soft glow of the lamp painting your features in warm hues.

he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger, caught by the way the corners of your lips curved into a gentle smile as you listened to him recount something ridiculous wally had said earlier. it wasn’t just your smile, though it always had a way of knocking the air out of his lungs—it was the way your gaze stayed fixed on him, warm and attentive, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world right now.

“are you even listening?” he teased, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he tilted his head to catch your gaze more fully.

you laughed softly, a sound that melted into the quiet of the room like it belonged there. “i am,” you insisted, shifting slightly to prop your chin higher on your knees, the movement drawing his attention to the curve of your bare shoulders beneath the oversized sweatshirt you were wearing—his sweatshirt, he realized with a pang of fondness.

“good,” he said, his voice softer now, his lips curving into an easy smile. but he didn’t pick up where he left off. instead, he found himself studying the little things: the way your hair framed your face, the way your eyes glimmered with quiet amusement, the small, almost unconscious sway of your head as you rested against your knees.

“don’t stop,” you murmured, your smile widening.

dick chuckled, shaking his head. “i wasn’t sure if my story could compete with . . . well, you,” he said, his tone light but tinged with the kind of sincerity that always made your chest tighten.

“flatterer,” you teased, but the way your cheeks warmed didn’t escape him.

when you arch your back in a chair

he had only meant to grab a drink and check in with you, but the second he entered the room and saw you sitting at the table, all coherent thought vanished. he froze in place, his gaze drawn to you like a moth to a flame. you were leaning forward in your chair, your elbows braced on the table and your back arched just slightly as you studied whatever had your focus. it was innocent—completely unintentional—but to him, it was anything but.

the way your shirt clung to your frame as you bent forward made his mouth go dry, the curve of your back teasing him in ways that had his imagination running wild. his eyes lingered on the dip of your waist, the way the soft fabric stretched just enough over your hips, and he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering further—thinking about how easy it would be to step behind you, trail his hands down that arch, and pull you closer.

dick swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away, but it was hopeless. his gaze snapped back to you as if on instinct, and this time, it wasn’t just the curve of your back that had his attention. it was the way your body moved, every subtle shift of your weight making his thoughts spiral deeper. he could almost feel the press of your skin against his palms, the heat of you beneath his hands as he tipped you just slightly further forward . . .

jesus, get it together, grayson, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair and trying to clear his head. but the damage was done, and now every inch of him was on edge, his pulse thrumming in his ears. it wasn’t fair how effortlessly you drove him crazy—how just existing could send his thoughts careening into territory that made him shift uncomfortably in place.

you glanced up suddenly, breaking him out of his haze. “hey, you good?” you asked, your brows furrowing slightly in concern.

the sound of your voice jolted him back to reality, though his heart was still racing. “fine,” he managed, his voice just a little rougher than usual. he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool despite the heat simmering beneath his skin.

but you weren’t convinced. there was a hint of amusement in your eyes as you leaned back slightly in your chair, giving him that knowing smile that always made his knees weak. “you sure?”

dick’s jaw clenched as you shifted again, his gaze flickering down to the curve of your waist before he caught himself. stop it. stop it right now. but then you tilted your head, and that damn teasing glint in your eyes told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

he took a step forward, bracing a hand on the table as he leaned down, his face suddenly inches from yours. his voice was low, rough, almost a growl. “you’re making it really hard to concentrate, you know that?”

JASON TODD

adjusting your skirt

jason had been leaning against the doorway, half distracted by his own thoughts, when the sight of you adjusting your skirt snapped his attention to full focus. you were standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the waistband and wiggling it higher on your hips, a casual, innocent motion meant to get the fit just right. but to him, it was anything but casual. his eyes locked on you, darkening as he watched the way the fabric shifted, sliding up the curve of your thighs with each subtle movement.

jesus christ, he thought, jaw tightening as he tried to tear his gaze away. he failed. the small adjustment—the roll of your hips, the way your hands smoothed the material over your figure—felt like it was designed to torment him. he muttered a quiet curse under his breath, barely audible but enough to let his frustration escape.

that little motion shouldn’t have had this kind of hold over him, but it did. the way you moved, so natural and effortless, made his mind wander to places it shouldn’t. his fingers twitched at his sides as he imagined stepping behind you, sliding his hands over yours to help—not that you needed it, but damn if he wouldn’t enjoy it anyway.

you turned slightly and caught his reflection in the mirror, green eyes shooting up to meet yours as if he hadn’t been blatantly staring. “everything okay, jay?”

jason cleared his throat. “yeah,” he said, though his voice was rougher than usual, betraying him. he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning heavier into the doorway, his tongue darting across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down again. “just . . . keep doing what you’re doing.”

you have him a look—equal parts amused and curious—but went back to adjusting the skirt, smoothing it out once more. jason bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay put instead of crossing the room, grabbing your hips, and showing you exactly what that little movement of yours did to him.

this woman’s gonna be the death of me, he thought, his pulse hammering as he pushed off the doorway, muttering another curse under his breath. he needed to walk away before he did something reckless—something that would guarantee you wouldn’t be leaving that room anytime soon.

when you rant to him

jason leaned back on the couch, arms draped lazily over the backrest, but his focus was anything but casual. his eyes were locked on you as you paced the room, hands gesturing wildly while you went off on a rant about something that had you fired up. he couldn’t even remember how the conversation started—it didn’t matter. what mattered was the light in your eyes, the way your whole face animated with every word, and the fire in your voice as you got lost in your thoughts.

there was something magnetic about the way you threw yourself into it, like the world disappeared except for the thing you were so passionate about. it didn’t even matter if he understood half of what you were saying—though he was trying, really, he was—but he couldn’t look away from you long enough to focus on the details. he was too caught up in the way your brows furrowed slightly when you were deep in thought, or the way your lips curved when you hit on a point you knew was good.

and that voice. it was captivating, filled with conviction and energy, a side of you that came alive when you cared about something. jason’s heart thudded in his chest as he watched you, a small, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

every now and then, you’d glance at him to make sure he was keeping up, and he’d give a small nod, biting back the urge to say something dumb like, i’m not paying attention to your words, but i’m hanging on every second of you. instead, he’d murmur a quiet “yeah,” or “makes sense,” just to keep you talking.

but, damn, the way your whole body moved when you were this invested—it sent his mind places. there was a certain confidence in it, an unintentional sway in your steps as you walked back and forth, your gestures strong but graceful. it drove him crazy in the best way, made him want to grab you mid-rant, pull you onto his lap, and kiss you senseless just to see if that fire would transfer to him.

ADDITIONAL NOTE! if you like my work , please consider reblogging and / or commenting ! thank you if you do 🤍

[bathroomforless]

Revamp your bathroom with style and sophistication at Bathroom4Less! Dive into our curated collection of modern vanity units and storage solutions in our "Shop Bathroom Furniture by Style" section. Explore sleek designs and premium quality from our own branded products and Nuie Bathrooms. Whether you prefer minimalist chic or contemporary elegance, find the perfect pieces to elevate your space. Explore now and redefine your bathroom's style!

[pitlanepeach]

Glass Girl — MV1 + OP81

Summary — Maya Horner was raised to be perfect — polished, silent, smiling. The daughter of a pop star and a motorsport legend, she learned early that love was conditional and softness was weakness. Then came two drivers: one all fire, the other quiet steadiness. Neither asked her to perform. They just saw her for who she really was, and chose her despite it all.

Pairing — Max Verstappen x Maya Horner (OFC) x Oscar Piastri (MMF)

Warnings — Bad parenting, TW disordered eating (encouraged from childhood), throuple (mmf), D/S dynamics, non-consensual touching (not between the main characters), strong language, time jumps.

Word Count — 9.5k

My Masterlist

The hotel bathroom is marble and chrome; and it’s really cold. Maya sits on the edge of the bath with a white towel wrapped around her, makeup absolutely perfect. Always perfect.

Her phone buzzes where it’s facedown on the sink vanity. Probably her mother. Maybe a stylist update. Probably a reminder not to eat before the party so the dress fits the way it’s supposed to.

She hasn’t eaten all day.

Not because she forgot.

It’s one of the only things that’s completely hers—this control. Everything else; her schedule, her wardrobe, her smile, her voice—is curated by committee. But this? What she puts into her body, or doesn’t?

That’s hers. And it’s hers alone.

She stands and looks at her reflection. The daughter of a motorsport king and a pop legend. She knows exactly what she’s supposed to be. Shiny. Sculpted. Successful. A walking billboard of two very different empires.

She touches the necklace at her throat. A gift from her dad, probably chosen by an assistant. She can’t ever remembering being hugged by him for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s never cried in front of him without being sent out of the room.

The girl in the mirror is flawless.

She hates her.

Maya wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth, there’s never enough of that, but for pressure. To feel something and grounding. She digs her fingernails into her skin just to feel the pinch.

Tonight, she’ll smile. She’ll flirt with men twice her age in tailored suits who call her darling and look at her like she’s a prize to be won. She’ll be photographed beside champagne towers, caught mid-laugh for magazines that will call her “elegant” or “high-value,”. She’ll laugh with billionaires she barely knows, play the role so well no one will question whether she even likes the game.

Her mother will press an air kiss to both cheeks — careful, performative — and murmur, “Good girl,” because it’s the highest compliment she knows how to give.

Maya turns to face the dress laid out on the bed.

Gold. Strapless. Short in the front, ankle-length in the back. Something the stylist said would make her look “regal and expensive.”

She hates it.

It isn’t her.

She likes soft things. Silk. Blush pinks and pale pastels. She likes feathers, maybe, or beading that glitters softly under warm lights — not this loud, metallic glare. She wants to feel delicate, not displayed. She wants to feel like a girl, not a product.

But no one ever asks what she likes.

No one ever has.

—

The car door opens, and the flash hits before her heel touches the ground.

She steps out like she’s done this a thousand times—because she has. One leg, then the other. Chin lifted. Shoulders back. Smile soft but controlled. The driver offers a hand. She doesn’t take it. She never does.

Behind her, the red carpet glitters with a curated selection of Monaco’s elite — racers, musicians, heirs, actresses who always laugh a little too loudly when the photographers call their names. Everyone knows the rules here. Everyone plays their part.

And she is very good at hers.

The gold dress catches the light like flame, like money, like something she’s been told she should be. She smiles for the cameras. Tilts her head to the side, the way the photographers like. She even gives a little wave. Not too big. Just enough.

Her mother is already inside.

Her father is on the terrace talking shop with someone from Liberty Media.

She walks alone.

People turn to look at her — and not just the paparazzi. She sees the way some women measure her, the way some men assess. But none of it touches her. It can’t. She won’t let it.

She moves through the party like a ghost in gold, offered flutes of champagne she doesn’t drink, compliments she doesn’t believe, questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Who are you wearing?”

“Will you be at the paddock this weekend?”

“Is it true you’re seeing Lando Norris?”

Smile. Nod. Laugh. Deflect.

All of it is noise.

Until she feels it — not a sound, but a pull. Like gravity, sudden and unwanted.

Two sets of eyes.

Across the room.

Watching her.

One pair of eyes is storm-dark — intense, unblinking, charged like thunder held just behind his pupils. Max Verstappen. The lion. Known for his fire, his brutal honesty, his refusal to play nice for the cameras.

