(pictures are purely for aesthetic !! zero racial descriptors. ALSO ARTWORKS ARE NOT MINE!!)
⋆ summary : a blind girl and a boy who spent his life being looked at, but never truly seen, meet through a wrong number. forming a bond that neither friendship nor romance could ever fully define.
⋆ word count : 6.3k
⋆ tags : one-shot, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, comedy romance, close proximity, fluff, idiots in love
⋆ a/n : heavily inspired by the manga 'veil' and many more !! ALSO sorry for not posting for a while (i just graduated YEY !!) i've been drafting ideas left and right and this story stuck with me, and i wanted to write it and share it w y'all. hoping you guys will love this story as much as i do^-^ !!! enjoy reading (tag list at the very end!!)
it started with a wrong number.
michael had been trying to call someone else.
ring!
ring!
“hello?”
a girl’s voice.
he glanced at the number, then frowned.
“…sorry. i think i have the wrong number.”
“congratulations.”
a pause.
“what?”
“you successfully identified the problem.”
michael blinked.
then the line went dead.
for a moment, he just stared at the receiver.
then his laugh slipped out. the kind of laugh that caught him by surprise. because what kind of response was that?
he shook his head and set the phone down. and that should’ve been the end of it.
…but it wasn’t.
the next evening, he found himself thinking about it again.
and because he was bored. he dialed the number again.
the phone rang twice before you answered.
“hello?”
michael grinned deviously.
“it’s the wrong number.”
silence.
“…you called me on purpose.”
“maybe.”
“that’s embarrassing.”
“i know.”
“should i be worried?”
“probably.”
a pause. then you laughed.
and somehow, the conversation lasted twenty minutes.
then forty..
then an hour.
you both talked everyday for a week.
neither of you intended for it to happen, it just did. like a habit forming before either of you noticed.
and neither of you knew much about each other—
not names, jobs, or ages— not even where the other lived.
the conversations simply happened so comfortably and effortlessly. it’s like you both were picking up in the middle of something that had started years ago.
michael was usually the one calling.
it’s not because you didn’t enjoy talking to him. you clearly did. you just never called first.
at first, michael just assumed you weren’t interested.
then he noticed something else.
you never asked for his number, never wrote anything down, and never mentioned calling anybody.
it struck him as odd.
but not odd enough to question. besides— every evening, after a ring or two. you answered, and that was enough for him.
⋆
“you sound upset.”
you said. a pause.
“…how did you know?”
“you’ve been clicking your tongue for ten seconds.”
“oh.”
silence.
“was it really obvious?”
“painfully.”
⋆
“you seem tired.”
“what gave it away?”
“you yawned.”
“…i didn’t yawn?”
“yes you did. you yawned in the middle of a sentence.”
“…maybe a little?”
⋆
“you sound happy.”
“really?”
“mhm.”
“what does happy sound like?”
“you talk faster than usual.”
“…i do?”
“and you keep humming.”
a beat.
“i didn’t know i did that.”
“now you do.”
the strange thing michael seemed to notice was how observant you seemed.
it’s impressive to think you knew when he was smiling, nervous, pacing, or lying during calls.
it was actually a bit terrifying how accurate you were.
“do i get any privacy?”
he said.
“nope.”
“that ain’t fair.”
“you called me.”
“and you keep answering.”
“…i’m gonna hang up on you now.”
“hey— i was kidding!”
⋆
and then there were the comments. the ones michael never thought much about— at least not at the time.
“…i didn’t see that coming.”
“yeah. nobody saw that coming.”
“actually, i never see anything coming.”
⋆
“you’ll have to paint me a picture.”
“okay.”
a pause.
“just so we’re clear, not a real picture— unless you paint.”
“i know.”
“just checking.”
⋆
“you should watch it sometime. it’s a great film.”
“a bit difficult.”
“how so?”
“i have a long history of not seeing movies.”
“…”
“…”
“you’re impossible.”
“i know.”
you laughed.
⋆
sometimes, you would make jokes that left michael completely lost and confuse.
“y’know what my biggest weakness is?”
“what?”
“stairs.”
you said seriously.
and michael tilted his head, confused.
“what about them?”
“never trust them.”
“what are you talking about?”
“they’re always plotting.”
the laugh escaped him was loud enough to make you grin.
“you make absolutely no sense sometimes.”
“neither do stairs, pal.”
⋆
“do you know how many things i’ve walked into this week?”
you said, out of the blue.
“why would i know that?”
“fair.”
“wait— how many?”
“five.”
“—five?”
“six if we’re counting my dignity.”
⋆
“how was your day?”
michael asked.
“fantastic.”
“you sound sarcastic.”
“i knocked over a lamp.”
“a lamp?”
“on the bright side—“
“you broke the lamp.”
“yeah… i did.”
you said defeatedly.
⋆
the thing is, michael assumed you were joking.
you joked about everything. nothing ever sounded serious or ever sounded like something worth asking about.
so he never did.
──────────────────────
the record store was nearly empty.
it was a blessing, really. especially for a young star like michael.
he discovered that if he picked the right places at right times, he could occasionally exist like a normal person.
not often. but occasionally.
and today was one of those days.
michael was wearing a pair of sunglasses and a hat pulled down low, covering half his face.
he wandered through the aisles, flipping through records, enjoying the rare luxury of not being surrounded by screaming crowds.
the store speakers hummed softly overhead. a record crackled through the listening stations.
it feels normal for once.
—thunk!
michael looked up at the sound.
it was a girl. who had just walked directly into a display stand. not hard or enough to hurt.. enough to make a noise.
you paused.
“…rude.”
you muttered, before continuing to walk as if absolutely nothing happened.
he blinked. the display stand remained innocent.
he continued to look around, not even for a few minutes before another—
—thump!
this time, you bumped into a shelf.
you frowned.
“okay. it’s doing it on purpose now.”
you muttered to yourself again, and continued to walk.
while michael was biting his cheek to contain his laugh. the shelf was also innocent.
‘what was she doing?’
the strangest part that michael thought was that you don’t seem embarrassed— because most people would. but instead, you looked completely unbothered like this happens every day.
which judging by your attitude, it probably did.
a few moments later, you appeared beside him.
you were close enough that he could see your mismatched socks peeking out beneath your jeans.
one striped and one plain.
he stared. then glanced down at his own shoes just to make sure he wasn’t somehow wearing two different ones.
“you work here?”
michael looked down at you.
‘oh. she was talking to me.’
“no, i don’t.”
a pause.
“hm.”
you tilted your head slightly.
“you sound like you work here.”
“what does that mean?”
you shrugged.
“i don’t know. you just do.”
michael laughed, and you immediately pointed.
“there.”
“what?”
“your laugh.”
“what about my laugh?”
“you sound nice.”
he stared. he’d never met someone determined a person trustworthy based solely on a laugh before.
“that’s a very strange thing to say.”
“i’ve been told that before.”
you turned towards the shelves.
“since you don’t work here, can i still ask a question?”
“sure.”
“i’m looking for something new.”
“okay, what kind of music?”
“good music.”
“well, that’s not very helpful.”
“i know.”
michael laughed again.
you smiled. not at him, toward the sound.
you folded your arms.
“so? can you recommend me something?”
he looked down at the records, then a terrible idea entered his head.
a funny one.
michael pulled his own album from the shelf.
“what about this one?”
you took it from him, and holding it carefully. running your fingers over the edges.
he noticed how you’d never looked at the cover. you just… held it.
“what is it?”
“off the wall.”
“any good?”
michael pressed his lips together.
“yeah.”
“you seem confident about that.”
“i’ve heard good things.”
you nodded seriously.
“no offense to your source, but i’m gonna listen to it first.”
you handed the album back.
“fair.”
you both walked toward one of the listening stations.. or rather—
michael walked.
you on the other hand somehow drifted through the store with complete confidence before lightly smacking her shoulder against another display.
“ow!”
a beat.
“rude as hell.”
he couldn’t help but laugh.
you slid into one of the chairs and settled the headphones over your ears.
you listened quietly, head tilted slightly. your fingers tapping against the armrest. occasionally humming along to the melody.
and by the end of the song, you were smiling. a genuine one.
you liked it. very much so.
and michael found himself smiling too looking at you.
a few minutes later, you removed the headphones.
“well?”
he asked. and you nodded approvingly.
“your source was right.”
“i told you.”
“i’ll buy it.”
he grinned.
then a voice called from the front of the store.
his bodyguard, bill.
“michael—“
bill immediately stopped and realized his mistake.
too late.
michael’s eyes widen, and turned to look at you.
you blinked.
“michael?”
bill recovered instantly.
“mike. his name’s mike.”
a beat.
“oh.”
you nodded.
“thanks for the recommendation, mike.”
you said, still smiling. then started to walk away—
—THUNK!
another display.
you scoffed.
“unbelievable.”
then you kept going.
michael watched you disappear into the next aisle. shaking his head and laughing to himself. completely unaware that there was now bothering you.
not the name or the album.
it was his laugh.
because you swore you heard it somewhere before.
for the first time in all week— you couldn’t stop thinking about where.
──────────────────────
the phone rang at exactly the same time it always did.
ring!
ring!
“hello.”
“hi.”
you smiled.
“there you are.”
the familiar sound of him settling somewhere came through the line.
a chair creaking. a fabric rustling. a quiet sigh.
you’d become strangely good at picturing his habits.
not what he looked like. but the little things— the way he paced when he’s restless, or the way he hummed whenever he was thinking, or the way he always seemed to smile before saying hello.
“how was your day?”
he asked.
“hm.”
you thought about it.
“that’s never a good start.”
“i got into a fight.”
michael choked.
“y-you what? a fight? with who?”
“a display stand.”
“…”
silence.
“you lost, didn’t you?”
“sadly.”
“i thought you were being serious for a sec.”
you laughed.
the conversation drifted naturally after that like it always did.
until eventually—
“oh.”
“what?”
“i bought a record today.”
there was a brief pause.
“yeah? what album is it?”
for a moment, you paused.
“i don’t know.”
“…you bought an album and you don’t know what it is?”
“apparently.”
“how does that happen?”
“it happens very easily, actually.”
“you didn’t ask?”
“he told me the name but i forgot.”
“did you look?”
“…no.”
“so you just trusted some random guy then.”
“his laugh was trustworthy.”
the line went silent.
“a trustworthy laugh?”
“yeah.”
“what does that even mean?”
“you sound trustworthy, too.”
“that’s not… how it works.”
michael shook his head.
“you’re unbelievable sometimes.”
“i know.”
“so what songs are on it?”
you thought for a moment again.
“i don’t know.”
“you don’t know the album.”
“no.”
“you don’t know the songs.”
“no.”
“you bought this thing completely blind.”
a beat.
then you snorted. your laugh uncontrollable.
“that’s usually how i buy things.”
michael immediately laughed too. a loud one. the kind that escaped before he could help it.
you smiled automatically—
then froze.
something tugged at the back of your mind.
the record store.
the guy who recommended you the record.
the guy with a trustworthy laugh.
your smile slowly faded.
“huh.”
“what’s wrong?”
nothing. you were listening— the way he caught his breath afterward. the slight hitch at the end. the exact rhythm. the exact sound.
michael—
or mike.
“hello…?” he asked.
“hm?”
“you got quiet.”
“oh.”
you leaned back in your chair. trying not to smile and not to laugh at yourself.
the line went quiet, but it was only for a second.
“sure.”
“…hm.”
“hm?”
“nothing.”
“you keep saying that.”
“you sure do ask a lot of questions.”
“that’s because you’re weird.”
“you’re the one who keeps calling me.”
the two of you laugh. but this time, as his laughter echoed through the phone again—
you listened very carefully.
because now you were certain.
you’ve heard that laugh before. and unlike him— you were starting to put the pieces together.
──────────────────────
a few days later, michael found himself back at the record store again.
there was something about the place that he found comforting. maybe because of how quiet it was or how calm it gets inside, while outside the record store, he found it very noisy and overwhelming.
and also, he wasn't back here again because he'd been thinking about a certain girl who had purchased his album without knowing who he really was.
definitely not. that would be ridiculous!
after spending nearly half an hour browsing, he left with a paper bag tucked beneath his arm.
he left without seeing the very clumsy, strange girl.
there was a pang of disappointment he felt. then he shook his head.
across the street sat a small cafe.
one he'd passed before but never entered.
and today, he did.
tinkle!
the bell above the door chimed. and the smell of coffee immediately drifted through the air.
a few people sat scattered around the room. a couple was sitting by the window, and an older man was quietly reading a newspaper. the sound of someone quietly turning pages in the corner.
it was normal and peaceful. the same comforting feeling he had with the record store across the street.
michael liked it immediately.
he stepped up to the counter and ordered a coffee.
the cashier apologized that they had just run out of one of the cafe's best-selling pastries, joking that michael had somehow managed to arrive at the exact wrong time.
michael played along and let out an exaggerated sigh before laughing, the bright, effortless sound filling the otherwise quiet cafe.
across a few tables away.
a girl's head lifted from the sound.
you.
the conversations around you faded in the background. and for a brief moment, you simply listened. a small smile forming across your face.
"...mike?"
michael froze.
his first thought was immediate, 'oh no, a fan.'
he slowly turned toward the voice and saw—
one striped sock. one plain sock.
the girl from the record store. what are the chances?
"you."
"me."
"you.."
you let out a laugh.
"you already said that."
the familiarity of the response hit him instantly. and suddenly, he remembered the phone calls, the record store, and the album.
everything slammed together at once.
his mouth opened. then closed. and opened again.
"no way."
"way."
"you were the girl from the record store."
'and you were mike."
"and—"
you pointed.
"you were the wrong number."
michael laughed immediately. because what was he supposed to do? the whole thing was completely absurd.
"you figured it out"
he said.
"it took me a minute."
"really?"
"...maybe a few days. i wasn't so sure."
"but how?"
"you have a very recognizable laugh."
michael dropped into the chair across from her, still laughing and trying to process the fact that somehow the girl he talked through on the phone and the girl from the record store had been the same person all along.
"what are the chances?" he said.
"very low."
"maybe you're following me and i didn't know."
"oh please! you're the idiot who called me by accident."
"okay you're never letting me forget that."
"nope."
his drink arrived, and michael thanked the waitress kindly. and the conversation somehow picked up instantly where it had left off.
surprisingly, there were no introductions, awkwardness— just natural conversations between the both of you.
eventually he noticed a small bookshelf tucked into a corner. it was a community shelf, leave a book and take a book. it was a sort of thing that he'd always liked.
he nodded toward it.
"you ever read one of those?"
"no."
you answered rather quickly.
"not much of a reader, i assume?"
"no."
michael smiled.
"then how do y'know they're any good?"
"i don't."
"you don't seem worried."
"i'm not."
he laughed again. he picked up a nearby book and flipped through a few pages.
"well, you should try reading sometime."
a beat.
"—i can't."
he snorted, thinking you were joking like you always do.
"there you go again."
"what?"
"your jokes."
"my jokes?"
"the seeing jokes."
a pause. then you tilted your head slightly confused.
"mike, i ain't kidding."
michael smiled.
"sure you are."
"no—seriously."
you were starting to laugh at how slow he was. it was getting kinda ridiculous that he still didn't get the hint.
"i'm blind."
you said, rather a bit casually, like saying the grass was green.
the cafe suddenly felt very quiet, and michael just stared. his smile fell from his face.
"...what?"
"i. am. blind."
you lifted a hand and waved it in front of your eyes and showed him you were really serious.
and suddenly, every conversation replayed inside his head.
"you'll have to paint me a picture."
"i have a long history of not seeing movies."
"actually, i never see anything coming."
"you bought this thing completely blind."
"that's how i usually buy things."
the record store. the mismatched socks. the way you were strangely observant of sounds. the way you'd confidently walked straight into a shelf and simply cussing at it, before moving on.
"oh my God."
his hand flew to his forehead. the realization hit all at once like he was struck by lightning.
in fact, you were amused by the whole thing.
"you... really didn't know?
"NO."
his answer came out louder than he intended, and he covered his mouth with his hand quickly after when he noticed several people glanced over his table.
"you didn't tell me."
he said, his voice now lowered.
"you didn't ask."
"i thought you were joking!"
"jokes are half-meant. it's not my fault you're an idiot with a nice laugh."
"holy shit."
you choked a laugh, didn't expect him to cuss at all.
"you gotta admit, this is kinda funny."
you said, still laughing.
michael dropped his head into his hands. because somehow you were right.
"you dropped so many clues... and i still didn't realize."
"twenty-three."
his head snapped up.
"what?"
"it was twenty-three clues."
"you counted?"
"i was curious how long it would take for you to realize."
michael stared, then bursted out laughing.
of course you counted.
his laughter faded slowly, and left something quieter behind— something thoughtful.
because for the first time since meeting you, things suddenly made more sense.
not your jokes or comments.
it's you.
the way you always knew when he's smiling, pacing, or how you could tell he was upset before he'd even say a word.
and most of all, how you'd recognize him from a laugh.
a laugh.
nobody else would've noticed a laugh. nobody else would've listened that carefully.
but you did.
because listening wasn't just something you did. it was how you moved through the world. it's how you understood people— how you understood him.
suddenly, michael found himself looking at you differently. not because you were blind, because you weren't.
not in the way he first imagined. if anything, you'd notice more about him than most people with perfect eyesight ever had.
and for reasons he couldn't quite explain, that realization stayed with him long after the conversations moved on.
⋆
eventually the afternoon faded into evening.
the cafe began emptying. chairs scraped softly against the floor, and the waitress started collecting cups from the tables.
michael glanced out the window, then glanced back at you.
"you headin' home?"
"eventually. i'll get there."
you shrugged.
your answer somehow raised more questions than it answered.
michael stood as you did, and the two of you stepped outside together.
the record store across the street was already preparing to close. the familiar neighborhood buzzed around them. and for a moment, they stood in comfortable silence.
then michael remembered something—
"oh."
"hm?"
he turned around and looked at you.
"how are you getting home?"
the question seemed perfectly reasonable to him. but the look you gave him suggested otherwise.
"the same way i got here?"
"right."
michael stared.
"you live nearby?" he asked.
"about fifteen minutes. give or take."
he frowned because you looked entirely unconcerned. which somehow concerned him more.
"and you're just..."
he gestured vaguely.
"...going?"
"i mean, what else would i do?"
michael opened his mouth. then closed it. then opened it again.
"i... don't know?"
"you don't know?"
"no."
"you called me by accident and somehow survived."
"well that's because this is different."
"tell me how it is different."
michael pointed at the road.
"there are cars."
"there have always been cars, mike."
"that doesn't make me feel any better."
"it wasn't supposed to."
you started walking suddenly, which michael immediately followed.
"wait—!"
"what?"
"you can't just leave."
you stopped walking and turned slightly toward his voice.
"michael..."
"yeah?"
"i've been walking myself for years."
"i know."
"then why do you sound panicked?"
"because now i know."
you bursted out laughing,
and michael groaned.
"i liked it better when you didn't know."
the worst part was that he heard how ridiculous he sounded now that he had realized.
but he couldn't help but worry for you.
the image of you casually walking into shelves all afternoon wasn't helping.
"seriously."
"don't you trust me?"
"of course i do."
"stop playin'! you clearly don't."
"i don't trust traffic."
michael crossed his arms.
"how do you even do it?"
"do what? get home?"
"safely."
you thought about it.
"genuinely. i mostly just hope for the best."
michael's eyes widened.
"you what?!"
you started laughing at his reaction.
"i'm kidding!"
"that is not funny."
"it was a little funny."
"you can't just say things like that and expect me to let you go home by yourself."
"okay, okay."
you finally relented.
"i know the route."
"okay."
"i know every crossing is. i know which bakery means i've gone too far."
michael blinked.
"what?"
"the smell. i use the bakery and among other things."
you said, then pointed vaguely.
"there's a florist, a bus stop, then a church."
he found himself listening really carefully to the way you described it. not as directions— but as sounds and smells, as familiar pieces of the world.
it was like you carried a map that nobody else could see.
for the first time since learning you were blind, he relaxed just a little.
because clearly, you've been doing this for years. you knew what you were doing and were clearly capable.
and yet—
—HONK!
a car honked somewhere nearby.
michael nearly jumped out of his skin, and you— you didn't even flinch.
"nope."
he was still worried.
"what now?"
"i'm walking you home."
"i told you mike, i can walk on my own."
"i'm not asking. i'm telling you i'll come with you."
you laughed again.
"you are unbelievable."
"so i've been told."
a pause.
then you smiled.
he smiled back.
"fine. you can walk me home."
michael tried not to look pleased with himself. but failing completely because you clearly heard it in his voice.
"oh my God. are you smiling?"
"what? no i'm not."
michael said, trying to play it cool. still smiling.
"you shmuck. you are."
"okay, maybe a little."
you both laughed.
──────────────────────
the strange thing was that after all the revelations.
nothing really changed.
he was still the boy who called the wrong number.
you were still the girl who would answer his call after two rings.
the only difference now was that he knew you were blind. and you now knew that he was michael jackson.
neither fact seemed to matter very much.
at least not to you.
⋆
the first time he told you, michael had been visibly nervous.
you both were sitting in your apartment, while jazz music was playing softly in the background.
and michael finally asked.
"so... y'know who i am now, right?"
"mhm."
"and?"
"and what? is there more to it?"
a pause.
"i'm michael jackson."
"okay."
"okay. that's it?"
michael stared. you just shrugged.
"you were mike to me yesterday."
he let out a loud laugh he nearly fell of the couch.
⋆
your apartment quickly became one of his favorite places.
there were no screaming crowds, no flashy cameras pointing at him, and no pressure and expectations around him here.
just you.
he'd sometimes stop by after recording sessions, or after surviving rude interviews he didn't want to do in the first place.
and whenever touring pulled him away...
he'd always find time to call you every night like clockwork.
"hello."
"hi."
"there you are."
the same routine everytime.
⋆
unfortunately for you, michael had been alarmingly protective of you.
especially when walking outside together.
"—stop!"
"what?"
michael grabbed your shoulders and physically rotated you.
"there."
"what was that?"
"a mailbox. you were about to walk into it."
"oh. again?"
"yeah."
"the mailbox and i have history."
he buried his face in his hands.
⋆
another time—
"WAIT."
"what??"
—HONK!
michael immediately hooked an arm around your waist and pulled you towards him.
a car sped past.
you blinked.
"oh. i didn't hear that one."
"you— you didn't ?"
"it can't be helped. it happens"
he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. you patted his arm gently.
"there, there."
"don't 'there, there' me."
⋆
one afternoon you nearly walked directly into a street sign.
michael grabbed your elbow before you walked into it.
redirecting you, then kept walking.
"thanks."
"you're welcome."
a pause.
"y'know, most people ask before manhandling me."
"you lost that privilege after walking into a fire hydrant."
⋆
but for someone so protective—
michael also forgot you were blind constantly.
"look at this."
silence.
michael froze, realizing what he just said.
"..."
"...i'm blind."
"right. sorry."
not even 10 minutes in—
"woah! did you see that?"
"mike."
"right."
⋆
one evening, he excitedly showed up to you holding a magazine featuring his album.
"look."
a pause. then immediate regret.
"oh."
he said.
you nodded.
michael groaned and you laughed.
"can you tell me what it is?"
"yeah— right. sorry."
⋆
the blind jokes never stopped once, and michael never knew whether he should laugh.
"well, i didn't see that coming."
"...should i laugh?"
"yes. i'm giving you permission."
⋆
"you're cooking, mike?"
"yeah. thought you might be hungry."
"m'kay, don't burn my kitchen okay? i've got my eye on you."
you pointed at him— or rather, pointing in the wrong direction where he definitely isn't there.
"you definitely don't."
you laughed out loud.
⋆
and the worst part was that eventually he started laughing at your jokes.
the jokes were objectively terrible, but your commitment made them funny to him.
there was one time, you were sitting together on the couch.
when suddenly, you leaned close.
closer.
and closer.
until both of your faces were only inches apart.
and michael forgot how to breathe.
"...what are you doing?"
"i'm trying to get a better look at you."
he looked at you for a moment, then laughed before he could stop himself.
he immediately covered his mouth.
"oh no."
you smiled, tilted your head. your faces still inches apart.
"what?"
"your humor is getting to me. it's contagious."
you laughed against his chest while he felt bad for laughing, but laughed anyway with you.