The other pair is cooler. Quieter. Greenish-gold and devastatingly observant. Oscar Piastri. Reserved but impossible to ignore. The kind of quiet that makes people lean in closer — and underestimate him at their own peril.

They’re standing close. Not touching, but close enough. Close enough for the rumors to feel real.

Because everyone’s heard them by now.

The whispers. The speculation. The way they were always together — in the paddock, in hotel lobbies, spotted at private dinners where the other drivers weren’t invited. The tabloids were spinning theories like silk; rivals turned lovers, lovers turned something else. No one knows for sure.

But the photos don’t lie.

Max, leaning into Oscar’s space, laughing like only he can. Oscar, looking at Max like he already belongs to him.

A scandal. A headline. A PR nightmare.

And they’re both looking at her.

Not like a party guest. Not like a name. Not like a legacy.

But like a secret they’re dying to unfold.

She feels it—how their attention cuts through everything. Through the cameras, the noise, the men in suits who want her because of who her parents are. Through the dress she hates and the face she’s painted on.

They’re not seeing her image.

They’re seeing her.

And it terrifies her.

Because she wants to let them.

God, she wants it so badly it makes her stomach twist — to drop the smile, to let her shoulders fall, to go to them and say, please, just hold me for a while. Just let me rest.

But she doesn’t move.

She stands there, still and golden and trembling beneath it all.

Because not a single person has ever looked at her like that before.

And now, there’s two of them.

—

The Oxfordshire house is quiet in the way big houses often are — not peaceful, just empty. Too many rooms. Too much space. Not enough love.

She sits at the breakfast bar, the marble countertop cool beneath her bare arms. Outside, the countryside rolls out in perfect green waves. Inside, everything is polished and still. Museum-like.

Her father stands by the espresso machine, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand, half-listening. She used to love mornings like this. Before she understood how many of their conversations were just… PR briefings in disguise.

“You’ll be traveling with me this year,” Christian says, like it’s already been decided. No smile. Just a sip of coffee, a glance at his calendar. “Full season. We’ll do media prep in Milton Keynes for you.”

She blinks. “Why?”

He looks up, frowns at her like she’s somehow missed the obvious. “Because it makes sense. You photograph well. You’re part of the family—might as well show the world what that means.”

She lets that sit between them. Part of the family.

The Red Bull family. The Horner family. The brand.

Not the daughter.

Not the girl.

“Is that… what you want?” She asks, softer.

Christian’s brows furrow slightly. Not with cruelty — just confusion. Like he doesn’t understand the question. “It’s what’s best,” he says, putting down his cup. “The more attention on the team, the better.”

She nods slowly. Her hand curls slightly around her glass. “Okay. I didn’t have anything else planned for this year anyway.”

He gives a tight, approving smile. Then he’s already moving on — into emails, logistics, contracts. His affection is efficient. Conditional. Not unkind, but not enough.

Her mother is nowhere to be seen. Probably in London. Or LA. Or at a spa with someone from Vogue magazine.

She’s used to it.

She’s always been told she has everything — the bloodline, the platform, the wardrobe, the name.

But none of it has ever felt like hers.

Not the legacy. Not the house. Not even her own future.

Outside, the wind brushes softly against the tall hedges in the garden, making them sway like they’re bowing to something. Or someone. Even nature bends here.

She looks at her father.

Really looks at him.

The sharp lines of his profile. The calm efficiency in his movements. The way he speaks with confidence not because he’s certain, but because he knows certainty is power.

And for a moment — a breath, a blink — she wonders; ‘Is this what it feels like to hate someone?’

The thought startles her. It’s not sharp, not violent. It’s worse. It’s cold. Hollow. A slow, creeping realization that maybe love was never given freely — only traded. That every nod of approval, every plane ticket, every high-end dress was just… currency.

She doesn’t hate him the way people hate villains in stories. She doesn’t want to scream or shatter anything. No, it’s quieter than that.

She hates that he doesn’t see her. Has never tried to.

Nausea clings to her skin. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then gets up and goes back to her bedroom.

—

The air in the stables smells like cedar shavings, hay, and early summer rain. It’s the only place on the estate that ever feels real.

She walks past the stalls in her boots and riding coat.

In the far stall, ears flicking at the sound of her footsteps, is a tall dapple grey mare with a proud gait and watchful eyes. The stable plaque says Blue Echo, a name chosen by some branding consultant years ago. Something elegant. Powerfully feminine.

But to her?

She’s just Princess Daisy.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, stepping into the stall. “Miss me?”

Princess Daisy nudges her gently in reply, warm breath puffing against her shoulder.

She buries her fingers in the horse’s mane and rests her forehead against the soft arch of Princess Daisy’s neck. The mare shifts slightly but doesn’t move away.

She closes her eyes.

And for a few rare, precious seconds—she can just be a girl with a horse.

A girl who likes silly names and soft animals and the wet hay smells in the rain.

Tomorrow, she’d be on a plane to Bahrain.

The reminder settles over her like a shadow.

Bahrain is heat and concrete and lights that don’t go out. Her father will walk ahead of her through the paddock like he always does — brisk, focused, already talking strategy. She’ll trail behind in heels she didn’t choose, in outfits pre-approved by someone from marketing, her paddock passes swinging from her neck like a collar and chain.

They’ll call her the Red Bull princess. They’ll talk about how lucky she is.

She’s learned not to flinch at that word anymore.

She hasn’t felt lucky in a long time.

But… Bahrain also means them.

Max. Oscar.

She hasn’t stopped thinking about them for weeks — not since the event in London.

She doesn’t know what it means; the way they look at her. She doesn’t even know what she wants from them. Not really.

But tomorrow, she’ll be on a plane to Bahrain.

—

It’s 3:12 AM.

Maya walks barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, ghosting past closed doors and floral arrangements that all smell the same. The nightmares had been bad tonight — hot hands around her ribs, a voice telling her to smile while she couldn’t breathe. She’d woken up gasping. Like always. Like clockwork.

This is what she does.

Walks until the world quiets enough to let her sleep.

But tonight, she’s not alone.

At the end of the hallway, two figures step out of the elevator — laughing, low and quiet, until they see her.

Max. Shirt half-buttoned, curls still damp.

Oscar beside him, hands in his pockets, always slightly behind, always watching.

All three of them stop.

She doesn’t say a word. Couldn’t find them even if she tried.

Max’s eyes darken. His jaw tenses. He’s already scanning her — not like other men do, not with hunger. With concern. With sharp, unapologetic focus.

Oscar tips his head slightly. Reading her, quietly.

“You okay?” Max asks, as they approach. His voice is low, rough around the edges.

She hesitates. Then nods.

They don’t believe her.

She should say something cool. Flirty. Maybe bring up the race weekend. That’s what she’s been trained to do.

But she’s so tired.

“I get nightmares sometimes,” she says instead. “I walk them off. It’s not a big deal.”

Oscar steps closer, voice soft, steady. “Every night?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer. That’s enough.

Max’s fists curl at his sides — not angry at her. Frustrated. Protective.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back.”

She should say no. Insist she’s fine. She’s an adult, she’s capable.

But she doesn’t. She just nods.

And it’s strange — how easy it is. How they move with her like they’ve done it before. Max takes the lead, always scanning. Oscar stays beside her, not touching, but close.

They don’t talk. Don’t ask stupid questions.

They’re just there.

At her door, Max leans against the frame. “Do you know when it’s going to be a bad night?”

She nods.

Oscar meets her eyes, calm and unwavering. “Text us. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Us, he says. Like they’re one unit. A package deal.

She blinks. “I… don’t have your numbers.”

Oscar holds out his hand. She fishes out her phone — bubblegum pink case, a sparkly charm hanging off it.

He frowns when he sees there’s no passcode. Doesn’t comment. Just types.

Max watches. Then tips his head. “Don’t walk alone at night again, liefje. I mean it.”

She swallows. She should argue. Be sharp, defensive. Strong.

Instead, she just wavers. “Okay,” she whispers.

Max starts to reach for her — then pulls back.

Oscar doesn’t. He brushes a strand of hair from her face, featherlight. Like touching something breakable.

She closes the door gently behind her.

Then leans against it, heartbeat still uneven.

For a moment, she thinks, ‘maybe I could’ve asked them to stay.’

Not to sleep with her. Not for anything like that. Just… to be there.

To sit beside her in the dark until the world felt safe again.

But she didn’t.

She never could.

Instead, she crawls into bed.

And, for the first time in a long time—she sleeps without nightmares.

—

The paddock smells like heat and asphalt and engine oil — familiar and choking.

Maya walks two steps behind her father, sunglasses shielding her face. Every movement is rehearsed. Casual, but camera-ready. Effortless, but flawless.

She hasn’t eaten today. Not really. A half spoonful of yogurt, picked apart like a battlefield.

It’s not hunger, exactly. It’s just pain, now. But it’s familiar. She likes it, in a way. Craves it.

“Chin up,” the press officer mutters beside her, clipboard in hand, headset pressed to one ear. “And smile. Not the polite smile — the good one. The Geri smile.”

Maya’s lips curve on command.

“You’ll be shadowing the team today, then joining your father for the press walk at two. BBC wants a short segment on ‘Red Bull’s focus on family and legacy.’ Don’t make it about yourself. Make it about the team. Say something about grit and heritage. Try not to blink too much.”

She nods like she’s listening. Like she cares.

They pause outside the hospitality suite. A photographer raises his lens.

“Angle your shoulders a little—yes. That’s it. Beautiful,” the press officer says, voice like lacquer. “Your mum’s bringing back the Spice Girls for the anniversary next month. You’ll probably be part of that too, so start thinking about your wardrobe. No feathers.”

No feathers.

She loves feathers.

Her stomach turns.

Inside, Max is already sat near the coffee station, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. His eyes flick to hers as she steps in — just a second. Just enough.

Oscar isn’t Red Bull. He shouldn’t even be in this part of the paddock. But he’s here, standing in the far corner with a drink in hand, casual as anything. Somehow, no one questions it.

When Maya passes them, Max’s hand brushes lightly against hers. On purpose. Just once.

She doesn’t flinch. But she feels it all the way up her spine.

The press officer pulls her aside before she can speak.

“You’ve got two minutes before your father goes live. Repeat after me — ‘It’s about legacy, about excellence, and about pushing beyond limits.’ Again.”

Maya says it like a spell.

Legacy. Excellence. Limits.

They clap her on the back and smile like she’s done something brilliant.

But all she can think about is the yogurt she didn’t finish, and the way Oscar looked at her like she didn’t have to say anything at all, and the warm tingle that shot straight to her heart from Max’s touch.

—

She finds him by the McLaren garages, perched on a flight case, nursing a protein bar and a can of Monster.

“Oh hi, Princess Red Bull,” Lando grins, hopping down. “Gracing me with your royal presence?”

Maya huffs a laugh. “Sir McLaren. Still pretending to like those things?” She nods at the protein bar.

“I like the idea of them,” he says. “It’s the never-ending chewing I can’t get behind.”

She smiles.

Lando has always been like this — irreverent and bright and just enough of a nuisance to keep her grounded. Like an older brother who knows all your secrets and still thinks you’re worth teasing.

He ruffles her hair, because he knows it’ll mess up the look the press team spent twenty minutes on. “You look tired.”

“I’m always tired.” She sighs.