──────────────────────
by then, meeting up had become a routine.
sometimes it was the same cafe. sometimes it was the record store. or sometimes, a little family-owned restaurant tucked away in the city where michael could sit without being recognized every five minutes.
but today, it was the restaurant.
it was nearly empty.
just the soft clinking of silverware and quiet conversations drifting through the restaurant.
michael had barely settled into his seat before his eyes wandered beneath the table.
then stopped. he stared.
michael looked from one foot to the other.
one plaid. one striped.
"...those don't match."
you glanced down at your own feet out of pure habit, even though you couldn't actually see.
"...so i've been told."
"they're diffent socks."
"you say that like it's my fault."
you smiled, unbothered, and continued eating.
the conversation should've ended there—
but it didn't.
⋆
a week later, michael arrived carrying a small box.
"what is that?"
"a solution."
"to what?"
"your fashion crimes."
inside the box were neatly paired socks.
you laughed so hard you nearly dropped the box.
"mike..."
"i'm trying to help you."
"they're socks.
"and they matter."
and from there... things were escalated rapidly.
socks became shirts, skirts, dresses, jewelry, then shoes.
then somehow, michael had accidentally become your personal stylist.
⋆
one afternoon, he arrived at your apartment carrying multiple shopping bags.
and you heard them immediately before he even spoke.
"oh no. that sounds like it costs money."
michael laughed, and you smiled at the sound.
"you need better clothes."
"i have clothes."
"you have fabric. this is different."
the funny thing is that you genuinely don't care. it's not because you disliked fashion, because you literally couldn't see it, so you don't really see the use of it.
meanwhile, michael treated every outfit of yours like he was preparing someone for the red carpet.
"can you stand up for me?"
you shrugged and stood up.
then you hear michael circling around you. quietly thinking, analyzing, and judging.
"hm..."
"what is it?"
"the earrings have to go."
you snorted at how committed he was to your outfits, even if it's just a trip to the record store. people would think you were preparing to go to an event.
⋆
eventually, michael started doing your hair too.
at first, he was just fixing little things like a loose strand or putting on a ribbon to your hair.
the suddenly he was fully invested into it.
"stay still."
"what are you doing, mike?"
"fixing."
"fixing what?"
"everything."
you scoffed dramatically, offended.
"rude."
sometimes, he would recreate hairstyles inspired by women he'd admired growing up.
the kind of beauty that michael loved seeing in old films.
and when he was finished, he would step back. admiring his work and felt completely satisfied.
meanwhile, you were restlessly sitting down. bored.
"can we leave now?"
⋆
there was one day where michael convinced you to let him do a little makeup.
it wasn't anything dramatic. it's the kind that enhanced rather than transformed.
you sat the entire time patiently and trusting him completely— which somehow made him more nervous.
"—there."
"is it done?"
"yeah."
"do i look somewhat nice?"
michael looked at you, and for a moment he didn't answer.
because the truth was...
you always had.
the dresses, the hair, the makeup...
they weren't what made you beautiful.
he simply loved seeing the person he already thought was beautiful dressed the way he imagined movie stars looked beneath golden lights.
sometimes he would smooth out a wrinkle from your sleeve, adjust a necklace, or brush a loose strand behind your ear.
he would quietly think...
'i wish you could see yourself the way i do.'
not because he wanted credit, and not because he wanted you to admire the outfit he'd bought for you—
just because he wished, even once, you could see what he saw every time he looked at you.
then, inevitably...
you'd ruin the moment.
"why are you so quiet? do i look ugly?"
you said, snapping out of his thoughts.
he nearly choked.
"no you don't!"
"good. don't tell me if i ever do."
he laughed.
──────────────────────
looking back, the clothes had never really been about clothes.
they were simply one of the many ways michael learned to care for you, and the more time he spent by your side... the more time those little acts of care quietly found their way into everything else.
because despite all his worrying, his redirecting, his hovering.
and all his constant—
"careful."
"watch your step."
"wait—"
michael never treated you like you were fragile. not really.
because he learned that you hated it. that you didn't want the pity. you didn't want people acting like you weren't incapable.
you didn't want someone to live your life for you.
so he adapted.
instead of doing things for you... he simply stood nearby you and was always ready when you needed him.
close enough to catch you if you fall— far enough to let you stumble if you insisted.
he'd quietly turn your shoulders before you walked into a street sign.
slide a chair beneath you before you sat down.
wordlessly move something out of your path.
it was small things nobody else would've noticed.
and somehow that meant more.
those tiny acts of care became their own language. a language that didn't make you feel incapable. only loved.
it became second nature.
so did describing the world for you.
just like your late-night phone calls, the mismatched socks he'd eventually given up trying to fix, or him spending an unreasonable amount of money filling your wardrobe because he refused to let you 'accidentally invent new fashion trends.'
just wandering into record stores, small coffee shops, bookstores—
anywhere the two of you could disappear for a few hours and simply exist.
when the city became too loud, the world felt unbearably heavy, and fame became too much for michael.
you both always ended up in the same place.
your rooftop.
it wasn't anything particularly impressive. there was no skyline, no luxury furniture, no grandview.
just a few chairs, a small table, and an outdoor sofa facing the view.
strings of fairy lights draped overhead above both of you, and the soft glow turned everything warm, comfortable, and safe.
it had quietly became michael's favorite part of your apartment.
not because of what he could see from there, but because of who was waiting for him there.
the evening breeze drifted through the air. neither of you had spoken for several minutes... just listening to the city below.
then—
"can i ask you something?"
michael looked over to you and nodded.
"yeah. what is it?"
a pause.
you hesitated. which was strange because you never did.
"what..."
you searched for the words.
"...do you look like?"
he blinked. because it wasn't a question he'd expected.
he laughed quietly.
"you've never asked."
"i know."
"do you want me to describe myself?"
"no."
another pause.
"i don't think words would help."
michael looked down at his hands. and for some reason, he couldn't explain. his chest suddenly felt tight.
because he'd spend most of his life wishing people would stop looking at him.
yet here you were—
the one person who never had.
"...can i..."
you hesitated again.
"can i feel your face?"
michael's heart forget what it was doing.
"oh."
a beat. then—
"...yeah."
he shifted a little closer, close enough that he could hear your breathing.
you slowly lifted your hand carefully.
tentatively.
as though asking one final time without using words, and michael answered by gently taking your wrist.
his hands were warm... and much larger than yours. he guided your fingertips to his cheek, and then he let go.
for a long moment, neither of you moved.
your fingers barely brushed his skin softly and curiously, but never invasive.
you traced the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and his eyebrows. the gentle arch of them making you smile.
"hm..."
"what?"
"i thought your nose would be bigger"
michael let out an offended laugh.
"my nose?'
"i don't know."
"you imagined a bigger nose?"
"i had to imagine something."
he laughed again, and the sound made you smile.
your fingers found the corners of his eyes. his eyelashes fluttered instinctively against your fingertips.
"you blink a lot."
"because you're fingers are poking my eyes."
you laughed softly, muttering a 'sorry.'
then, you traced the outline of his lips carefully, almost reverently. as though committing every feature to memory.
michael had never felt more seen. not because you were looking at him— because you weren't. you couldn't.
but somehow... that made it mean more.
your hand slowly fell back into your lap.
"so...?"
michael asked quietly.
"what do you think?"
you tilted your head. thinking.
"i think.."
a tiny smile appeared.
"..you have a kind face."
and something in michael's chest ached.
nobody had ever described him that way before. not handsome, not famous, not beautiful...
kind.
you laughed softly.
"i wonder what i look like."
michael looked at you immediately.
"what do you mean?'
"i don't know. i've never seen myself."
your smile remained, but it was smaller now.
"i hope i'm pretty."
you said quietly.
and michael frowned.
"you are."
"you don't have to say that."
"i'm not saying it because we're friends."
"you kind of have to."
"i don't."
"you do."
you smiled.
michael shook his head.
"no."
his voice came out softer than he'd intended.
"i just.."
he searched for the right words.
"i wish you could see yourself the way i do."
silence
it wasn't the kind of silence that was awkward, it was full.
you reached for him again, and michael thought you were going to touch his face once more.
but instead—
your hand rested lightly against his cheek, and you leaned forward, pressing the gentlest kiss against his closed eyelid.
it lasted barely a second, then pulled away.
you smiled.
"i liked doing that."
michael blinked. he still hadn't moved, still hadn't spoken.
his heart was pounding, he was convinced you could hear it.
"...why?"
"i don't know."
you shrugged, trying to find the right words.
"it feels... more personal."
"than kissing someone?"
"mhm."
you nodded.
"a kiss is just a kiss."
you paused.
"but someone trusting you enough to close their eyes? i think that's special."
you smiled at the thought.
and for once, michael didn't know what to say.
so he didn't. instead—
he quietly reached for your hand and held it for a long time. while you quietly rest your head against his shoulder.
neither of you called it love. but if anyone has asked what it was—
neither of you would've known what else to call it.
──────────────────────
tag list: @ugftugbjh @veraberaxx @dillydallyonthedaily @pinkdollyy1 @ttwot1me-nia @nata-de-coconuts @peterpanmj @aubrslifegio @thlayna @raaaabbithole @boredpretty @tallkitten @gjhffjfd @thebabykashmere @iris-xoxo-juhu @delictezz @lov3lylxvender @michcarrillo02-blog @smoothcriminalgf
SUMMARY: Lando Norris taught Y/N that sometimes love isn't enough to overcome fear. Max Verstappen, however, seems determined to prove that love was never supposed to be so complicated.
After years of believing her place in the world made her impossible to choose, trusting someone who chooses her so easily might be the hardest thing she'll ever do.
WORD COUNT: 11K
NOTE: Hi! Thank you so much for all the love and support you've shown my Max stories. I have to admit he's one of my favorite drivers to write about, and I absolutely adored writing him in this one. I really hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed creating it. English isn't my first language, so you may come across some grammar or wording mistakes.
masterlist
The first time I realized there were people who were born in places different from mine, I was eight years old.
It wasn’t because someone explained it to me. It was because I overheard two of my grandmother’s neighbors talking while they played dominoes in her backyard.
“That little girl’s mother sends money from England, doesn’t she?” one of them asked in a raspy voice as she placed another tile on the table.
“She does.”
“Poor thing… Growing up without a father, and with her mother raising other people’s children instead of her own.” The woman took a long drag from her cigarette before continuing the game, as if she had just made the most ordinary comment in the world.
I kept drawing in the dirt with a stick, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing. Children learn very early which conversations aren’t meant for them.
That night, while my grandmother peeled potatoes for dinner, I couldn’t keep the question to myself any longer.
“Grandma…”
She looked up for only a second.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is it true that my mom takes care of other children in England?”
Her hands froze over the cutting board for a few seconds.
“Your mother works.”
“But… taking care of other children?”
“Yes.”
I lowered my eyes to the concrete floor. I remember staring at a tiny crack, unable to understand why such a simple answer hurt so much.
“Then why doesn’t she take care of me?” I whispered.
My grandmother didn’t answer. She simply set the knife aside, walked over to me, and gently stroked my hair with a rough hand, worn by years of hard work. Then she quietly returned to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.
As I grew older, I learned that some silences weigh far more than any answer ever could.
When I was twelve, the sweet woman who had raised me my entire life passed away.
Something inside me froze that day. Not even the hot cup of coffee one of our neighbors handed me made me feel anything.
The house was filled with people who, until that moment, had never bothered to show up, and suddenly everyone seemed to have an opinion about what should happen to me.
“She can’t stay here alone.”
“She’s still just a child.”
“Someone needs to call her mother.”
No one asked what I wanted. It was as if being twelve meant I had no right to make decisions about my own life.
Two days after the funeral, my mother arrived carrying a single small suitcase, making it painfully obvious she had no intention of staying for long.
“Tomorrow we’re going to take care of some paperwork,” she said. Those were the first words she spoke after settling into my grandmother’s bedroom.
“What are we going to do?” I asked quietly.
“We’re getting your documents ready. You’re coming back to England with me.” Her voice left no room for questions.
So I stayed silent and let the woman who had spent years away come back and rearrange my entire life.
When we arrived at the Norris family’s house, I finally understood why my mother had chosen to build a life here instead of coming back for me like she’d always promised.
The house was beautiful—bright, spotless, and full of life. It couldn’t have been more different from our little concrete home back in our country, which always felt dark and cold.
My mother showed me the bedroom we’d be sharing, and without another word, she left to begin her daily chores around the house.
I was alone. So I wandered outside into the enormous backyard. Everything felt so unfamiliar… so cold… so depressing.
Or maybe that was simply the way I saw the world now that my grandmother was gone.
My relationship with my mother had always been distant. While we lived in different countries, our conversations rarely lasted more than ten minutes. We spoke only about practical things, never about feelings. That’s why I didn’t trust her enough to tell her everything that was happening inside my head.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when a football ball slammed into my arm.
“Ow.” I immediately rubbed the sore spot.
When I looked up, I found myself staring at a green-eyed boy wearing an apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. Those were the only words I understood.
I didn’t speak English. To me, everything else sounded like an endless stream of meaningless sounds.
“I… don’t speak English,” I managed to say.
“Oh…” His eyes widened with understanding. “Lucía?”
He cradled his arms as if rocking a baby, and I quickly realized he was asking if I was Lucía’s daughter.
I simply nodded. I thought that would be the end of our interaction. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
First, he pointed at himself.
“Lando.”
Then he pointed at me.
“Y/N,” I replied.
His smile grew even wider, clearly pleased that we’d managed to communicate despite the language barrier.
He bent down, picked up the football ball that had been forgotten on the grass, and held it out toward me. Then he pointed his thumb toward a makeshift pitch a few yards away.
He was inviting me to play.
I wanted to say no. But the simple kindness of someone making such an effort to communicate with me, despite neither of us speaking the other’s language, awakened a warmth in my chest that I hadn’t felt in a very long time. So I said yes.
After that day, our friendship blossomed.
Lando was the one who practically taught me how to speak English, while I taught him bits and pieces of Spanish.
We spent countless afternoons playing on his PlayStation or running around the backyard whenever the sun was out. When my mother grounded me and refused to let me leave my room, he’d sneak candy under my bedroom door. Whenever he got into trouble, I’d do the same for him.
As the years passed, our little friendship slowly became something else. Somewhere along the way, the flame of love had ignited within my heart, and from the way Lando looked at me, I was certain that it burned just as intensely within his.
One ordinary afternoon, in the middle of one of our usual games, we shared our first kiss. It was shy, awkward, and over almost as quickly as it had begun.
Afterward, we avoided each other for days. Neither of us knew how we were supposed to act after crossing that line.
Eventually, though, we slipped back into our old routine. We depended on each other too much to let a single kiss ruin everything, so we quietly agreed to pretend it had never happened.
Until the day we crossed a line no friendship ever should.
We slept together for the first time.
The next morning, Lando tried to act like nothing had changed. He laughed, joked, and spoke to me exactly the way he always had.
But eventually, the weight of the question hanging between us—What are we now?—became too much for him to ignore.
“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I never meant for this to happen. You mean so much to me, and I don’t want us holding onto hopes we both know can’t become reality… You know we can’t be together.”
As he spoke the most painful words my sixteen-year-old heart had ever heard, he couldn’t even bring himself to look me in the eye.
I simply nodded and forced a small smile. It hurt more than I could ever describe, but I understood. Someone like him—someone with endless opportunities, someone destined to conquer the world—could never be with someone like me.
The daughter of the housekeeper.
The years that followed were some of the hardest of my life. Lando threw himself completely into his racing career, and little by little, we stopped spending our days together.
At home, things weren’t any easier.
My mother became unbearable. To this day, I don’t know whether it was my teenage hormones or her constant need to control every aspect of my life, but every conversation between us turned into another argument.
By the time I turned eighteen, our relationship had reached the point of no return. One fight escalated until it became physical. So I packed the few clothes and belongings I owned, walked out of that house, and never looked back.
For the first time in years, I was ready to start over. Free from my mother’s control and free from the feelings that had kept my heart tied to Lando for far too long.
(…)
Eight long years had passed since that day.
Time had brought maturity with it, and little by little, I had managed to heal many of the wounds I’d carried inside me.
Life hadn’t become any easier after leaving the Norris household. I’d had to work incredibly hard just to support myself, and although I still hadn’t reached the goals I’d set for myself, I could finally say I was stable.
My relationship with my mother, while still complicated, had improved somewhat. At the very least, we could now have a conversation without arguing. Sometimes we even laughed together.
Things with Lando were much the same. Every now and then we’d call each other to ask how life was going, but that was the extent of it. I couldn’t even say we were friends anymore. We were simply two people who shared the nostalgia of the past we’d grown up together.
One ordinary Sunday, I was invited to the Norris house for a small New Year’s lunch.
Lando was there with his new girlfriend, along with several of his friends.
Watching him be so affectionate with her made my stomach twist. I wasn’t in love with Lando anymore—that had been left in the past—but I couldn’t help mourning what we might have become if social class hadn’t mattered so much.
I was helping my mother clean up in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Since no one seemed to hear it from the backyard, I decided to answer the door myself.
“Good afternoon,” a blond man with striking blue eyes greeted me.
He looked strangely familiar.
“Hi. How can I help you?” I asked, studying his serious expression.
With that same curiosity, he began studying mine.
“Max! I thought you weren’t going to make it!” Lando’s cheerful voice broke the strange silence between us.
I looked back at the blond man, and suddenly his face clicked into place.
Max Verstappen.
Just like Lando, he was a Formula One driver.
I stepped aside to let him in. He gave me one last lingering glance before following Lando toward the backyard.
The afternoon passed without anything particularly remarkable happening.
Everything felt perfectly normal… Except for the fact that Max Verstappen kept looking at me.
We were all scattered around the garden. Lando’s girlfriend settled beside him on the outdoor sofa and intertwined her fingers with his the moment I walked over to set a few plates on the table. The gesture was far too deliberate to be accidental.
I chose to ignore it or at least, I tried to.
“So, what do you do for a living?” she suddenly asked.
“I work as a dancer at a theater, and from time to time I also work at art exhibitions.”
I conveniently left out the job that actually occupied most of my time: working as a barista at a coffee shop.
“Really?” She smiled. It was a beautiful smile, but completely hollow. “That’s interesting. I honestly thought you’d still be working here with your mom.”
The silence that followed was almost imperceptible. But it was there. I could feel several pairs of eyes turning toward me. I took a slow breath before answering.
“No. I’ve been living on my own for years.”
“I see…” She took a sip of her drink. “I suppose growing up here must have opened a lot of doors for you.”
She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t said anything openly offensive. But every single person there understood exactly what she was implying.
That anything I’d achieved was because of the Norris family. Not because I’d earned it myself.
Lando opened his mouth.
“She got her job on her own—”
“I was only saying she’s been lucky,” his girlfriend interrupted with a flawless smile.
I didn’t want to stay there anymore.
I picked up my glass and announced that I was going to the kitchen for another drink before turning away, not giving anyone the chance to stop me.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, I had to take several deep breaths to keep my anger under control.
Who the hell did that bitch think she was?
Who had given her the right to judge me like that?
I’d worked my ass off these past eight years to build a life for myself. No one had ever handed me anything on a silver platter… Like they most likely had with her.
Stupid bitch.
Stupid Lando.
A few years earlier, I probably would’ve destroyed her with a comeback so brutal everyone around us would’ve been clutching their pearls.
“You’re actually pretty nice, you know? If I were you, I wouldn’t have let that slide.” A deep, raspy voice pulled me out of my murderous thoughts.
I turned around to find Max filling a glass with water.
“Are you trying to start a fight?” I asked, crossing my arms as I looked at him with amusement.
Max simply shrugged.
“Only if you want to.” He took a sip of water as if he’d said nothing unusual.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Half disbelief. Half amusement.
“I don’t think the Norris family—or my mother—would appreciate me starting a fight in their backyard.” I sighed. “So I’ll just stay in here until I calm down.”
“Then I’ll stay with you,” he decided, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs.
We talked about everything.
Anyone watching us would’ve assumed we’d known each other for years instead of having met barely an hour earlier.
He told me a little about his life, his racing career, and the end of the previous championship.
I told him about my home in my country and all the different jobs I worked.
“How do you manage to have three jobs?” he asked, frowning.
It genuinely seemed impossible for him to understand how anyone could take on that much responsibility.
“Well, I only work at the theater on Friday and Saturday nights,” I explained before taking a sip of my lemonade. “Sometimes Sundays too, if Monday’s a holiday. I only have rehearsals two evenings during the week, which leaves my weekdays free to work at the coffee shop. As for the art galleries, I only work whenever there’s an exhibition, usually on weekend mornings and afternoons.”
Max looked genuinely horrified. I couldn’t help laughing, it wasn’t the first time someone had looked at me that way.
“Trust me,” I said with a shrug, “it’s not as bad as it sounds. It helps knowing it’s only temporary. I’m saving as much money as I can, and once I have enough, I’ll find a job that isn’t nearly as demanding.”
After that, our conversation drifted toward lighter topics. Nothing serious or complicated.
The truth was, Max was an excellent conversationalist, and I found myself genuinely enjoying his company.
We talked until late into the night, until almost everyone had gone home and only the two of us—and a couple of others—remained in the garden.
When we finally said goodbye, it felt like we were old friends. In my mind, I told myself it would be the first and last time we’d ever see each other. But deep down my heart hoped there could be something more.
The next morning, the first person to question me was my mother, as always.
“Remember your place when it comes to men like them. They have money, power, and connections, and they look for women of the same caliber to be with. Don’t get your hopes up over nothing.”
With a disapproving frown, she made it very clear what she thought about how close Max and I had seemed the day before.
“I know that, Mom,” I replied, rolling my eyes as I stirred my bowl of oatmeal with my spoon.
“It didn’t look that way yesterday. Open your eyes, Y/N. You’re far too old not to realize that men like them only want a one-night stand with you.” My mother continued her lecture.
Before I could answer, Lando’s voice interrupted us.
“Can I steal her for a minute?” he asked my mother, nodding in my direction.
She picked up her coffee mug.
“I’m going upstairs to take care of a few things.” Without another word, she left the kitchen.
Lando walked over to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup, and took a slow sip. I simply watched him, trying to figure out what was going on inside his head.
“So…” he began, leaning against the counter. “What did you think of Max?”
Lando was so predictable that I almost laughed.
“I actually liked him.” I took another spoonful of oatmeal, deliberately leaving it at that.
Lando simply nodded and kept watching me.
“What?” I finally asked after a few moments of silence.
“He’s a good guy,” he said after a brief pause. “But…”He stopped, searching for the right words.
I gestured with my hand for him to continue.
“He can be very impulsive.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“When he wants something, he usually goes after it without thinking too much. And… I don’t want you to get hurt.” He set his mug down and leaned against the kitchen island so we were standing face-to-face.
I rolled my eyes with a quiet sigh.
“Lando… you don’t have to worry, okay? I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been taking care of myself for practically my whole life, and I’m doing just fine.” I motioned toward myself as if presenting proof that I was perfectly alive and well.
Lando let out a long sigh.
“It’s just…” His voice softened. “You mean a lot to me. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I want your heart to stay safe.”
For a moment, I could see the sixteen-year-old boy I’d fallen in love with reflected in his eyes. The warmth in his gaze made my stomach twist. I swallowed discreetly before forcing a small smile.
“Don’t worry. We only had one conversation yesterday. It’s not like we’re going to get married.” A nervous laugh slipped from my lips.
(…)
A few days later, it was Tuesday.
Tuesdays were usually the most boring days at the coffee shop. It was always half empty, and time seemed to move painfully slowly. I was restocking one of the display cases when Elena, one of my coworkers, walked over to me.
“There’s someone at that table asking for you.”
She pointed her thumb toward a table tucked away in the corner, occupied by a man sitting with his back to us.
Confused, I made my way over. Customers almost never requested a specific server.
“Good morning. How can I hel—” The words died in my throat before I could finish.
The man looked up calmly and offered me an easy smile.
“Good morning.” His deep voice sent a shiver down my spine.
“Max?” I blurted out. “What are you doing here?” The disbelief in my voice was impossible to hide.
He slowly closed the menu.
“Having coffee.” He tilted his head ever so slightly “Isn’t that obvious?”
I stared at him for several seconds, completely dumbfounded. Shaking my head with a small laugh, I took his order and walked behind the counter to prepare it.
There was no way this was actually happening to me.