He stops, looks at her properly. “Bad night?”

She nods, and his hand drops from her hair to squeeze her shoulder. Gentle. No pressure to talk. Just knowing. Just safe.

But then someone calls her name — loud, exaggerated — and when she turns, there’s a camera pointed straight at them. A pap, just beyond the fence, zoom lens already snapping. Another angle for the internet to twist.

Lando sees it too. His jaw tightens.

“Great,” he mutters. “Tomorrow’s headline: ‘Horner Heiress and Lando Norris—Mid-Paddock Rendezvous or Something More?’”

“Why can’t they just leave me alone?” Maya looks away, eyebrows drawn, stomach clenching tight.

Lando gives the camera crew a shitty look. “Wish I could tell them to fuck off without losing my job.”

She shrugs, suddenly cold. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah, well… fuck ‘em.” He spits.

She blinks at him. Wants to hug him — wants to let him hold her and kiss her forehead the way he does when there isn’t any cameras around to take something viciously innocent and turn it into a sexually charged headline.

Instead she just gives him a tight smile and mutters a quiet, “See you later,” and puts the persona back on. Poised. Perfect.

A complete lie.

—

Engineers crisscross with tools and telemetry, mechanics crouch low beside the car. They’re five races into the season, and tensions are sky-high.

Maya’s off to the side, as always. The silent mascot. Polished, painted, press-ready. Her hair’s done. Her makeup’s perfect. There’s a microphone waiting for her just beyond the paddock cameras.

She hasn’t eaten since Wednesday — fasting was healthy, that’s what her mother had told her a million times as a teenager.

She’s dizzy.

And then it happens.

A hand — not anyone she trusts — brushes too close to her waist. Too familiar. A laugh follows. Low, sleazy. One of Checo’s engineers, older, always looking a little too long, a little too interested. His voice cuts through the buzz. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re going to cause even more of a ruckus than usual in that dress.”

It’s not the worst thing she’s ever heard. Not even close. But today, it breaks something.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice slices out, louder than she meant. Louder than anyone’s ever heard from her.

People turn. Eyes shift.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Easy, princess—”

“I said don’t fucking touch me!”

Silence crashes over the garage like a dropped wrench. Everything stops.

She’s shaking. Her breath is ragged. She can feel it happening — the panic, the heat in her chest, the cold in her fingertips.

And then she’s crying.

In front of everyone.

Mascara streaking. Breath stuttering. Completely, heartbreakingly exposed.

Christian’s voice cuts through the tension. Cold. Humiliated. “Maya. Now is not the time.”

It feels like a slap.

She stares at him. At everyone. At their shock, their discomfort. She’s made them uncomfortable.

Of course she has.

And so—she runs.

Out of the garage. Past the cameras. Past the clicking lenses and the whispering media handlers scrambling after her. She can’t breathe. She can’t think. She doesn’t know where she’s going until—

“Lando!”

His name is barely a sound, but he hears it. Sees her stumbling through the paddock, heels in her hand, tears on her face.

“Oh shit,” he breathes. “Hey, hey, come here—”

But she’s already moving past him, too far gone.

It’s Oscar who catches her.

He’s just stepped out of his driver’s room when she crashes into him, trembling and breathless and half-sobbing.

“Maya—”

She clings to him, fists curled in the front of his hoodie, crying so hard it hurts to breathe. Oscar doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just wraps his arms around her and pulls her inside, closing the door behind them.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She folds into him like paper.

“I— I just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, already reaching for his phone.

He calls Max.

“She’s with me,” he says, voice tight with something sharp. Protective. “Something happened. She needs you. Now, Max.”

—

Maya feels smaller than usual. A fragile thing, curled into herself on the narrow cot bed in Oscar’s driver’s room, her head resting against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She’s not crying anymore, not really, but her eyes are glassy and red-rimmed, blinking slowly like she’s afraid that if she lets the tears fall again, they might never stop.

Oscar holds her gently, like he knows exactly how close she is to splintering again. Like if he breathes too loud, she might vanish.

Max had arrived in a blur — storm-bright eyes, clenched jaw, voice hushed but heavy with concern. Now, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to feel the quiet thrum of his presence, but not close enough to crowd her. Max always knows when to be heat and when to be shelter.

“You okay?” Oscar asks, his voice low, careful. He doesn’t expect an answer. The question isn’t for her, not really. It’s for himself. For Max. For the quiet ache in both their chests at seeing her like this.

Maya nods — a twitch more than a motion — as if the truth is too loud to say aloud. She curls her fingers tighter into the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie, her knuckles pale. It smells like him. She thinks she could fall asleep like this. If her body would let her. If her mind would stop shaking.

“You know,” Max says after a beat, casually, like they’re talking about the weather and not the way her skin is stretched too tight across her frame, “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat anything in two days.”

Her stomach twists. “Dunno,” she mumbles. “Not hungry.”

Not a lie. Just a truth she’s learned to live inside of. The empty ache of it is more familiar than the weight of food in her body. Hunger feels like control. Like safety.

“You’re not doing that anymore,” Max says, firmer now. He reaches over, lays a hand gently on her shoulder. The heat of him sinks through the cotton of her oversized hoodie. “You hear me? We’re not going to let this happen.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t say she’s fine. She isn’t. And she’s too tired to pretend. Too tired to wear the perfect smile or make excuses.

Max exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair, tension simmering beneath his skin. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath — not at her, never at her — just at the mess of it. The pain she’s been carrying alone. The silence she’s been drowning in.

His tone softens again, the sharp edge blunted by tenderness. “No more making your own calls if this is what they look like. No more hurting yourself just to keep up the act. We’ll decide things now.”

Oscar shifts, his arm around her waist tightening slightly. He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking her arm in slow, calming circles. Then he speaks, gentle but firm. “From now on, we’ll take care of you. That’s the deal. That’s what you need, I think.”

She finally looks up at him. Blinking, broken, her expression so raw it almost hurts to see. There’s no mask here. No practiced smile. Just Maya — stripped of every performance, every expectation. She looks so young. So exhausted. So desperate to be loved right.

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice barely audible. “Yeah, I—please.”

Her voice cracks mid-word. It breaks something in both of them.

Max’s breath catches, his eyes softening as he reaches for her. “Come here, Maya.”

Oscar helps her shift, and she slides out of his lap, her whole body trembling with the effort. She lets Max pull her in, lets him hold her like something precious — not because she asked him to, but because he knows she needs it. She always needs it.

He gathers her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other curled protectively over her legs as he cradles her in his lap like she weighs nothing. Like she’s something delicate and treasured.

Max mutters something sharp and aching in Dutch against her hair, lips barely touching her temple. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

“Niks van jou over, baby.” There’s nothing left of you.

Not accusation. Just sorrow. Truth. She’s a whisper of herself now, and it’s killing him to see it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, so quietly they almost miss it. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches again, frays at the edges. She says it like a reflex. Like she’s used to apologizing for her own existence.

“Don’t,” Oscar says gently. “You don’t need to be sorry. Not ever.”

Max holds her tighter, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re going to fix everything. You hear me? No more of this… act. No more acting. You’re going to be exactly who you are, Maya, and that’s exactly who we want.”

She believes him.

Not because of the words.

But because of how he said them.

Like he meant it.

Like his word was law.

—

Max’s suite is warm, lights dimmed low. Maya’s curled up on the plush couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of Oscar’s cologne. She hasn’t said much since they brought her back, just let herself be gently guided, repositioned, and reassured. Max and Oscar have made it almost effortless—wordless, even.

Oscar sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, carefully unwrapping takeout containers from room service. He opens each one slowly, as if not to overwhelm her, arranging little piles of food like offerings: soup in a delicate ceramic bowl, plain rice, soft bread rolls, slices of mango she’d admitted were the only fruit she actually liked.

“You don’t have to eat a lot,” he says softly, eyes flicking up to her. “Just something. Okay?”

Max, standing behind the couch, rubs a hand down the back of his neck. “It’s a good start,” he adds, “but we have no expectations.”

Maya nods, small and silent, and takes the spoon Oscar offers. She eats slowly, every bite like a whisper, like her body doesn’t quite know what to do with being taken care of. But she eats.

Max disappears into the bedroom for a few minutes, and when he returns, he’s holding something carefully folded in his hands. “Here,” he says, offering the bundle. “Figured you might want something to sleep in.”

She blinks, takes it from him with trembling fingers. It’s soft. Pale pink. Satin. The cuffs and ankle hems are feathered, delicate and girlish in a way that sends a jolt through her chest.

She sucks in a silent gasp.

Because she’s seen this before. This exact set. A matching top and bottom with candy-colored buttons and wispy little ankle feathers. It’s one of the first things she ever pinned to her secret “want want want” board on Pinterest. She’s stared at that set more times than she can count. Longed for it in that way she’s learned to bury—sweet, soft things that felt too childish, too indulgent for the life her parents demanded she perform.

She looks up, wide-eyed, confused. “How—?”

Oscar, still cross-legged at the table, doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. “You left your laptop open a few weeks ago. Your Pinterest tab was still up.”

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You said you never get to want things. Thought we’d start with these.”

Her throat closes up.

She presses the satin close to her chest and covers her mouth with her hand, and to her horror, the tears come fast. Her shoulders shake, and she ducks her head, trying to hide it, to shove the reaction down where all her emotions usually go—but she can’t.

Oscar is on his feet in seconds, next to her before she can move. “Hey, hey—it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Max crouches in front of her, brushing a thumb under her eye, catching one of the tears. “You’re allowed to cry, baby. Doesn’t make you weak.”

“I just…” She tries to speak but it breaks apart in her throat. “It’s stupid, it’s just pyjamas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Oscar cuts in gently.

She clutches the fabric tighter and gives in to the sob stuck in her throat. For the first time, the tears don’t feel like shame. They feel like a release.

Later, she changes into the pyjamas, and they’re a little big, and the sleeves fall past her wrists, and the feathered cuffs brush her ankles with every step. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt more like herself. Not the Red Bull princess. Not Horner’s daughter or Geri’s publicity machine.

Just Maya.

Soft. Girly. A little fragile, but held together by hands that want to protect, not mold.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Max is already under the covers. Oscar’s flipping through TV channels with the volume low, but both of them look up the second they see her.

Max whistles under his breath, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”

Oscar doesn’t even smile—just stares at her like she’s something holy. “You look exactly how I thought you would.”

“Like what?” she whispers.

“Like yourself,” Oscar says.

—

Over the next few weeks, they fulfil their promise in tender, small ways.

Maya stands behind Max, a quiet shadow in a branded cap. The sun is relentless, and her skin’s too pale for this heat. Oscar’s the one who notices first.

“You’re squinting,” he murmurs, sliding a pair of sunglasses onto her nose. “Take mine.”

She starts to shake her head, but he’s already pulling his hat lower to shield his own eyes. She doesn’t give them back.

Max passes her his water bottle without looking, like it’s muscle memory to provide for her.

No one comments. But the cameras do catch it. And people start to talk.

—

They’re at a grid dinner before the summer break.

She barely eats.

Max doesn’t call her out on it, doesn’t lecture. He just cuts his steak into bite-sized pieces and nudges his plate toward her, like it’s hers, like it’s obvious.