A few minutes later, I placed his drink in front of him, unable to hold back the question that had been bothering me.
“How did you find this place?”
“You told me where you worked.” He shrugged before taking his first sip.
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.” I frowned, folding my arms across my chest.
“You told me what neighborhood it was in,” he replied casually. “That was enough. There weren’t that many coffee shops around, so it wasn’t hard to find.”
He took another sip while looking at me over the rim of his cup.
He was lying. We weren’t close to downtown, but this wasn’t some hidden corner of the city either there were plenty of cafés around. There was no way he’d found this one that easily.
“So why did you come here?”
“Because I wanted coffee.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
But that smile… There wasn’t a single innocent thing about it.
“I don’t believe you.” I narrowed my eyes.
“Fine.” He raised both hands in surrender. “I wanted to see you.”
He admitted it without hesitation. Without embarrassment. Without the slightest trace of shame. It was as if he’d just commented on the weather.
“You’re weird.” I laughed, mostly out of surprise.
“Why?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Because we barely know each other, and you’re doing… this.”
“Exactly.” He adjusted himself in his chair until he was sitting perfectly straight. “It’s hard to get to know someone if you never see them again.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic. So I laughed once more and went back to work.
Even as I moved around the café, I could feel his eyes following me. He watched every movement carefully, and every time our eyes met, even if only for a second, he’d give me the smallest smile.
“When are you finally leaving?” I asked, growing increasingly frustrated with his relentless staring.
“Wow.” A laugh escaped him. “Customer service isn’t exactly your strongest skill.”
When my expression didn’t change, he added,
“I’ll leave as soon as you give me your number.”
For a moment, I was speechless. The man had absolutely no shame.
“Does this little performance usually work on women?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never tried it before.”
He said it so naturally that I found myself laughing again. It was impossible to tell when he was joking, but I had a feeling he wasn’t.
“Are you always this straightforward?”
“Yes.” He answered without the slightest hesitation.
“It’s a little intimidating.” Now it was my turn to admit something.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I studied him carefully. I expected a grin. A joke. Something. But there was nothing, he was simply waiting for my answer.
I slowly shook my head.
“No…” Then I caught myself. “Well… yes. I don’t know.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
“Make up your mind.”
“Don’t change the subject.” I pointed a finger at him.
“I’m not.” He defended himself immediately.
I sighed.
“Do you always get what you want?”
“No.” He paused to think. “But I can be very persistent.”
I couldn’t help remembering my mother’s words.
Men like them look for women from their own world.
Then I remembered Lando.
We can’t be together.
Two men from the same world. The same social standing. And yet, they seemed to speak completely different languages.
In the end, I gave him my number. Only so he’d finally leave me alone or at least, that’s what I told myself.
He stood up, took out his wallet, and paid for his coffee. Before leaving, he said with the same calmness he’d arrived with,
“See you in a few days.”
I watched him open the door and disappear before I could even think of a response. I stood there for several seconds, completely frozen.
Elena appeared behind me with the biggest grin on her face.
“Did that man just shamelessly flirt with you?”
I kept staring at the door. Still trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
(…)
Sunday of that same week arrived with the usual chaos that came with exhibition days.
People drifted in and out of the gallery, the constant murmur of conversations about artists most of them barely knew, and the clinking of wine glasses every few minutes. It was exhausting, but it was also the only job where I never felt like I was pretending to be someone else.
Here, I wasn’t the daughter of a housekeeper. I wasn’t the barista who served coffee all week. I wasn’t the charming, flirtatious dancer.
Here, I was simply someone talking about something she loved.
I had just finished explaining one of the pieces when I excused myself from the group to get a glass of water.
“So this is where you disappear to on Sundays.” The voice made me turn around immediately.
For a split second, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.
But it wasn’t.
Max was standing beside one of the sculptures, his hands tucked into his pockets and wearing such a calm expression that it looked like he’d been waiting for me for quite a while.
I couldn’t help smiling.
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze wandered slowly around the gallery before settling back on me.
“I came to see you.” He said it with the same ease most people would use to say good afternoon. He didn’t even try to dress it up.
A strange warmth tightened in my chest.
I shook my head, somewhere between amused and bewildered. There was something deeply unusual about him.
He didn’t flirt the way other men did. He didn’t try to impress me. He simply showed up, like wanting to see me was reason enough.
I motioned for him to walk with me as I resumed my tour of the gallery.
For nearly an hour, he didn’t interrupt me once. He simply followed me with his hands in his pockets, listening to every explanation with an attentiveness that genuinely surprised me. Every now and then, he’d stop to study one of the paintings for a few moment. But somehow, his eyes always found their way back to me.
It was unsettling.
When the last group moved on to the next room, I let out a relieved breath.
“So?” I asked as I walked over to him. “What did you think?”
He studied the painting in front of him for a few seconds.
“I didn’t understand much of it.”
I laughed.
“I figured.”
“But I liked listening to you.” The answer caught me completely off guard.
“Why?”
This time, he didn’t answer immediately. He looked at me with that infuriating calmness that seemed to define everything he did.
“Because you’re different here.”
Almost instinctively, I looked around. I’d never really thought about it before, but he was right.
Here, I didn’t measure every word before I spoke, I didn’t worry about being judged, I simply existed.
“It’s the only place where I feel like I know exactly what I’m doing.”
He nodded, like my answer had confirmed something he’d already suspected.
We continued walking among the artwork.
The silence wasn’t awkward. With Max, it never seemed to be.
Until my eyes landed on a group of elegantly dressed women chatting over glasses of wine. They all looked like they belonged there.
Then I looked down at myself. I was wearing a simple black dress I’d bought on sale nearly two years earlier. For the first time that afternoon I felt out of place.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here with me.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
Max barely turned his head.
“I already told you.”
I slowly shook mine.
“No…” I swallowed. “I’m not the kind of woman men like you usually go for.”
I expected anything. A smile, a compliment, a ‘Don’t say that’. Instead, he simply frowned. Like he was genuinely trying to understand what I meant.
“And what kind is that?”
A short laugh escaped me.
“Max…” I gestured around the gallery. “Look at them.”
He did. For several seconds, he watched the women talking nearby before looking back at me.
“What about them?”
I sighed.
It was difficult to explain something I’d believed since I was a teen.
“They belong in your world, I don’t. I spend my week serving coffee just to pay my rent. My mother spent half her life cleaning other people’s houses, and she’s still cleaning your friend’s house too. So I hope you can understand why it’s hard for me to believe that someone like you would show up at two of my jobs just because he wants to get to know me.”
The silence that followed was brief, much shorter than I expected.
“I don’t understand.” His answer was so firm that it completely disarmed me. “Because all of that seems important to you. Not to me.”
Something shifted inside my chest. All my life, I’d been taught that the differences between people were impossible to ignore. That sooner or later, they always outweighed everything else.
Lando had taught me that without ever having to say it aloud.
But Max… Max seemed incapable of understanding why we were even having this conversation.
“You’re used to making decisions for other people.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You’ve spent the last five minutes telling me what kind of woman I should like.” He took a single step closer, not enough to invade my space. Just enough to make sure I was listening. “And you still haven’t asked me what I want.”
I didn’t answer. Because, for the first time in a very long while I didn’t have one.
A faint smile appeared on his face. The small one he seemed to reserve for only a handful of moments.
“It’s a lot simpler than you’re making it.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
He didn’t insist, didn’t try to convince me. He simply turned his attention to the next painting like we’d just been discussing something as ordinary as what he planned to have for dinner.
Oddly enough that was what unsettled me the most. Because while I’d spent my entire life turning the differences between us into an impossible mountain to climb, Max didn’t seem capable of seeing that the mountain even existed.
(…)
My third job was, by far, the hardest one to explain.
Everytime I told someone I danced at a late-night theater, they always gave me the same look. The look of people who assumed far too much without asking a single question.
Eventually, I stopped explaining.
The pay was good, I loved dancing, and no one had the right to decide what I did with my own body to make a living.
Friday performances were always sold out.
The theater transformed completely after nightfall. Warm lights replaced the starkness of the stage, and the air filled with the scent of perfume, alcohol, and makeup.
By then, I’d learned how to tell the difference between the customers who came for the performance and those who mistook a stage for an invitation.
I was adjusting the last garter on my stockings in front of the mirror when one of the dancers gave me a playful nudge.
“There’s a really handsome man asking for you.”
I laughed.
“Which one?”
“No… this one’s different.”
I peeked through the side of the courtain and nearly choked on my own saliva.
Max.
Sitting at a table near the stage with a glass of whiskey in front of him.
He was wearing an immaculate dark suit and observing the room with the same quiet calm he seemed to observe absolutely everything else with.
The moment our eyes met, he lifted his glass ever so slightly in greeting.
I shook my head, fighting back a smile.
He was officially a stalker.
I’d never been embarrassed to step onto that stage. Not because I was an exhibitionist. But because, over time, I’d learned that my body could be an artistic instrument instead of something I should be ashamed of.
The music began and he lights did the rest. For several minutes, I completely forgot Max was sitting in the audience. Until one of the choreographies brought me almost the entire length of the runway.
As I passed his table, I looked at him.
He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t have that smug expression so many men wore when they walked into that place. He was simply watching me. Like he was trying to memorize every movement.
And for some reason that look made me far more nervous than all the whistles coming from the rest of the room.
The show ended nearly an hour later and that was when everything went to hell.
I slipped a satin robe over my costume and stepped outside through one of the side doors to get some fresh air.
I hadn’t even finished closing the door behind me when a man stepped in front of me, blocking my path.
“You dance beautifully.”
I smiled politely.
“Thank you.” I tried to walk past him, but he stepped in front of me again.
“Are you always this hard to get?”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“Excuse me, I need to get back inside.”
This time, he grabbed my wrist hard.
“Five minutes. I’m just trying to talk to you.”
Before I could react, someone forcefully pulled his hand away from my arm.
“She said no.” Max’s voice was colder than I’d ever heard it before.
The man let out a drunken laugh.
“And who the hell are you?”
“The one telling you to let her go.”
There wasn’t any more conversation. Everything happened too fast.
One shove.
Then another.
Then the first punch.
And suddenly several people were trying to pull them apart while someone shouted for security.
“Max!”
It was useless. He didn’t even seem to hear me.
The last thing I saw before walking away was a chair flying through the air.
I turned around. Not because I didn’t care, but because I knew that kind of chaos far too well. I’d spent too many years watching men decide that violence could solve everything.
And I wasn’t about to stand there and watch another one. I ended up sitting on the curb in the parking lot.
I couldn’t even remember when I’d started crying.
My makeup had to be completely ruined. I was wearing false eyelashes. Red lipstick. A sparkly dress underneath a satin robe and I was crying in a parking lot at two o’clock in the morning.
What a depressing picture.
I heard footsteps approaching, I didn’t bother looking up. I already knew who it was.
“If you’re here to explain why you got into that fight, don’t bother.”
A brief silence followed.
“Okay.”
I frowned slightly. I had been expecting an argument, not obedience.
“You’re not going to insist?”
“You said you didn’t want to hear it.”
I finally looked up.
Max’s lip was split open. The corner of his mouth was still bleeding, and a cut above his eyebrow had already begun to swell.
I sighed.
“You look like shit.”
He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand.
“He looks worse.”
I couldn’t help laughing through my tears.
“You’re an idiot.”
For the first time since he’d walked out of the theater he smiled.
He sat down beside me without saying a word. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. We simply listened to the distant sound of passing cars. Until I was the one who finally broke the silence.
“So…” I looked over at him. “Did you win?”
He turned toward me.
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“At some point they stopped punching me and started holding me back with four guys.” He shrugged. “I guess that counts as a win.”
I burst into laughter. Completely inappropriate laughter.
He ended up laughing too.
Suddenly, all the drama from the last twenty minutes felt absurdly ridiculous. I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand.
“Now tell me.” I looked at him “Why did you do it?”
His expression turned serious again.
“Because he grabbed you.”
That was it, no speech, no heroic explanation. Just those four words.
Something shifted inside my chest. No one had ever reacted like that because of me. Not even the people who’d actually had the right to.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be a burden to anyone.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.” He looked completely serious. “Just an observation.”
I laughed again. It was impossible to stay dramatic around him for very long.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m hungry.”
Max blinked.
“What?”
“I want sushi.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Now?”