Oscar orders her a dessert she once said she liked in a half-forgotten conversation, and when it arrives, he says nothing — just waits. She takes a spoonful and doesn’t realise she’s smiling until he smiles back.

—

Oscar presses a soft kiss to her temple before the elevator closes, like it’s second nature. Max trails a knuckle down her spine with a look that promises he’s always watching over her. It’s subtle. Intimate.

They don’t need to say the word ours. Everyone sees it.

And people continue to talk.

—

She shows up late to media training, lashes clumped from crying, collarbone sharper than it was two weeks ago. The press officer says, “Try to smile more, Maya, you look ungrateful.”

Max hears it. He’s across the room in two strides.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he says flatly. “Have some fucking humility.”

The room goes silent.

—

It’s after qualifying in Singapore. She’s in the garage corridor, still wearing Max’s fireproof jacket draped over her shoulders when her father finds her.

He’s quiet at first. Scarily calm. “This thing you’re doing,” he says, tone cold and precise, “with Max and the McLaren kid—it ends now.”

Maya doesn’t flinch.

“You’re embarrassing your mother. You’re embarrassing me. Do you understand? You look needy. Weak. Do you want the press to call you a liability? Is that what you want?”

Her throat closes. Her fingers tremble. But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just lets the words keep hitting. Like they always have.

He steps closer. “You were meant to carry your surname with grace. And instead you’ve latched onto two drivers like—”

“Like what?” Max’s voice cuts in, sharp and deadly.

Christian turns. Max is already standing between them.

“She’s mine,” Max says, low and dangerous. “Ours. And if you don’t want the best driver on your team walking out mid-season, I suggest you shut the fuck up and stay out of this, Christian.”

Oscar’s there too now, not as loud, but just as present. Always behind, always backing her. “They like it,” Oscar says calmly. “The media. The public. They think it’s sweet — that she can finally be herself. That she’s finally being taken care of. Loved.”

Christian scoffs, mouth twitching, shaking his head and looking like he might explode.

Max doesn’t move. “You’re a fucking coward,” he says quietly. “You throw money at her instead of love and call it parenting. You ignore the fact that she’s killing herself because it’s an inconvenience to you. Well… she’s not yours to hurt anymore.”

Maya is shaking. Oscar’s hand is on her back. Max opens his arms wordlessly.

She steps into them without hesitation.

And when Christian walks away, furious and silent, she doesn’t look back.

—

It’s late. The city lights flicker below them like stars scattered across the sand.

There’s a linen-covered table set for three, candlelight dancing in the breeze. Oscar had picked the restaurant. Max had reserved the whole rooftop. She hadn’t even been told where they were going—just that she should wear something soft, and pink if she wanted.

She had. A silky dress with a bow at the back. Pearl earrings. Her heart on her sleeve.

They don’t rush dinner. Oscar orders for all of them, but always checks with her first. Max brushes her knuckles with his thumb every few minutes like he can’t quite believe she’s real and needs a reminder that she is.

There’s laughter. Champagne with fresh raspberries. A moment where she forgets to shrink herself.

After dessert, she leans back in her chair, barefoot now, cheeks warm from the alcohol. “So this is a date?” she asks, half-teasing, half-afraid of the answer.

Oscar glances at Max, then back at her. “Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,” she says, tilting her head.

Max’s voice is low, serious. “Because we weren’t going to give you room to say no. Not in the way you usually do. You say no to kindness. To care. Not because you don’t want it—because you think you’re not allowed to have it.”

She looks down. The vulnerability stretches between them like thread. Thin. Fragile. Shimmering.

“We’re in love with you, Maya,” Oscar says, steady and calm. “Have been for a while. Since Bahrain, since London, probably.”

Max reaches for her, puts his hand under her chin, tilts her head up. “You don’t have to do anything. Say anything. Be anything. Just… existing is enough, liefge.”

“We’re just asking you to let us love you,” Oscar finishes.

Her bottom lip trembles. She presses her hand over her mouth like that will stop it, but it doesn’t. “You don’t even know all the messy parts,” she whispers. “You think I’m sweet and good. But I’m—I’m so tired. And I’m not always good. I’m… I’m a lot.”

Max stands. Walks behind her. Presses a kiss to her hair and murmurs against her ear, “We want all of it.”

Oscar reaches across the table and holds her gaze. “You’ve just never been loved right, I think.”

She breaks.

Not in a loud way.

Just a slow inhale, a few tears slipping down her cheeks, her hands shaking as she lets Max pull her to her feet and into his arms. Oscar wraps his arms around both of them. They stand like that—on a rooftop above the desert, the girl they’re already in love with finally, finally starting to believe them.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says into Max’s chest. “The three of us. I’ve never—“

Oscar kisses her shoulder. “That’s okay.”

“We’ll show you,” Max promises, holding her tighter. “Every day. For as long as it takes.”

—

It’s raining in Barcelona.

Not a storm. Just a soft, endless drizzle.

They’re in Oscar’s hotel room. Max is asleep — sprawled sideways across the bed, one arm over his eyes, shirtless and worn out from media rounds. There’s a tiny freckle on his shoulder and Maya is struck with the urge to kiss it.

Oscar is sitting on the floor with her, both of them tucked against the wall by the window. She’s in one of Max’s old Red Bull hoodies, swimming in it. Her bare legs are tucked under her, knees touching Oscar’s. Her damp hair smells like jasmine.

They’re listening to the rain.

He’s been reading to her. Something calm. Poetic. He reads slowly, like the words are delicate things. She hasn’t really been paying attention. She’s just been watching his mouth move. Breathing.

She interrupts him with no warning.

“I love you.”

Oscar blinks. His lips part, then close again. He sets the book down slowly.

“I love you,” she says again, to make sure he knows it. “You and Max. It’s not new. It’s just—now it doesn’t feel too scary to admit.”

Oscar cups her cheek, gently pulling her gaze up to meet his. “We love you too.”

“I know.” She smiles, wobbly.

Max shifts on the bed with a sleepy groan, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?”

Maya crawls over to him slowly, climbs into his arms, and says it again.

“I love you.”

Max stills. Then smiles. He cups her face and kisses her forehead. “Liefje,” he murmurs, kissing her again. “You’re everything.”

Oscar joins them, wrapping around both. The three of them curled into the sheets, quiet and close as the rain falls outside.

—

It’s late. The kind of late that wraps everything in a hush, the lights dim and warm, the air thick with stillness.

Maya is curled between them on the hotel sofa, tucked into Max’s side, her legs draped across Oscar’s lap. There’s a documentary playing, something about old race legends, but none of them are really watching.

Oscar’s hand traces absent circles on her calf. Max’s thumb brushes along her shoulder where her silk robe has slipped, and she doesn’t move to fix it. She feels safe like this. Weighted. Held.

“I like this,” she murmurs, the words barely louder than the hum of the TV.

Oscar looks down at her. “Like what?”

“This,” she says again, quieter now. “You. Him. Here.”

Max shifts just enough to lean in and press a kiss to her temple — tender, slow. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Then Oscar’s voice, soft but sure. “Never.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at them both, and her heart stutters at the way Max is already watching Oscar. The fire and the calm. Always orbiting each other, always steady. Like they’d found something solid long before she was ever part of it.

And then — like they’ve done it a thousand times — Max leans in, fingers brushing Oscar’s jaw, and kisses him.

It’s unhurried. Familiar. The kind of kiss that feels like home, and she watches it happen with her chest aching in the best way.

When they pull back, Max glances at her, just a hint of a smirk curving his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed,” she whispers.

Oscar’s fingers find hers. “You’re ours.”

And just like that, her world tilts a little closer to whole.

—

The building is pale pink stucco with tall windows and soft gold accents. The sign reads The Princess Daisy Foundation.

Maya’s wearing a gown the colour of strawberry milk, with a tulle overlay and delicate pearls stitched into the bodice. Her heels sparkle. Her nails are glossy and pale. Her smile, for once, is real.

“They said it wouldn’t be taken seriously,” she says into the mic, voice calm but warm, “that no one would support a charity for underprivileged girls to study ballet. But they were wrong. People just had to be reminded what true, authentic beauty looks like.”

The crowd claps. Cameras flash. Oscar hands her the scissors. Max presses a kiss to her temple once it’s done. Neither are on the stage, but they’re close. Always close.

—

The magazine is high fashion. Not tabloid. Not gossip.

She’s not in a power suit. She’s not reinvented.

She’s herself.

Feathers. Lace. A sheer pink blouse with a velvet bow tied at the collar. Hair curled softly, glitter dusting her collarbones. The spread is titled Soft is Strong.

They call her a disruptor. A visionary. A symbol of femininity without apology.

In one of the outtakes, she’s sitting on Max’s lap, Oscar’s hand on her thigh. It never runs, but she frames it in her home office anyway.

—

She’s barefoot in the paddock — her heels in one hand, the hem of her ruffled dress knotted up slightly to avoid engine grease. Max is arguing with GP about race strategy. Oscar is reviewing telemetry data on his phone.

Maya’s sipping an iced lavender latte when a tiny dot of a girl comes running up to her, flanked by two out-of-breath guardians.

“Hi Maya.” The girl says shyly. “I love your dress.”

Maya hands her latte to Oscar, who doesn’t even need to look up from his phone to take it. Then she crouches down and adjusts the girl’s glittery headband. “I love yours too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret between them. “You sparkle in the sunshine!”

When the photo of them gets posted by the girls parents, the caption goes viral: “She’s like if a cupcake had a heart (and two boyfriends).”

—

They’re at a party.

Christian is there.

So is Geri.

Maya greets them politely. She doesn’t flinch. She’s radiant in silk and diamonds and a matching custom clutch that says good girl in pink rhinestones — a reclamation, not a reminder.

Max is on her left. Oscar on her right.

When a journalist tries to bring up her rebellious phase, Max shuts it down with a single look. Oscar gently steers her away, murmuring, “You look like a dream,” and her laugh sounds like wind chimes.

—

There’s a photo on their kitchen fridge of a much younger Maya — awkward, unsure, all eyes and shadows.

Beside it, there’s one from just last week; she’s lounging on their balcony in a cloud of pastel robe, eating a croissant and reading French literature, Max kissing her shoulder, Oscar curled beside her with his nose in his phone.

In both photos, she’s looking at the camera.

She only recognises herself in the second one.

—

The house is quiet.

There’s birdsong from the trees outside the open windows, the soft hum of a coffee machine, the occasional sound of a little girl giggling.

It’s a peaceful quiet. The gentle kind.

Maya stands barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in a silk robe the color of rose quartz. The hem is trimmed in delicate feathers.

There’s a half-drunk cappuccino beside her. Her fingers are dusted with flour — she’s trying to bake something today, even if Oscar ends up taking over halfway through like always. Max is still asleep, she thinks, though she heard him stir when she slipped out of bed at dawn.

Below, the garden is blooming. Lavender and soft pink roses, a stone path that leads to the small dance studio she had built on a whim — or maybe not a whim at all. The ballet charity is doing well. Better than she imagined. Sometimes, when she visits classes and helps the girls with their ribbons, she feels like she’s rewriting her own childhood, one gentle hand at a time.

She turns as she hears the sliding door open.

Oscar steps out, barefoot, shirtless, wearing sleep-soft shorts and blinking into the light. He walks straight to her and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Had a dream,” she murmurs. “Not a bad one. Just… vivid.”

He rests his chin on her head. “Want to talk about it?”

She leans back into him. “No. Maybe later.”

Max appears a few minutes later, hair wild, expression fond and grumpy all at once. He kisses her without a word and steals the rest of her coffee.

They stand there together in the morning sun, warm and safe and quiet.

Oscar’s hand finds hers. Max’s arm settles around her waist.

There’s no performance.

No audience to entertain.

There’s just love.

A squeal — high-pitched and girly — splits the quiet morning like sunlight through lace. Then, the balcony doors burst open, and a blur of pink tulle and fluttering white feathers launches herself outside.

“Daddy!”

Oscar catches her mid-air like he was waiting, arms instinctively cradling her as she giggles and wriggles against his chest. She’s dressed like a ballerina — a soft pink leotard, satin slippers with little ribbons tied messily at her ankles, and a tiny feather boa draped around her shoulders.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, spinning her once, pressing kisses across her cheeks as she squeals with laughter. “What are you doing up so early, huh?”

“Had a dream,” she says seriously, parroting Maya’s earlier words. “That the kitchen turned into a castle and the fridge was made of cake!”

Oscar gasps. “A cake fridge? Why didn’t I dream that?”

“Because you’re boring, daddy,” she says with complete confidence.

Maya laughs and walks toward them, curling herself into Max’s side as he stands behind her, arms wrapped around her middle. His chin rests on her shoulder, his hair still a little wild from sleep. She feels his breath against her skin, hears the soft sound he makes when he sees his daughter light up in Oscar’s arms.

“She’s wearing feathers again,” Max says against her ear, his breath a tickle. “That’s your fault.”

Maya hums. Shrugs. “She wanted a ‘Mummy dress’ today. Couldn’t say no.”

Max kisses the curve of her neck. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Gia, their tiny, perfect girl, reaches out one hand toward her mother. “Mummy, daddy said I could wear my crown to breakfast.”

Oscar looks betrayed. “No, I didn’t—!”

“You didn’t not say it,” she grins.

Max chuckles, the sound low and affectionate. “She’s got you beat, Osc. You’re hopeless.”

She has them all beat, is the thing. This little girl—drowning in love and affection and never wanting for anything.

—

Inside, the kitchen smells like cinnamon and sugar, something bubbling gently on the stove. Oscar sets their daughter on the counter, steadying her as she swings her legs in excitement, reaching for a tiny crown resting beside the fruit bowl. Max lifts it with two fingers, exaggeratedly serious as he places it on her head with a little bow. “Your Highness.”

She beams, the sunlight catching in her curls.

Maya watches them, heart aching with a kind of joy that still feels new sometimes. She leans against the doorway, arms folded loosely across her chest, letting herself stay in the moment a little longer.

On the fridge are photos. Lando, her brother in all ways but blood, had taken most of them.

Oscar’s mother, kneeling in the garden with Gia on her lap, both of them grinning wide. Max’s father teaching her how to drive a go-kart — a day that ended with a kart in the wall and a lot of apology ice cream. There’s one of Maya too, half-laughing, mid-spin in the living room, her daughter in her arms, both in matching pink feathered robes.

Maya’s daughter doesn’t know her maternal grandparents. Not really. They’ve met, yes. Christian had flown into Belgium once, uncomfortable in the stillness of their home, talking more about Max’s contract than about his granddaughter’s third birthday party. Geri had sent expensive, ridiculously expensive dresses by courier.

Maya only let Gia wear them in the garden, where they would get covered in mud and water and sand.

Maya never let them stay long—her parents.

She wouldn’t risk it. Not for a second.

She knows what inherited silence feels like. What praise laced with expectation can do to a child’s pure heart. She remembers being told to smile when she wanted to cry, to suck in her stomach and keep her chin up and never — ever — be soft.

She’d walk through fire before letting her daughter carry that same weight.

So instead, her little girl grows up in ballet slippers and glitter crowns, with two fathers who would rearrange the stars if she asked them to — who teach her strength isn’t silence, and kindness is power, and softness isn’t something to outgrow.

And Maya learns too. Every day.

Oscar hands her a mug of warm milk and honey; not breakfast, just something to warm her up. Max brushes a kiss across her temple before pulling their daughter into his arms and dancing her toward the dining table.

She closes her eyes for a second.

This is the life she built from the ruins of the one she survived.

And it’s hers. Every breath of it.

[sweethomenewyork]

Elevate Your Space: 2023's Top Vanity Colors for Kitchen and Bathroom Remodeling

When it comes to home improvement projects like kitchen remodeling and bathroom renovations, choosing the right vanity color is paramount. Your choice can set the tone for the entire space, influencing the ambiance, style, and functionality. In this blog, we'll explore the latest color trends for vanities in both kitchen and bathroom settings, ensuring that your home stays in vogue.

1. Classic Neutrals: White and Off-White Elegance

White and off-white vanities remain enduring favorites for homeowners. These timeless hues exude cleanliness and simplicity while offering versatility in design. In kitchens, white cabinets and countertops provide a fresh and airy feel, making the room appear more spacious. In bathrooms, they create a spa-like atmosphere, promoting relaxation and tranquility. White and off-white vanities serve as a blank canvas, allowing you to experiment with various decor elements and color accents.

2. Earthy Tones: Warm Browns and Greige

Incorporating nature-inspired colors has gained popularity in recent years. Warm brown vanities bring a sense of earthiness to your kitchen or bathroom. These shades promote coziness and warmth, making them a perfect choice for those seeking a rustic or farmhouse aesthetic. Greige, a blend of gray and beige, offers a more modern take on earthy tones. It complements a wide range of design styles, from traditional to contemporary, and serves as a neutral backdrop for other design elements.

3. Bold and Beautiful: Navy Blue and Forest Green

For those looking to make a statement, navy blue and forest green vanities are the way to go. Navy blue, with its deep and regal appearance, adds a touch of sophistication and drama to kitchens. Paired with contrasting elements like gold or brass hardware, it creates a luxurious ambiance. Forest green, on the other hand, brings the serenity of the outdoors indoors. This rich hue evokes a sense of tranquility and pairs beautifully with natural materials like wood and stone.

4. Modern Luxury: Charcoal Gray and Matte Black

5. Calming Pastels: Soft Blue and Pale Pink

In bathroom remodeling, pastel colors like soft blue and pale pink are gaining traction. Soft blue creates a soothing and spa-like atmosphere, perfect for unwinding after a long day. Pale pink adds a subtle touch of femininity and elegance to your bathroom space. These pastel shades work well with white fixtures and accessories, creating a harmonious and calming environment.

6. Expressive Accents: Jewel Tones and Bold Patterns

For those who want to infuse personality into their bathroom vanities, jewel tones and bold patterns are a fantastic choice. Jewel-toned vanities in emerald, green, sapphire blue, or amethyst add a touch of luxury and vibrancy. Pair these with neutral backgrounds to create a balanced yet striking look. Additionally, consider incorporating bold patterns like geometric shapes or floral motifs to create an eye-catching focal point.

In conclusion, selecting the right vanity color for your kitchen and bathroom remodeling projects is a crucial design decision. Whether you opt for classic neutrals, earthy tones, bold and beautiful colors, modern luxury shades, calming pastels, or expressive accents, ensure that the chosen color aligns with your personal style and the overall design theme of your home. By staying up to date with these color trends, you can transform your space into a stylish and functional haven that reflects your unique taste and preferences.

[sturnsdoll]

NAUGHTY OR NICE ❄ -m.s, c.s

part two here

pairing: dom bf!matt x sub!reader, dom!chris x reader

summary: when your boyfriend matt decides that a vibrator at dinner with his brothers is a good punishment for your attitude, you don't expect to end up being teased by someone other than him. warnings: vibrator, semi-public, cheating!reader, fingering, dirty talk, humiliation, orgasm denial.

word count: 3,598

"pink" + reader speaking, "blue" = matt speaking, "orange" = chris speaking.

matt and you are supposed to meet his brothers for dinner in about a half an hour. swiping gloss across your lips, you watch through the mirror at matt idly pacing around behind you. he's picking up random things, checking himself in the mirror. your used to it, he's typically like this before going out anywhere. you close up your gloss, tossing it down onto your vanity with an exaggerated sigh.

with that matt looks over at you, annoyance already on his features "what now?", his tone is soft but still holds irritation. all damn day everything's been a problem for you. and when something upsets you, it somehow becomes a him problem too.

you give him a bit of a side eye in the mirror, a slight eye roll to follow "nothin', jeez." you respond passively, getting up to go grab your purse and matt continues watching you with a dissaproving look. "there a problem?" you add with a raise of your brow. matt shrugs "you gonna be like this all night?" he asks, slightly amused but also a little over the attitude you've been throwing at him today. he watches your pretty eyes when you look back at him "i'm not being like anything." you defend. directly after your defence, you bend down to pickup your purse and hear matt sigh with a "that's it". -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

the drive there, all you could do was wait. wait to see when he'd chose to torture you. the silicone of the vibrator was tightly fit between your panties and your (already embarrassingly wet) pussy, specifically nudging your clit too close for comfort. when you matt pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant you, him and his brothers were gonna be meeting at for dinner, he refused to acknowledge your anxious glances toward him any time he'd open his phone. every tap of his fingers against the screen had you anticipating the buzzing against your clit, but thus far he hasn't done it hasn't come.

entering the restaurant, you were in awe of the gorgeous christmas decor of green and red around the restauraunt. cinnamon sticks in a little bowl with bows around them on the front desk, a green tree off near the hall to the washrooms, chandelier with lights. it's gorgeous.

you were both lead to your table where nick and chris were already sat laughing and talking. there wasn't much greeting to be done, you just kind of took a seat across from them with matt next to you and hopped into conversation smoothly with your boyfriends brothers.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

the food was amazing, everyone having a great time. chris and nick are your bestfriends by natural selection of matt being your boyfriend so you've grown to be comfy around them. not this comfy though. it was still in the back of your mind that matt was more than capable of turning the toy on whenever the hell he pleased but till now, you'd done a good job just trying to enjoy dinner and forget about it.

currently you're mid conversation with chris, giggling at something stupid he said when abruptly, you go silent. the buzz that comes to your clit is low, gentle. but it's still beyond distracting. you can't help how your eyes grow wide for a moment as you swallow thickly. fucking matt.

chris catches your sudden change of expression and mood. he makes a funny confused face in response to your expression, breathily laughing "what?" in question. now chris is thinking maybe he'd said something outlandish and not realized it.

chris catching the change in your mood only makes your stomach drop further. you deadstare your boyfriend's youngest brother, zoned out in embarassment, feeling clueless on how to respond when there's a god damn vibrator on you in public. but your strange behaviour was cut short by matt's slender ring clad fingers giving a squeeze to your knee. quickly taking the hint, you smile with a soft laugh "oh i just remembered last week when that lady refused to give nick his order cause she thought he was lying about it being his" your almost proud of yourself for thinking of something so fast.

chris seems to believe it, responding with a small "hm". however despite his smile and nod, chris has this slightly intense stare, different from his usually childish and playful demeanour. you assume your paranoid because how would chris know something was up?