I nodded. He stared at me for a few seconds before standing up.
“Alright.”
“Seriously?” I hadn’t expected him to agree.
“Yeah.” He lifted his car keys “Let’s go get sushi.”
I followed him across the parking lot. Halfway to the car, he looked me up and down.
“Are you really going in dressed like that?”
I looked down. High heels. A sequined costume. Mascara streaked all the way to my chin.
I laughed.
Then I looked at him.
His suit was wrinkled, his lip was split open. There was dried blood on the collar of his shirt.
“And you?”
He shrugged.
“We make a pretty good pair.”
I completely agreed.
Half an hour later, we were sitting in a tiny all-night sushi restaurant.
The waitress looked at him. Then at me. Then back at both of us. Finally, she asked as casually as if nothing were unusual,
“Extra soy sauce?”
Max looked at me. I shrugged.
“Obviously.”
She nodded without asking a single question. I waited until she’d walked away before turning back to him.
“We just ordered sushi dressed like we walked out of a fight in a cabaret.”
Max opened the box of gyoza.
“Because we did walk out of a fight in a cabaret.”
That night I laughed until my stomach hurt.
(…)
After that chaotic night, an unusual calm settled over my life.
Max stopped showing up unexpectedly at my jobs, and as much as I hated to admit it, something inside me withered a little.
Every time the café door opened, my heart would race only to sink the moment I realized it wasn’t him.
I forced myself to forget about him and buried myself in work. It was obvious that, for him, I’d been nothing more than a brief distraction before returning to his real life.
Three weeks passed.
Then one night, while I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, my phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi. How have you been?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Sorry I didn’t text you sooner. Somehow I lost your number.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I had to fight with this piece of crap technology just to get it back.
I frowned as I read the messages.
Who the hell was this?
ME: Hi, who is this?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Seriously? 🙄
ME: Well, if I weren’t serious, I wouldn’t be asking 😒
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I’m the love of your life and your future husband.
The smile I’d been missing for the past few weeks returned instantly. Like an idiot, I kicked my feet beneath my blankets before immediately saving his number to my contacts.
ME: Jacob Elordi?
MAX: He’s dating Kendall Jenner, so I doubt he’d be texting you something like that.
ME: A girl can dream 🥲
ME: How have you been, Max?
MAX: So you did know it was me. Does this mean you’re admitting that I really am the love of your life and your future husband?
ME: I’m admitting you’re the only lunatic I know who genuinely believes that’s possible 🙂↔️
MAX: Ha. Ha. Ha. 🤡
MAX: You’re hilarious 😒
MAX: But seriously, I’m sorry I didn’t text sooner. I really couldn’t find your contact.
ME: Don’t worry about it. Although I was starting to think you’d given up on me.
MAX: That’s not a word in my vocabulary. At least not when it comes to you.
My heart skipped a beat as I read the message. He had an incredible ability to send shivers down my spine without even trying. I knew that probably wasn’t a good thing, but I couldn’t help it.
MAX: I’m in Monaco. I had to come back because I have to spend a certain amount of time here every year. You know… taxes and all that.
ME: Yeah, it’s pretty much the same with Lando. I get it.
A couple of minutes passed without another message. I assumed that was the end of the conversation.
Then the three little typing dots appeared.
MAX: Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d like to come spend a weekend with me. I know you have work and everything, but do you think you could get a few days off?
ME: Max… Work isn’t really the issue. It’s just I can’t exactly afford to pack my bags and fly to Monaco on a whim.
What the hell did he think? That I was rich? I worked three jobs, and even then, if I went two months without work, I’d probably end up homeless.
MAX: Y/N, please. You didn’t actually think I’d let you pay for any of it, did you? What kind of man would that make me? I’ll pay for everything, I just want you to come visit me and spend some time together, not make your life any harder.
ME: Don’t you think that’s a bit much? I can count on one hand how many times we’ve actually seen each other.
I tried to reason with him. Although I already had a pretty good idea of what his answer would be.
MAX: So? I already know your family, I know where you work. Why does it matter how many times we’ve seen each other?
ME: This is all happening way too fast.
MAX: Not at all. If it were up to me, we’d already be married. I’m just trying to move at your pace.
A laugh of complete disbelief escaped me.
This man was insane. But it was the kind of insanity that felt oddly refreshing. Being around him made me feel something I hadn’t experienced in years.
Comfort.
Joy.
A sense that maybe life didn’t always have to feel so heavy. I didn’t want to admit it, but I wanted more of that feeling.
The last few years of my life had felt like I was constantly one step away from falling apart. And somehow, Max felt like a breath of fresh air.
ME: You’re going to have to do a lot more than that. But, lucky for you I accept. So when’s the trip?
It was that very same weekend. Max didn’t want to waste any time or risk me changing my mind. Which, if I was being honest, I had almost done a couple of times.
When I arrived, Max picked me up in Nice, and from there we took a helicopter to Monaco.
Everything about it was completely new to me. I tried my best not to let my amazement show, but it was obvious Max noticed.
He just laughed every time.
It was Friday, and Max had a few media interviews to get through, so he introduced me to a woman who turned out to be a fashion stylist.
Yes.
Max had arranged an entire afternoon of shopping for me.
I wanted to refuse. It felt like this was far too much. But he hadn’t exactly given me a choice, considering the stylist was the one picking out everything and insisting I try it on.
If I tried on a thousand outfits that afternoon, I still think I’d be underestimating it. Once our shopping marathon was finally over, Max came to pick me up and took me back to his apartment.
The moment I walked through the door, I threw myself onto the bed with every intention of sleeping until the next morning.
Max, however had other plans. He practically forced me out of bed and told me to get ready because we were going out for dinner.
I ended up wearing one of the beautiful dresses he’d bought for me earlier that day.
Max looked incredibly handsome himself.
That night was wonderful.
We laughed and drank far too much. By the end of the evening, Max decided it was smarter to leave his car in a parking garage.
The two of us practically stumbled all the way back to his apartment.
It must have been a ridiculous sight. Anyone watching us would’ve had no idea whether I was helping Max walk or if he was the one helping me.
On Saturday, we went to the casino.
On Sunday, we spent the afternoon on a yacht.
I felt like I was floating, completely relaxed. Without a single worry in my mind.
Max was the funniest, kindest man I’d ever met. Which was exactly why, on Sunday night, as I packed my suitcase to return to my complicated reality, the apartment felt unusually quiet. Like sadness itself had settled into the room.
“I don’t want you to leave.” Max’s voice was barely above a whisper.
I turned to look at him. He was leaning against one of the bedroom walls, watching me.
“I don’t want to leave either.” My voice caught slightly “But I have to go back to work.”
The moment our eyes met, I had to look away. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold his gaze without bursting into tears.
Max walked over and sat down beside me on the bed.
“Stay this week.” He spoke so naturally it almost sounded obvious. “Take a few more vacation days. There’s still so much I want to show you.”
He smiled softly.
“You can go home next Sunday.”
I looked at him, trying to figure out whether he was joking. He wasn’t.
His face showed nothing but determination.
“Max…” I shook my head. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”
“It is.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you just don’t want to spend more time with me.”
Then he looked away with a deep frown, looking every bit like an offended child.
I almost laughed.
“No, that’s not it.” I reached over and took one of his hands. “I do want to stay with you.”
“Then stay.” His voice softened “Please.”
The way he asked completely melted my heart. After letting out the deepest sigh imaginable I gave in.
The smile that spread across Max’s face was so wide it looked like he’d just won the lottery.
I contacted all three of my jobs to let them know I’d be extending my vacation. Fortunately, none of them had a problem with it.
The days that followed were just as wonderful. We did everything. We wandered through Monaco without any real destination.
We visited a nearby town and spent the day sightseeing.
Every moment felt effortless. I felt like I was living inside a dream. But nothing in my life had ever stayed perfect for long. Sooner or later reality always found me.
It was Thursday when Max asked me to accompany him to a charity dinner. The event didn’t allow media or unauthorized cameras, so he assured me that my presence wouldn’t attract much attention.
What neither of us had taken into account was that several of the other Formula One drivers would be there.
Including Lando.
Some time after we arrived, my eyes met another pair that I recognized instantly. Lando’s girlfriend, Marie.
The moment Marie recognized me, she raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. She let out a quiet laugh before leaning toward the man I immediately recognized as Lando and whispering something in his ear.
He turned sharply in my direction. Before our eyes could meet, I looked away.
Max had stepped aside to greet someone, so I forced myself to pay attention to the elegant older woman who had been talking nonstop for nearly five minutes about the venue’s décor. Out of politeness, I smiled a couple of times and made a few meaningless comments.
My heart was racing. I held onto my wine glass so tightly because I was terrified someone would notice my hands trembling.
When the woman finally excused herself, I nearly cried with grief.
I didn’t want to be standing there alone.
I was about to go find Max again but that was the exact moment Lando decided to walk over.
“Out of all the places in the world…” His familiar accent caught me off guard. “I never expected to run into you here.”
I turned toward him and offered him a slightly shaky smile.
“It’s a small world.” I shrugged like it was nothing.
Marie appeared beside him wearing the same perfectly practiced smile.
“What a surprise to see you here.” Her eyes slowly traveled over my black lace dress. “I never imagined events like this were the kind of places someone like you would attend. No offense.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly. Not once did her smile leave her face.
Bitch.
“You’re right,” I replied at last. “I usually avoid places full of fake people and events like this tend to be full of them.”
Lando covered a laugh with a fake cough. For the briefest moment, Marie’s smile lost some of its shine.
“Did I miss something?” Max’s calm voice interrupted us.
His eyes moved from me to Lando and finally to Marie.
She smiled at him with that same rehearsed kindness.
“I was just telling Y/N that I was surprised to see her here.”
Max nodded once.
“I’m not.”
Marie blinked.
“You’re not?”
“No.” He picked up a glass from a passing server’s tray. “Wherever she is, the atmosphere usually gets a lot better.”
Heat rushed to my face.
Marie let out a short laugh.
“That’s very sweet.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” He answered with complete calm before taking a sip of his drink. “I was just saying what I think.”
As he spoke, his hand came to rest lightly against the small of my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Lando’s gaze immediately follow the movement.
“You came here together?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
I opened my mouth to answer but Max beat me to it.
“Yes.” He offered no further explanation.
“I had no idea you’d become this close.” Lando’s jaw tightened ever so slightly.
If I hadn’t spent half my teenage years watching him I probably wouldn’t have noticed. But I knew exactly what that gesture meant.
He was uncomfortable.
And somehow his discomfort became mine. I hated seeing him like that.
I shifted my weight and took another sip of my wine, hoping it would settle the knot in my stomach.
Apparently, Max noticed. Because without saying another word, he came up with an excuse to pull us away toward another part of the ballroom.
As we walked away I could still feel Lando’s eyes burning into the back of my neck.
(…)
The awkwardness disappeared as soon as we got back to Max’s apartment and our mouths found each other.
Our hands didn’t stay still for a single moment, and with some effort we managed to get out of our clothes.
Max bent me over the couch, pulled the thin fabric of my underwear aside to get better access to my wet pussy, and without much consideration, thrust into me hard. My eyes fell shut as I felt him hit the deepest part of me.
His thrusts were hard and rhythmic. The pleasure was so overwhelming that moans began spilling from his mouth, and with a quick movement, he gave my ass a hard slap.
That made me arch my back even more, and matching his rhythm, I began moving to meet every one of his thrusts.
At one point, I stopped lubricating and began to feel a slight burning sensation that drove me even crazier. My moans of pleasure grew louder, which made him lose himself in the pleasure even more.
We changed positions a couple of times until the pressure building inside me became too much, and I came hard.
A few more thrusts from Max, and he came too with a guttural sound. He spilled the result of his orgasm across my stomach.
It was the first time we’d had sex, and the son of a bitch had passed the test.
A while later, we were already in bed. Max was asleep beside me, but I couldn’t fall asleep.
My mind kept racing, and with a growing sense of concern, I replayed everything that had happened throughout the evening.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling restless. A few minutes later, my phone lit up with a text message.
From Lando.
LANDO: Can we talk?
LANDO: I’m outside Max’s building. Please come down.
My heart immediately began pounding. This couldn’t be happening.
I looked over at Max.
He was fast asleep, one arm stretched across my side of the bed, a faint crease between his brows like he somehow managed to overthink even in his sleep.
I let out a slow breath.
I grabbed a jacket, scribbled a quick note telling him I’d gone out for a walk, and took the elevator downstairs.
Lando was leaning against his car with his hands buried in his pockets. When he heard my footsteps, he looked up. For a moment neither of us spoke.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked at last.
A tired smile crossed his face.
“I guessed.”
We walked in silence until we reached the edge of the harbor. The lights from the yachts shimmered across the dark water.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked suddenly.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
Silence settled between us again. I knew this kind of silence far too well.
Lando’s silences were never empty. They were always filled with questions he didn’t know how to ask.
“So…” He finally looked at me. “What’s going on between you and Max?”
There it was.
I slipped my hands into my jacket pockets.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
I slowly shook my head.
“We haven’t talked about it.”
“But you’re together.” He pressed a little harder.
“We’re spending time together.”
I watched his jaw tighten.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Maybe not to you.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“And to you?”
I lowered my gaze to the water.
The truth was I didn’t know how to answer. All I knew was that, with Max, I never felt the need to question where I belonged.
He simply made room for me.
“You don’t have to answer.” His voice was noticeably colder this time “I’m just trying to understand.”
I smiled sadly.
“Understand what?”
“What’s happening.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
His breathing changed ever so slightly.
It was barely noticeable. But it was enough for me to realize he was losing his composure.
“Do you like him?”
I didn’t answer.
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know.”
It was a lie.
Of course I knew. I just wasn’t ready to say it out loud.
“So you do like him?”
I sighed.
“Lando…”
“Answer me.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
The silence stretched between us. Because he couldn’t answer that question without admitting something he’d spent years burying.
I slowly shook my head.
“You don’t have the right to ask me that.”
I watched his expression change.
“Why not?”
“You’re seriously asking me that?” A bitter laugh escaped me. I took a step toward him. “You have a girlfriend.”
Another step.
“And years ago, you made it painfully clear that there could never be anything between us.”
My voice remained calm.
That was the worst part. I didn’t even have to raise it anymore to remember how much it had hurt.
“Y/N…”
“No.” This time, I interrupted him “Do you know what the hardest part was?”
A knot tightened in my throat.
“It wasn’t losing you. It was spending years believing there was something about me that made me impossible to choose.”
The words poured out on their own. As if they’d been waiting years to be spoken.
“After that day, I started looking at everyone like they belonged to different worlds. I started believing there were doors meant for other people… but never for me. That I could work twice as hard, push myself three times harder, and I’d still always be nothing more than the housekeeper’s daughter. Because the only man I’d ever fallen in love with taught me exactly that.”
Lando closed his eyes.
“I never wanted you to feel that way.”
“But you did.” My voice barely rose above a whisper.“And the worst part is… I understood. I never hated you for choosing that path, because even I believed you were right.”
He swallowed hard.
“Things changed.”
“No.” I slowly shook my head. “They changed for you. I was the one who had to learn how to live with what you left behind.”
For several long seconds the only sound was the water lapping against the dock.
Then he spoke again.
“You think Max is different.”
I frowned.
“He is.”
A bitter smile appeared on his face.
“No, Y/N. He’s just more impulsive.”
A terrible feeling settled in my stomach.
“What do you mean?”
“When he gets bored, he’ll move on with his life, like everyone else. He’s not taking you seriously.”
My chest tightened.
“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”
He took a step closer.
“Do you honestly think a guy like Max Verstappen is planning to marry you?”
The question landed between us like a stone.
“Lando…”
“He takes you on trips, he buys you beautiful clothes, he brings you to events. Don’t you see it? For him, you’re…” He hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “…an accessory.”
Something inside me shattered. But he still wasn’t finished.
“A pretty girl he can spoil for a while. His sugar baby.”
The slap echoed across the silent harbor. I didn’t think, it just happened.
Slowly, Lando lifted a hand to his cheek.
I struggled to catch my breath, tears blurred my vision.
“Never…” My voice broke. “Never degrade me like that again. Because if there’s anyone who knows how hard I fought to build the life I have it’s you.”
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.
“For years, I thought my last name was the problem, my mother, my money, my background. But tonight you proved something. The problem was never where I came from. The problem was that you never found the courage to choose me and now you’re trying to convince me that no one else ever could.”
I slowly shook my head.
“I don’t believe that anymore.”
I turned around before he could answer.
I didn’t want to go back to the apartment. Not yet.
I needed to walk.
I needed the wind to remind me that I was still breathing. So I kept walking along the harbor without looking back while the tears washed away what little makeup I still had left.
I had no idea how long I’d been walking.
The gentle sound of the water against the docks was the only thing keeping the chaos in my head from swallowing me whole.
My tears had dried a long time ago. But the weight in my chest hadn’t gone anywhere.
“I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.” Max’s voice startled me.
He was walking toward me quickly, his hair completely disheveled and a hoodie hastily thrown over the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in. He stopped in front of me and took a deep breath.
“What happened?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
“No.” His answer came immediately. “Don’t lie to me.”
I looked at him for a few seconds. I’d never seen him like this before.
He didn’t look angry, he looked scared.
“Y/N…” His voice softened. “What happened?”
The knot in my throat returned.
“I talked to Lando.”
I watched his jaw tighten. But he didn’t say a word, he simply waited.
“He texted me… so I went downstairs to talk to him.”
I told him everything. How Lando had come all the way to the building. How we’d walked along the harbor. How, at first, he’d only asked questions. Then I told him about the jealousy. About our teenage years together. About the way he’d rejected us before we’d ever really had a chance. About the argument we’d had that night and finally about the words that still echoed inside my head.
“His sugar baby.” I couldn’t repeat that part without my voice breaking.
Max stood perfectly still through my entire story. He didn’t interrupt me once. Only after I’d finished did he finally speak.
“He said that to you?”
I nodded.
He let out a slow breath.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not killing anyone.” A laugh escaped me through my tears.
“Alright.” He corrected himself with complete seriousness “Then I’m just going to break his nose.”
The image was so absurd that I laughed. For real this time.
He frowned slightly.
“I wasn’t joking.”
“I know.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“Please don’t.” I shook my head as I wiped my cheeks.
He sighed dramatically.
“You’re no fun.”
Silence settled between us again. Then he took a step closer.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“Did you actually believe him?”
I didn’t answer. Because part of me had. And, of course he knew it.
“Y/N…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do you know what the very first thing I thought when I saw you?”
I slowly shook my head.
“That you were beautiful.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks.
“And then I thought you were far too smart to ever end up talking to me.”
I stared at him, completely confused. A small smile tugged at his lips.
“I was wrong about the second part.”
“Idiot.” I lightly punched his arm.
“A little.” His smile slowly faded. “But I never once minded how much money you had, where your mother was, where you worked. Not once.”
He took a slow breath before continuing.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t see everything you do. I do, I know you work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, I know you’ve spent years building your life on your own and I know nobody handed you anything.”
His voice remained calm. So calm that it hurt.
“What I don’t understand…” He paused. “…is why you still believe any of that makes you worth less.”
I lowered my eyes.
“Because for a long time It was true.”
“No.” His answer was immediate. “For a long time, people convinced you it was true. That’s not the same thing.”
The words hung between us. No one had ever put it that way before. I’d spent my entire life believing my insecurities were simply the logical consequence of my circumstances.
It had never occurred to me that they might also be a lie I’d heard too many times.
“Lando didn’t stop loving you because you were the housekeeper’s daughter.”
My head snapped up.
He continued before I could speak.
“He stopped fighting for you because he was afraid and fear always finds elegant excuses to hide behind Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s family, sometimes it’s social class. But underneath It’s still fear.”
My eyes filled with tears again.
Not because I was sad, because I felt relieved. For the first time someone had separated my worth from the choice Lando had made all those years ago.
“What if one day you’re afraid too?” The question came out so quietly I almost regretted asking it.
Max smiled. That same calm smile that somehow managed to frustrate me and comfort me at the exact same time.
“Of course I am.”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that answer.
“You are?”
“Terrified.”
“Of what?”
“That one day you’ll get tired of me.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.
A disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged “But that fear doesn’t make me want to push you away. It makes me want to be closer to you.”
Something inside me finally gave way or maybe finally settled into place. I still wasn’t sure which.
“I’m not Lando.” His voice was quieter than ever. “And I’ll never ask you to make yourself smaller just to make my life easier. If this ever ends…” He pointed to himself “It’ll be because I did something wrong. Not because your last name is different from mine, not because your mother cleaned someone’s house and certainly…”
He shook his head, almost offended by the thought.
“…not because anyone thinks you can be bought with a dress or a trip. You’re not something that can be bought, you’re not a thing. You’re the woman I’m falling in love with.”
The world seemed to fall completely silent.
There was only him and me.
A tear slipped down my cheek. This time I didn’t try to hide it. For years, I’d confused one man’s rejection with my worth as a woman.
I’d allowed a decision born from fear to define the way I saw myself and now, standing in front of me, was another man.
A man who came from that exact same world. But who had never once asked me to change who I was to make room for me in his life.
He had simply made room for me.
I smiled through my tears.
“I think you’re completely insane.”
“I already knew that.” A grin spread across his face.
I laughed, shaking my head.
“And for some reason I still don’t understand I think I’m starting to like all that insanity of yours.”
His eyes lit up instantly.
“Does that mean I can officially say I’m your future husband now?”
The laugh that burst from my lips echoed across the entire harbor.
For years I’d mistaken fear for reality. I’d believed love always came with conditions, with explanations, with sacrifices.
That night, I finally understood something. When someone truly wants to stay they stop looking for reasons to leave. And Lando’s decision had always spoken about his limits.
Never about mine.
(…)
Eight months later, I still found it absurd that anyone could call a paddock “home.”
And yet, there I was.
A cup of coffee in one hand, a paddock pass hanging around my neck, and a team radio that I understood absolutely nothing from, waiting for Max to finish the pre-qualifying engineering briefing.
One of the mechanics walked past me.
“Five more minutes.”
I nodded like that information had been meant for me. Leaning against one of the garage walls, I watched the organized chaos unfolding around me.
The first time I’d ever stepped into the paddock, I’d felt completely out of place.
Now I didn’t.
I still understood barely half the conversations about setup changes, tire degradation, or telemetry, but I’d stopped feeling like I needed to understand everything to deserve being there.
“Have you been waiting long?” Max had just stepped out of the garage, zipping up the top half of his race suit as he walked toward me.
“Seven minutes.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It’s been nine.”
“I was giving you a little margin so you wouldn’t feel bad.”
“How thoughtful.” A quiet laugh escaped him.
He stopped in front of me and, without saying a word, took my coffee from my hands. He took a sip before casually handing it back.
“Thanks.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“That was my coffee.” I frowned.
“It’s our coffee now.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It worked.”
I rolled my eyes.
I’d learned that arguing with Max was an absolute waste of time. Not because he was always right, but because he never seemed interested in winning. He simply kept talking until the other person gave up.
One of the engineers appeared at the garage entrance.
“Max. Time to go.”
He lifted a hand to let him know he’d be there in a second. Before leaving, he turned back toward me.
“Where are you going to be?”
I looked at him, confused.
“Here.”
“Good.” He nodded once “That way I’ll know where to find you when I’m done.”
And then he was gone.
There was no kiss.
No I love you.
He didn’t even look back.
He simply disappeared into the crowd of engineers like it had never crossed his mind that, when he came back, I might be anywhere other than exactly where I’d said I’d be.
And I would be.
I smiled without realizing it. Sometimes I forgot there had once been a time when I believed love meant waiting for someone to find the courage to choose you.
With Max there had never been any waiting.
He had simply shown up.
First at a coffee shop, pretending he’d driven halfway across the city just because he wanted a cup of coffee.
Then at an art gallery, listening to me talk for hours about paintings he probably wouldn’t remember.
Later, sitting beside me on a curb at two in the morning with a split lip, like getting into a fight was the most natural ending to a first date.
And now I was the one showing up at racetracks.
Waiting for him among engines, radios, and stacks of tires, in a world that had once felt completely out of reach but had, little by little, made room for me.
I suppose, in the end we became each other’s favorite coincidence.
“Verstappen!” one of the mechanics shouted from inside the garage. “Move it! Your future wife isn’t going to do qualifying for you!”