"omg and then she did the same thing to that poor girl!" nick's voice breaks your curiosity of chris's stare. your sure you can handle this for a little, just a light buzz. but quite abruptly the buzzing intensifies. you grab at matt's hand, nails digging against the back of his palm as you force yourself to respond to nick with a short and shaky "yeah." it only eggs matt on though, he thinks your reactions are adorably pathetic. before nick can even really notice how shaky your voice was, the waiter approached the table to ask if anyone needed anything. you leave nick and chris to speak to the waiter, taking the chance to look at your boyfriend with a look that shows your embarassment and irriation. in response you just get a sickeningly sweet smile, one that causes you to shut your legs together, frustration and arousal driving you udderly insane.

before your knee's can even touch he pinches your thigh, his smile dropping slightly in warning. "fuck you" you mouth to him stupidly. matt gives a playful pout, forcibly pulling your leg so that you spread em', preventing you from any relief outside of what he chooses to provide you through the toy. "you really gonna act like that when santa's coming to town?" he jokes quietly, almost laughing at his own dumbass joke but instead his mouth just turns up in a slight smile, then you watch him take a quick glance at his phone.

holy fuck. you nearly fold over at the leg tremling, panty wettingly intense buzz that he suddenly inflicts on your clit. your acrylics immedietly digging into his hand again, you look over and catch his amused and adoring glance to you. that evil bastard fucking loves this. it's a bit of a power trip for him to watch you squirming in your seat, all angry at him.

matt's gaze was doing nothing to help, merely mocking you. in a desperate attempt to not give anything away, your teeth caught your lip with a gasp before any other lewd noise could escape. you shift your hips uncomfortably as your eyes leave matt's to see if his brothers are paying any mind to you two.

you felt relief at nick's typical yapping, he was clearly clueless to your situation. but then your eyes meet chris's.

he's clenching his jaw slightly with an unreadable but intense look in his eyes. what's his problem? well, apparently your body doesn't care what his glare is for, because it's enough for your poor neglected cunt to start to clench around nothing besides the pooling liquid dripping into your panties.

you let out a shaky breath that's just shy of a whine. lucky for you it's loud as hell in the restaurant. you mentally curse yourself for letting something as simple as a look from your boyfriends brother get you worked up. then again, what won't get you hornier with that god forsaken buzzing that has you struggling to sit still? you're about to resort to distracting yourself with nick's yapping when the buzzing abruptly cuts short.

you almost let out a sigh of relief. finally a break.

then your jaw drops and your knee jumps up and hits under the table. you didn't even know this vibrator could be this strong.. but as matt tortorously turns it to the highest setting, you can't stop the small whine from slipping your throat.

in panic you look between the three boys. nick is somehow still oblivious, thank god. matt's too busy pretending like he isn't literally getting you off infront of his brothers as he picks at his food. chris is also presumably distracted with his meal, though he shoots you a questioning glance when your eyes pass over him.

clearing your throat, you quickly stand up, announcing that you have to go to the bathroom. you rush right off before anyone can say anything.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

before you can even close the bathroom door you hear a ding from your phone. taking a second, you take a deep breath and squeeze your thighs together with a soft whine, eyes shutting as you dig your phone from your purse.

[ imessage from: matt <3]

-if you turn it off , touch yourself or cum then you're in trouble sweetheart. pathetically so, just reading his threatening text has your knee's weak. you lean one hand forward onto the counter, your thighs clenching tighter together.

[message to: matt <3]

-please it's too much. chris and nick are gonna find out if i come back out there like this

[message from: matt <3]

-behave or i'll make you cum infront of both of them istg

the lewd image of being forced into an orgasm infront of chris at the dinner table creates both a humiliating and pleasurable ache in your stomach. trying to force the thought away hardly worked, already dripping at the thought.

you have to compose yourself. that thought must only be arousing because your so desperate right?.. right.

you look yourself in the mirror, passing off your glossy eyes as you breathe in deeply. you reach your hand beneath your dress to pull your panties down just a little so the vibrator isn't so tightly pressed against you. insantly you sigh in relief at the severly lessened stimulation. straightening yourself out, mentally you prep yourself to get back to the group, opening the bathroom door with the best poker face you can put on.

instantly you're met with two hands roughly shoving you back inside the washroom, the door being locked instantly.

"what the hell are you two up to?"

you swear you experience whiplash at the complete shock as you look up at chris with confusion. chris is staring right back down at you with an almost proud but soft little smile on his face. "hello?" he gives a gentle tap to your arm to urge you to talk. you just shake your head, feeling bewildered "nothing?" you don't even sound sure of yourself when your respond.

chris tilts his head to give you a stare of annoyance at the blatant lie. little did you know that chris had figured you two out much much earlier. his voice comes more accusatory than he intends "you think i'm stupid?" he asks.

you stare up at chris, trying to look irritated at his intrusion into the bathroom but honestly your eyes are that of a lost puppy as the buzzing in your underwear is still growing the ache in your stomach. your legs are squeezing as you struggle to not completely lose it. "and?" you try to seem unphased but there's a shake to your tone.

"and-" he begins in a mocking tone "i know matt doesn't have some fucking vibrator app for himself." he finishes with a cocky yet still adoringly soft look as he watched the panic in your eyes. chris doesn't want to scare you away so his hand starts at your shoulder, thumb gently stroking your shoulder to soothe the panic that's coming with your brain completely short circuiting.

you want to ask how he knows that but chris steps a little closer and you back against the sink counter, both slightly intimidated as well as just udderly so confused you can't really think properly. chris's voice break's into your frozen state "you guys have some freaky thing for getting off in public?" he questions you.

"what? no that's-" chris doesn't quite seem 100 percent sure of himself, almost like he's slightly scared that you'll just think he's a complete weirdo so he keeps his movements slow and his voice stays on the softer side as he speaks to you "you got yourslef in trouble or something then?" he asks tauntingly. his eyes glitter with amusement when he watches you freeze up. looking around, your mouth opens again and again like you wanna argue or deny it but instead you just scoff in disbelief, your eyes rolling at his audacity.

that was enough of an answer for him. he lets out a small hum in acknowledgement, like he's amused by you being punished by his brother. his hand slowly slides down from your arm to the bottom hem of your dress. you find yourself unable to do anything but follow his movement with your eyes, a small breathy whine leaving as the buzzing in your panties continues to make this all the more arousing.

"getting off with your boyfriends brother less than a foot away at dinner is kind fucked up not gonna lie." as chris speaks he uses his other hand to pull the fabric of your dress at the waist, tugging it up a little until you're just barely covered below the waist. his thumb slips beneath the material to rub gentle circles on your thigh "this okay? you tell me to stop and i'll leave n' pretend like this never happened, i promise." his eyes give a comfortingly concerned look, his hand freezing momentarily.

you severly hesitate, a shaky breath leaving your lips, feeling the slick spreading all across your pussy, panties and upper thigh from the nonstop vibrations on your sensitibe bud, now combined with chris's teasing. this is all too much at once. you're starting to feel lightheaded, not knowing how much longer you can hold off either crying or cumming right here on the spot. "matt would mm- hate me chris" you worry verbally to the youngest triplet. chris just shakes his head, chosing to lighten the mood with a joke as per usual "don't worry about him right now. you gonna be naughty or nice for me? cause santa doesn't have to be the only thing coming if you'll let me touch you." there's a shit eating grin on his lips now as he slips his hand just a litter further under your dress.

under other circumstances you would've laughed at his terrible joke. instead you meet his eyes, a suble smile on your face. you know you need to make a decision. guilt bubbles in your stomach, as well as the need to cum. your arousal speaking before you can, you blurt out a "please" your eyes begging chris right along with your words.

chris instantly smirks, stepping closer till there's nearly no more of your space for him to invade "so polite." he teases, his knuckles softly brushing up her thigh till he reaches her panties, where he pauses, his knuckles brushing along the fabric to feel the vicious buzzing. experimentally he uses two fingers to press it up against her clit just a little closer.

your hands both come behind you to grip at the counter top as your legs twitch, unable to hold off your physical reaction to the torture anymore. "ah-" you cry gently as one hand comes off the counter to grip at his arm, not to stop him but for some kind of support.

chris tuts at you "poor thing, bet he's been neglecting you all night" chris says, more so to himself as he shakes his head in genuine dissapointment of his brothers teasing tactics. then in a swift motion, his finger hooks around the front of your panties and tugs them down to your thighs. finally, the vibrator comes off of you. chris's eyes lock on yours for affirmation to continue and he finds your eyes pleading with him already.

you have the sudden thought.. why hasn't matt come to check on you at this point? or texted? your thoughts are quickly are ripped from your head when the buzzing returns once more, chris placing his palm over the vibrator, pressing it right onto your poor swollen clit again.

a strangled moan is forced loudly from your lips at the overstimulating feeling coming back all at once, your back arches off the counter as you look down, shaking your head. "chris no wait- fuckk, i'm gonna cum" you beg for him to stop, but not because you don't want to. for some reason your willing to sleep with matt's brother but you draw the line at cumming without his permission?? pussy.

chris watches as your hips squirm back against the counter, your face scrunched up like you can't take it. he raises an eyebrow at your panic and he subtly smiles, too sweet for the situation your both in. "so?" he urges an explanation with confusion and amusement at your struggle.

you look away from him, nails digging into his arm as embarassment eats you alive at your reason why. chris is having none of it though. he leans down to force you to meet his gaze in demand of an answer. a whine slips when you go to speak, but you manage nonetheless. "not allowed." you state, your eyes finally meeting chris's again.

he's enthralled by your obedience to matt's 'rules' and the guilty little look in your eyes. chris sighs, shaking his head as he brings his free hand to gently cup the side of your face "well i say you are, so go ahead." he says like this is completely normal.

before you can even consider responding, two of his fingers shove into your fluttering hole, his palm still pressing the toy to your clit. you cry out at the attention to your poor pussy that you've been craving all night, hips pushing off the counter to chase chris's hand. whines and choked sobs leave your lips.

chris taps the underside of your jaw "someone's gonna hear ya" he points out with a warning look, then his fingers curl up into your walls to force another response from you. and oh does it ever. you lean your head forwards into his chest with a desperate whine that makes chris's jeans grow a little tighter on him.

he gently cradles the back of your head with his large hand as he talks you through it "oh i knoww." he says with a mocking tone to his voice, a devilish smirk on his face that you can't see as he holds your face into the chest of his hoodie to muffle your cries of pleasure.

"g- gonna fucking- oh god chris" your brain is so far from working as he fucks his fingers into you, alternating between curling them at the perfect spot inside and then thrusting them quickly. the sound of you saying his name is enough to have his dick fighting against his pants. he wants nothing more than to stuff you full of him but this isn't about him, the only thing he needs right now is to watch you hold onto him pathetically whilst crying his name for more.

with the hand cradling your head, his fingers gently massage your scalp. the soothing nature is a vile contrast to the way his other hand completely ruins you. this only furthers the haze of euphoria your in, whining desperately as you clutch onto chris for life. if it weren't for him and the counter you'd be a puddle on the floor and chris knows it as he feels your walls squeezing in desperation for release. he knows that's his cue.

you experience the most horrible whiplash as within a second, chris's hand comes out from under your dress, the vibrator with it and all your left with is your cum dripping out of your fluttering hole.

instantly your head lifts off chris's chest. you watch up at him with pleading eyes "chris." you hate how you sound begging for his attention back.

the hand not holding your now turned off, soaked vibrator, is soothing your hair out. he holds the vibrator up to your mouth, tapping it onto your pouted lips. shamefully you open your mouth, allowing him to urge the toy inside for you to clean it of your own mess.

chris's eyes glimmer with satisfaction as he watches your gaze, eager to please him in favour of needing to cum. which is why you nearly wanna cry when he removes his other hand from your hair and brings it down to pull your panties back up, slipping the now completely still vibrator back into the fabric.

"i'm sorry pretty, but the only thing i want more than to watch you cum is to know you'll be left on edge all night thinking about me instead of him" chris states with a grin, giving a frustratingly casual pat to your shoulder before unlocking the door and opening it to leave. you're about to pull him back and cuss him the fuck out when suddenly you see your boyfriend leaning on the wall right outside the door, shaking his head at you as chris walks passed him with a cocky smirk. it all sets in and you feel more embarassed than you ever have in your life. they fucking planned it. matt let chris come fingerfuck you like some slut.

"you're un-fucking-believable." matt states, although not seeming as mad as he should. you have no choice in the matter as he grabs you arm and begins both of your journey to the car.

you fell right into their trap.

.....someone's getting coal this christmas.

lmk if y'all want a part two??

tags: @pleasebendmeoverxxx @mattsrod @sturncakez @watercolorskyy @pettydollie @sturniol0s @6ix9inewiturmom @sonicsmacks @fratbrochrisgf @eyelovedher89 @bernardsbendystraws @riversandwinds @ilovemenwithlonghairr @chrissweatytoes @courta13

[beloveds-embrace]

DUKEDOM!141 AND MY LIFE IS YOURS 🙏🙏🙏🙏 (/nf please and thank you :])

Original post

Enjoy!! :D

Something all of them like to do is doll you up, and it becomes almost a private little routine between you and them.

John, as your husband (can you tell I love referring to him like this?), steadily takes control of deciding what you wear for the day even long before your request. It’s something that just… happens. He comes into your bedroom early in the mornings, and your maids scatter away to leave you both be with little giggles, excited at the prospect of you two finally getting ‘close’.

John doesn’t care for them. He greets you with a soft good morning (a few weeks later, he’d greet you the same but would gently caress your face with the back of his hand, the touch so gentle despite his roughened skin. It makes you into a blushing mess, though you tell yourself it’s just so that the peeking maids won’t suspect anything) and then goes straight to your closet, sweeping through the rows and rows of delicate, soft dresses with a discerning eye to select what attire you’ll wear for the day.

Of course, he does ask you what you feel like wearing, how you feel today in general, where you plan on going or meeting- everything to ensure the dress he’ll choose for you would be perfect. John doesn’t wait to see you in the dress, though.

He knows he’ll be seeing you all adorned and dressed up later, when you come down to dine with him. He can compliment you and pat himself on the back, then.

If he makes sure to match his cufflinks with the colors you are wearing, it will simply make whoever notice it think you two are such a lovely couple. And he still hopes that your maids will accidentally not tighten or cover up your hemline just so he can fix it himself for you.

John aside, Kyle takes care of your hair and jewelry. He makes you sit on the vanity, still alone and with none of your maids around, and then he begins the tender ritual of brushing your hair (if it’s not too curly for daily brushings). His hands, warm and careful and gentle, would then take care of oiling each strand. No oils or butters have been spared in the efforts of tending to you, and Kyle himself often turns the routine into a simple, but so effective, head massage session for you.

(Later, Kyle wonders what he needs to say and do to take over the job of the maids who help you bathe. You are always complimenting how good his hands feel on your hair, and he can show you how much better he is at using them for your body.)

Johnny eventually begins doing your makeup, on certain occasions. Once the truth comes out, the two of you are closer, and on one night, he tells you about his big family, his sisters and how they’d make him and his brothers help them get ready for events and parties.

It’s a simple question born out of your curiosity- what’s the makeup like where you were born, Johnny?- that has him in your bedroom often now, the other chefs taking care of the kitchen while his hands, clean and gentle, dab creams and whatnot on your face so delicately- like you are one of the cupacakes he decorates for your tea time.

He wants to kiss you so badly. You look so pretty like this, eyes closed and expression peaceful, patient and so trustful of his ministrations. He really, really wants to kiss you and see if the lipstick he’d applied on your pretty lips tastes as sweet as it smells.

Simon, though, is the one who slowly begins adding more and more to your dresses. John already supplies you with so much, but Simon is the one largely in charge of the silk and fabric importation and he knows well what styles will be popular next season, what styles will looks better on you and which colors suit you best. It’s not just dresses, but also matching fabrics and ribbons to go in your hair for when Kyle or your maids style, and for your pretty neck during more casual tea parties.

Not occasionally seeing you in the dresses he sends doesn’t bother him; you will be spoiling the others with the sight, and he can listen to them thank him in several ways afterwards and rest with the thought of you all dolled up, happy and thriving with them.

[dumplinsiims]

20+ Mods for Realistic & Aesthetic Storytelling

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[killishin]

— ♡ right person at the right time.

PART 04.

pairing: jason todd x reader

category: lots of fluff, angst, he fell first she fell harder kinda trope, sfw, thinking of making this a slow burn but we'll see.

content warning: afab, mention of death (reader's mother), violence here and there, mention of blood, inaccurate medical talk, not proofread

summary: reader's just a normal citizen of Gotham, scrambling to making ends meet. after a fateful encounter, when he saw the reader kick ass and save a life- he can't get them off his mind. and fate just keeps pulling them together forcing him to do something about it.

a/n: im having a shit week but at least i have time to write. enjoy :)

wc: 3.8k

fic masterlist. previous. next

dividers by @cafekitsune

easing back into normalcy wasn't easy, not after that very weird, very out of the blue— very pretty— gift. you had wrapt it back in its box and kept it safely on your vanity as if your clumsy hands would somehow shatter the rubies. you had decided to give it back to red. you knew well in first glance that it would have hurt his pockets hard enough— and you just can't accept something that expensive as just an apology.

but he didn't turn up. that sly idiot did not come, it has been a whole week now. and you tried to rationalise that he has far more responsibilities on his shoulders than to play buddy buddy with you but you just wanted to return something that you possibly don't deserve.

you kept your grubby hands off of it without any problem initially, then your heart began tugging you along, wanting you to just wear it. its pretty, you love pretty things who doesn't?

your eyes stared at it, lips puckered in a deep frown, struggling with the polite part of you. the rubies stared back, like sirens calling.

that's when there was a knock, no not on the balcony but from the main entrance. you almost released a disappointed sigh as your heart had momentarily awakened in anticipation of that vigilante.

you opened the door and Kira barged in with bags— shopping bags held on both her forearms. you closed the door with an amused smile and folded your arms, "looks like you finally emptied your bank account huh?"

she rolled her eyes but her giddy smile stayed etched, "of course not! i didn't pay for it. at least not mine." your brows furrowed and she continued, "we're going to the gala!"

in contrast to her excited yelling, your brows just further furrowed, lips scrunching up as you walked towards her, poking at the bags in confusion and suspicion. dresses, two in total. "who's we, kira?" you questioned before giving her a pointed look, "tell me you don't mean me."

kira is a reporter, a good one at that, just reaching her prime and she has been to a good number of galas.

her lips turned downturned, brows furrowing and you immediately scoffed, "i can't believe you—"

"but its a gala."

"filled with those snobby, rich, insensitive—"

"it has great wine. and food."

"i can get great food at the diner down the road. and its made by a sweet old lady-"

"its a Wayne gala."

your lips seized for a moment, stopping as you registered the words. in your eyes all those charity galas are nothing but places for the rich to practice their laughs and stew in gossip. but you've heard of the most talked gala, the ones the Wayne's throw. and while you still have your reservations about it, you know its one of the genuinly best parties. it has the best cuisine selected, the wines are somehow always something new and better than last, the arrangement actually shows refined taste.

maybe for a day you can set aside your differences, at least you can have an experience of a gala, the best one at that. even if it'll suck at least you'll have a story to tell.

so you consider, much to your chagrin, you do.

"its still gonna be filled with those pricks." you grumbled, though it sounded more petulant than firm and she bit back a smile, "yeah but who says you gotta talk with anyone of them? I'll quickly scope any scoop i can get then we can dance, and drink and eat- all while looking the most gorgeous in the room."

and she's got you.

"alright when?"

"dress up, pretty. we're leaving in an hour." she winked before happily taking the bags to your room and you followed behind with a sigh.

"its been soo long since we went out together-"

"didn't we just eat dinner together yesterday?"

"that wasn't going out, that was just stewing in each other's depression." she scowled before stopping dead on her tracks, her eyes trained right on the earrings.

"oh. my. god."

"oh shit—" you cursed under your breath before rushing to hastily close the box. she clicked her tongue in annoyance before swatting you away, opening it back up and gasping yet again.

"who gave you these?!"

you reeled back a bit with an offended frown, "why did you assume someone gave it to me? i could have bought it too."

"with that salary? yeah right." she scoffed before back to cooing at the earrings as if its literally her baby.

"out with it. who gifted you these hm??" she teasingly asked and your groaned, pulling the box gently out of her grasp and putting it back down.

"no one. i mean— a friend."

"right a friend." she scoffed, "at least he's a loaded one for sure."

"its nothing kira. im gonna return it."

"why?!" she stares at you like you just committed a heinous crime, making you scoff. "because its too expensive?"

"so??" she scoffed back as she rested a hand on her hips, "come on if this didn't hurt the pockets of the one who gifted you, you should just thank the daylights outta them and wear it."

"but—"

"not wearing it will be a disrespect to the gift. to the person."

"....you know this is called manipulation?"

"not if its for your best interests." she shrugged as a cheshire smile adorned her lips, "also they're just too pretty to return because you're an emotional idiot."

and so she finally convinced you to go, wearing those rubies. you felt a bit bad for wearing them without even thanking him prior to it. the guilt was there, like a persistent ache, but it lightened at the sight of them on you. they really were beautiful, you didn't linger on why he specifically bought rubies, chalking it up to him just really being obsessed with red.

and as you left, lost in the shine of the red on you, you failed to notice the red reflecting off the glass of your balcony.

"kira what the fuck?"

"i know."

it was beautiful, down from the drapes to the architecture, the carefully selected wine that tasted just the right amount of sweet and fizzy, the chandelier— the chandelier. it was straight out of some fantasy, some fairytale and all its missing is the fluffy gowns. of course its ethereal, it would be since its held in the Wayne manor itself— something kira failed to mention.

"you didn't tell me it was hosted right in the manor!" you whispered to her, nervously yet awkwardly looking around. it wasn't that you were a mess at interactions, its just you don't want to be caught fawning over the art and architecture all for a rich snob to sneer at you. you really do not want to out yourself in a sea of sharks.

"it was supposed to be a surprise!" she grinned, this time it really was innocent and you sighed, shaking you head as you smoothened your dress for the umpteenth time.

"you gotta relax, pretty." she reassured, gently steering your shoulders towards herself, "do what you like. flirt with whoever you want or simply geek out about the art. the people here are way too self absorbed to notice us, trust me." times like this you really do feel grateful for a friend like hers.

"and if someone bothers you, i'll take care of them. just holler." she grinned wickedly, winking at you as she pulled back.

"holler? in the middle of the gala?"

"yep." she chuckled as she started walking away, "they won't remember us anyway."

you shook your head as you stifled a laugh, something told you she has brought the wild side of her to a lot of galas.

but then you realise you're alone. while she makes her round for any potential scoops, you need to keep yourself company. so you snatch a wine before looking around, actively avoiding everyone's eye. you pick a relatively empty corner by the huge window stool, leaning against the wall as your eyes admire the particular painting up on the wall.

"not fond of socialising i presume?"

your skin jumped a bit, the wine sloshing around in the glass a bit as you looked beside you. you really didn't hear him— him, oh he's a gorgeous him alright.

"didn't mean to startle. dick grayson." he smiled, a certain playfullness to it before he extended his hand towards you.

your eyes flickered to his hand and then his eyes, skeptical but also a bit confused. not only have you seen him somewhere that name sounds awfully familiar—

"oh!" your brows jumped up as you shook his hand, quite a reflex action since you realised this damn manor was technically his home. "hello— hi. sorry i didn't recognize-"

"its no problem." he chuckled, amusement rolling off of him and you're already starting to see the proof of his charm that the gotham talks about, "i tend to gravitate towards the more interesting people in these boring galas, so i should be the one apologising if i... intruded."

he did not sound apologetic at all, instead his eyes simply flared with delight as he looked down at you. it unsettled you, not exactly in a creepy way, but you do want to be a part of whatever he is concocting in that pretty head of his.

"interesting? how is me standing in a corner interesting?" you mused as your raised a brow at him, willing your nerves down. he stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets before looking around, his brows furrowing in fake annoyance.

"you're not among them, gossping and bragging. or feeling me up." he makes an exaggerated shudder of his body before sighing and you stifle a laugh, "the gotham elite has some drama every other tuesday, so i get them needing to gossip." you shrugged and he caught the way you subtly grouped him with them.

"also i thought you liked the attention. i don't mean to assume, but it certainly looked that way in the tabloids." you said and he immediately grinned teasingly , "really didn't take you to be interested in tabloids."

"im not." you come to your defense, quite quickly so, "but i see them here and there. in passing." you're definitely not going to accept that in front of anyone, much less the source.

out of the corner of your eye you noticed the center being cleared, lights dimming down. as if that was exactly what he was waiting for he extended a hand and did a little bow, and you wondered just how many people has he charmed to be this confident.

"great to know you're interested." he said and before you could deny that he tilted his head towards the center, where few had gathered. "a dance? something to break your assumptions." his smile wasn't inviting, it was challenging. everything about him seemed mischievous, as if he was upto no good.

still you accepted, and he was a good dancer. he swayed you right, the dip was perfect— though his hold did get tight suddenly.

dick on the other hand, he wasn't looking at the pretty lady in his arms, no, he was looking at his brother right across the room shooting daggers at him. he smiled back, wide and smug, before mouthing, "she's really gorgeous."

Jason's fist tightened as his jaw clenched in unmasked ire at his brother's antics. he would have regretted coming here, as he always does, but he really can't stand you in his arms.

so what happened was he had... eavesdropped on your conversation with your friend. he only wanted to check up on you but the mention of gala really caught his attention. more when the name Wayne reached his ears, he should have left at that. he never attends Bruce's galas, hates them with a passion— not to mention any interaction with bruce that puts him in the spotlight really throws him off. but then you wore the earrings— his earrings. and just like that his heart swayed.

it swayed so hard to the point he doned on the suit, full black and formal. and while the stares and whispers made his eyes twitch, he was far too enamored by the sight of you, beautiful and stunning. he can't help the pride that swells in his chest as the earrings glint in the warm light, he does have impeccable taste.

he would have approached first, he really wanted to but he wasn't red hood right now, he wasn't the red you knew, he was just.. jason. the man who promised to text back for the settlement of the coffee but left you on unread. yeah he really forgot about that.

and he was content with simply watching, but apparently his brother wasn't. dick was already flabbergasted when jason called him to let him know he's coming, reluctantly requesting him to handle bruce in case he swarms jason. and ever the curious cat that dick is, he needed to know why the sudden change of heart.

and his eyes followed Jason's line of direction and settled on you, immediately remembering you from the cafe.

now being the good brother he is, it is his... duty, you can say, to push his brother on the right path. and so that is why he is swaying with you, your innocent yet awkward smile in sharp contrast to Jason's glare at a distance.

his dimples simply deepened as he watched jason literally march to where you are, so confidently and smoothly evening out his frown before plastering the same charming smile dick has.

"really sorry to cut in." he wasn't. before you even knew what was happening, who it was and why the hell did dick wink at him—

oh.

Jason's hand engulfed yours, intertwining, while his hand slipped around your waist yet it felt as if it was hovering. he didn't even pull you close, the gap almost felt awkward yet his eyes didn't show that discomfort. he was giving you a choice, asking while respecting your space.

"you." you whispered out, and your brows raised slowly, "the guy who helped. jason was it?" you remembered his name, you weren't one to forget so easily. but it did hurt your ego a tad bit to not get a text back, its not like you were hitting on him, you simply wanted to return back the money.

his lips pulled into a sheepish smile as he looked away for a moment, cursing his past self for his stupid decisions. it made sense at that moment, to keep you at an arms length. "one and only."

you stepped closer to him, letting your hand rest on his chest, a silent permission and in an instant his hovering hand rested on your waist. it was just a simple touch, you shouldn't make a big deal out of it yet his touch burnt you— it seared through the very fabrics and found its way to your heart. neck warmed, heart thudded— your breath stuttered for a good second, but it wasn't noticeable enough, you hope.

it was to him.

he looked different, maybe its the lights or the suit, but he looked different, dashing. beautifully so. you couldn't help the subtle way your eyes lingered on him, not stagnant on a particular point but all of him. eyes, cheeks, scars, neck, lips—

"i really want to apologise. for not texting." he said, making your eyes snap up and you hoped he didn't notice how sweaty your hands got, or felt the heat searing your body.

he did.

of course he noticed, he noticed everything— he sees everything. but you don't, and for that he's thankful. he's entirely thankful that you didn't feel the twitch of his hand on your waist, simply to bury the need to pull you closer. you didn't notice the way his eyes softened when you let him be close, the way his lips parted. he could finally let his eyes be, admire you in your beauty while being jason and not red.

"can i know why?" he twirled you and gently tugged you back in his arms, they didn't feel cagey. for some odd reason something about him felt... familiar. the proximity was less than it was with dick, yet it didn't raise any flags in your head.

"i mean i wasn't hitting on you. just wanted to return your money." you shrugged and that tone was enough to drag him out of his happy reverie, plunge him in ice cold water because you do not sound very pleased right now.

"i forgot about it— im so sorry." he winced out a smile as he swayed you a bit more, more snug and your eyes narrowed amusingly, " i forgot about it and since i don't bother with unknown numbers—"

"i mentioned my name. and i think i even added that im the person from the cafe." you cut through, faking an innocent tone but your eyes conveyed all the skepticism you felt , "the very same day too. so unless you've got amnesia— which you clearly don't— i don't see how you forgot about it." your smirk was challenging, taunting and his heart roared. it fucking roared in his chest. he should feel even a tiniest bit guilty but he doesn't. his mistake did lead to seeing you being mean and scathing— he loved that.

and as if some higher power (dick) was helping him, the tempo changed. it was faster than before, it had more tension.

it got his blood rushing, putting his rational side on the bench and letting his heart dictate every move. it was dangerous, it was stupid.

but did it matter?

one look at you, the slight pull of a smile on your lips and he doesn't even have to answer.

nope.

legs worked faster, his hands gripped yours harder, twirled you faster— till your back collided with his chest. you felt the slight brush of his jaw on your cheek, the smell of aftershave. the man you met in the cafe was gentle, reserved but nice. the man you're in the arms of is far more than that.

"anyway i can make it up to you?" he twirled you back around and pulled you close, his hand flat on your back. he tilted his head, and suddenly the gap lessened even more. you could see his eyes— the deep blue, the green. his pupils were dilated, depths that seemed to snatch you in them.

"by taking back the money i guess— you're good at this." you huffed out in slight surprise, your brows furrowing and he chuckled, deep and low enough to reverberate through you. "glad i could impress you."

"you were impressing me?"

"thought that was obvious?"

"no i thought you wanted to forget about me—"

you let out an inaudible gasp as he dipped you suddenly. you didn't know whether to be shocked or mad at him. but your heart didn't care for either, thudding so hard you wouldn't be surprised if the whole fucking room heard it.

"let me take buy you a coffee as an apology?" he whispered, smiling so smugly you scoffed at his audacity as he pulled you up.

"are you asking me out after ignoring me for weeks— no, months?" you questioned cheekily and he laughed, "im never gonna hear the end of it won't i?"

"you sound like you're already sure i agreed. i didn't yet."

"you didn't say no either."

"but i can."

"you won't though."

you glared at him but the smile on your lips gave away your amusement. your eyes caught kira in a distance, wiggling her brows at you.

you stopped before taking a step back, your body didn't appreciate being robbed of his warmth though. "it was nice meeting you again, jason."

suddenly grabbed your hand as you were about to walk past him, "the earrings look beautiful on you by the way." he smiled before walking away, the tip of his ears suddenly red despite the confidence he presented. your hand instinctively touched your earring and you smiled, yeah they are.

Jason's world was crashing down, hands twitching, curling and uncurling as it lamented the loss of you. he got a taste, and now he wants more. he already thought he had enough as red, meeting you in those little stolen moments were enough. but now he saw how you'd look in his arms.

his heart craves that.

its a storm in him, he should keep his distance. sever all ties all together, both as red hood and as jason. that would be the smart thing to do, the right thing. he shouldn't entangle his personal and vigilante life together, not that they weren't already. but at least to you, red and jason were different. and he thought both were undeserving of the warmth of life, all until you.

so why won't his heart want you? selfish, greedy— whatever his heart was it didn't matter, he didn't care. there was more than just a pull towards you, you had already made a snug little home in his heart and he couldn't find it in himself to evict you out. his mind and heart were yet again in a clash.

his phone vibrated. his brows furrowed as he looked down at it. immediately he scoffed out a laugh, you wired back the money. and texted him a lil something.

i don't like owing people. also i'm only free on weekends.

he shook his head. what storm, what clash? it didn't matter. it never did. you were already carving a you shaped hole through the walls around his heart.

"why the hell you didn't tell me you danced like that?!"

jason rolled his eyes at dick. he forgot how both him and bruce must have seen it all.

"i didn't know i could either." he muttered under his breath but dick didn't care, he wiggled his brows again.

"you guys looked snug and cosy."

"that you did." where the hell did Alfred come from?

"we were just dancing!"

"why didn't you tell me you were coming jason? and who was that lady?" great now bruce spawned out of nowhere.

"is this an interrogation?" he grumbled under his breath but dick only grinned.

"did she say yes?"

"to what?" jason frowned in frustration.

"you asked her out. did she say yes?" now he frowned for a whole different reason.

"i didn't—"

"you're dating?"

"excellent choice, master jason."

"im not—"

"oh he is. oh i wish everyone could see it." dick sighed exaggeratedly.

"you will tell no one—"

"already did."

jason rubbed his face as he looked up at the ceiling.

"i will shove your face in that horrible cake."

"....it wasn't horrible :("

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