Laughter immediately erupted from inside the garage.
I rolled my eyes automatically.
I didn’t even have to look to know exactly what expression Max had on his face.
Pure satisfaction.
I buried my face in my hands as I laughed.
For the first time since I was a little girl, the future no longer felt like a place I needed permission to enter.
Because, in the end, love hadn’t come into my life to give me a place in the world.
It had come to remind me that the place I belonged had always been mine.
could you do michael & daughter!reader? fans have put together clips of home videos of reader and prince, paris and bigi (maybe even some cousins) growing up and having cute moments.
Memories
Michael x daughter! Reader
Summary: Fans put clips of home videos of reader and prince, Paris Bigi and some cousins growing up and having cute moments.
Growing Up Jackson: Rare Home Videos of [Name], Prince, Paris, Bigi & the Jackson Cousins
The video opened with shaky camcorder footage, the date flashing in the corner.
Michael's voice came from behind the camera. "[Name], where's Daddy?" Two year old [Name] looked around the room with exaggerated concentration, checking behind the couch, under the coffee table, and even lifting the corner of a blanket. "Gone." Michael laughed. "Really? Gone?" She turned toward the camera, pretending to gasp. "There you are!"
The next clip showed Prince, around six years old, kneeling on the front porch while patiently tying [Name's] tiny pink sneakers.
"There," he said proudly. "Now don't touch them." "I can do it." She immediately untied both shoes. Prince sighed "[Name]..." "I'm practicing." Five minutes later, both shoelaces had somehow become one enormous knot connecting the two shoes together. Prince quietly pulled them back into his lap. "I'll fix it."
Another clip showed Paris sitting on the bathroom counter with a hairbrush while [Name] stood between her knees.
"Hold still." "I am." "You moved." "I blinked." "You blinked your whole head." Michael laughed behind the camera. Paris concentrated as she attempted a braid. When she finished, one side stuck straight out while the other disappeared somewhere behind [Name's] ear. [Name] looked into the mirror. "It's beautiful." Paris beamed proudly.
Everyone was gathered around the kitchen island making cookies, flour covered every inch of the counters.
Prince carefully measured ingredients. Paris stirred the bowl, Jaafar snuck chocolate chips into his mouth every few seconds, Randy kept pretending to "accidentally" bump people with his elbow. Michael looked around the disaster. "Who made this mess?" Every child pointed at someone else. "Him." "Her." "Jaafar." "Prince." "[Name]" Jermajesty quietly whispered, "...Me." Michael burst into laughter. "I appreciate the honesty."
[Name] refused to let go of Prince's hand the entire day. A cast member smiled. "Who's your best friend?" Without even thinking, she answered, "My brother." Prince looked down, trying very hard not to smile. Behind them, Jaafar and Randy were arguing over who got to hold the park map. "I was holding it first!" "No you weren't!" Michael zoomed the camera toward them. "Boys..." Both smiled innocently.
The next clip showed everyone putting on a talent show in the living room.
Prince played a short song on the keyboard, everyone clapped. Paris sang part of a Disney song. More applause. Jaafar attempted breakdancing before slipping on the hardwood floor. Even louder applause. Then little [Name] confidently walked into the middle of the room. Michael asked, "what's your talent?" "I tell jokes." "Go ahead." She stood silently for several seconds. "...Banana." Complete silence. Then Michael laughed so hard the camera shook. "That is the funniest banana I've ever heard." The room dissolved into giggles.
Every couch cushion and blanket in the house had been turned into one enormous blanket fort. Inside sat Prince, Paris, [Name], Jaafar, Randy, Jermajesty, and a few more cousins, all squeezed together with flashlights and snacks. Michael crawled toward the entrance. "Can Daddy come in?" Prince crossed his arms. "Password." Michael thought dramatically. "...Love?" Paris nodded seriously. "Correct." Jaafar whispered, "He almost didn't get it."
[Name] stood nervously at the edge of the water. "I don't wanna jump." Prince climbed back out. "I'll catch you." "You promise?" "I promise." She finally jumped. The force knocked both of them underwater. When they resurfaced, Prince was laughing harder than anyone. "I caught you!" "Barely!"
It was Movie night. The opening credits were still playing. Prince had fallen asleep sitting upright. Paris was curled against one side of the couch. Jaafar and Randy had somehow fallen asleep on the floor despite starting on beanbags. Jermajesty hugged his dinosaur plush tightly. Little Bigi slept peacefully on Michael's chest. [Name] had one tiny hand wrapped around the sleeve of Michael's shirt, refusing to let go even in her sleep. Michael didn't say anything this time. The camera simply lingered on the pile of sleeping children, capturing the soft glow of the television and the peaceful silence before the recording clicked off.
The villa sits at the end of a private drive, half-hidden behind a wall of bougainvillea that's spilling pink over white stucco. You park where the assistant told you to, grab your case from the trunk, and take a second to roll your shoulders before walking up.
Doesn't matter how many of these you've done. The fancy ones always make you check your collar twice.
You press the doorbell. It chimes somewhere deep inside the house, then nothing. You wait. You're about to press it again when you hear footsteps coming closer, bare feet on tile by the sound of it, light and quick.
The door swings open. And there she is. Jenna Ortega, wrapped in an oversized bathrobe that's clearly hers and clearly too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands so only her fingertips peek out. Her hair is damp, dark strands sticking to her neck, and her face is bare, no makeup, just those faint freckles scattered under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. She's smaller than you expected. People always are.
"Hi," she says, looking up at you with a smile that's already halfway to something mischievous. "You're the masseur, right? Please tell me you're the masseur and not somebody selling me solar panels."
"That'd be me," you say, and you give her your name. "I'm with the spa your assistant booked through. Sorry if I'm a little early."
"No, early's perfect. Come in." She steps back and holds the door for you, which is a small thing, but you notice it. A lot of clients at this level let the door hang and expect you to manage. She doesn't. "I'm Jenna, but you probably know that. Or maybe you don't. Honestly that'd be kind of refreshing."
"I know who you are," you tell her, stepping inside. "I try not to make it weird, though."
"Good. Make it weird and I'm docking your tip."
The inside of the place is exactly as nice as the outside promised. High ceilings, big windows, light pouring in across pale wood floors. There's a half-empty mug of tea on a side table, a phone face-down next to it, a hoodie thrown over the back of a chair. Lived-in, despite the showroom bones of it. You ask her where she'd like to set up.
"Okay, so, this is going to sound bougie," she says, leading you through the main room with that quick barefoot stride. "But this place came with these massage tables? Like, they were just here. In a whole room. So I figured, why not actually use them instead of letting them collect dust."
She pushes open a door and there it is, a proper little treatment space, two padded tables and soft lighting and a stack of folded towels that look untouched. You set your case down in the corner.
"Is this your first time getting a professional massage?" you ask, already starting to lay out your oils.
She laughs, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed inside those too-long sleeves. "Don't laugh at me, but yeah. First time. I know, I know, twenty-three and I've never done this. I just never sit still long enough."
"I'm not laughing," you say. "You'd be surprised how many people wait until their body forces the issue."
"Yeah, well, the body has officially filed a complaint." She rolls one shoulder and winces, and it's genuine, not a bit. "Press tour just wrapped. Three weeks. Different city every couple days, like, four hours of sleep, sitting in chairs answering the same questions over and over while smiling like my life depends on it. My neck is basically concrete."
"We'll take care of it," you tell her. You mean it, too. There's something satisfying about untangling a body that's been through it.
You run her through the package quickly, what it covers, full body, deep tissue where she needs it, how long it'll run, that she should tell you if anything's too much. She nods along, watching your hands as you talk more than she's listening to the actual rundown, you think. When you finish, you gesture toward the table.
"Whenever you're ready, you can lie down. Face down to start. You can use a towel to cover yourself.”
She gives you a look, something light dancing in it, but she doesn't say whatever she's thinking. She just slips out of the room for a moment, comes back having ditched the robe for the towel and a pair of small underwear, and climbs up onto the table. She settles face down, arms tucked, cheek turned to the side so she can keep talking.
You warm the oil between your palms first. Then you start at her shoulders, and the second you press in you can feel exactly what she meant. Knots like marbles under the muscle.
"Oh my god," she groans into the headrest. "Okay, that already hurts in a good way."
"You're carrying a lot up here," you say, working slow circles into the tight ridge along her neck. "Have you been doing all this with your shoulders up by your ears?"
"Probably. That's just my permanent state of being." A pause, then, "So how long have you been doing this? The massage thing?"
"Years now. Long enough that I stopped counting."
"Was this, like, the dream? Little kid version of you, big plans to rub strangers' backs?" There's a tease in it, but it's warm.
You smile even though she can't see it. "Not exactly. It wasn't what I pictured for myself, no. I sort of fell into it. But honestly it's not a bad way to spend a life."
"How come?" she asks. She's relaxing under your hands now, you can feel the muscle starting to give, the stiff line of her spine easing.
"It's good work. Taking care of people. Somebody comes in wound up like a spring and they leave actually feeling like a person again. I like being the reason for that."
She's quiet for a second, and when she speaks again the teasing has softened into something more curious. "That's a really nice answer. Most people just say money or whatever."
"The money's fine. The other part's better."
"Mm." She shifts a little under your hands. "You're really good at this. Like, I keep waiting for it to stop feeling incredible and it just doesn't."
You move down to the broad muscles around her shoulder blades, leaning your weight in. "You're loosening up. You were tense everywhere when I started. This is already better."
"Don't let it go to your head." Then, a low sound slips out of her, half a moan, as you press into a particularly stubborn knot. "Oh. Okay. Right there, that's the spot, do not leave that spot."
"That one's been there a while," you say, easing into it with your thumb until you feel it finally release.
"Everything's been there a while. I'm twenty-three and I have the back of a forty-year-old." She turns her cheek the other way, getting comfortable. "What's the weirdest place somebody's made you do a massage? Like, on location."
"Once on a yacht in choppy water. The table kept sliding. I spent half of it just trying not to fall on the client."
That gets a real laugh out of her, her shoulders shaking under your palms. "Okay, that's amazing. Did you fall on them?"
"Nearly. Caught myself on the edge of the table at the last second."
"Tragic. I would've paid extra to see that." She wiggles a little, settling deeper into the cushion. "Okay your hands are actually magic, I need that on the record. Like, witnesses, the whole thing."
"Noted," you say, working your way down toward the small of her back, keeping your pressure even, your touch entirely professional. You can feel the tension draining out of her in real time, the way her breathing's gone slow and heavy. "How's the pressure? Too much anywhere?"
"No, it's perfect, you're perfect, marry me." A beat. "Kidding. Sort of. My assistant would say something but she's not here."
You let that one pass with a small huff of amusement and keep working, kneading along the muscles framing her spine. The room is warm and quiet apart from the soft sound of her breathing and the occasional hum she lets out when you hit something good. She's stopped filling every silence now, content to just lie there and let you work.
"Hey," she says after a while, lazy and half-melted into the table. "Do you do feet too? Because mine are honestly the worst part. Heels for three weeks straight. I can't feel my toes in a normal way anymore."
"I do," you say. "I'll do the whole job. Don't worry, I won't leave you half-finished."
"Good. I want my money's worth." She sighs, blissful. "God, I should've done this years ago."
You finish out her lower back, smoothing your palms in long strokes to ease off the deep work, then step back and reach for more oil.
"Alright," you say. "I'm going to have you turn over for me. On your back."
She makes a small noise of protest at having to move at all, but she does it, rolling over slow and lazy, one arm coming up to push the damp hair off her face. The towel shifts with her, and she tugs it back into place across her chest, though not quite as carefully as before. She blinks up at the ceiling, then at you, that little smile creeping back onto her mouth.
"Feet now?" she asks.
"Feet now," you confirm, and you move down to the end of the table.
You lift her right foot first, cradling the heel in your palm, and you go straight for the arch with your thumbs. She practically whimpers.
"Oh my god," she breathes, her toes curling. "That's the spot. That's exactly the spot. My feet have been trying to file for divorce from the rest of me."
"Three weeks of heels will do that," you say, pressing slow lines from her heel up toward the ball of her foot. "You've got everything bunched up in here. No wonder you couldn't feel your toes."
"They're alive again. You resurrected them." She lets her head fall back against the table, watching you through half-lidded eyes. "I bet you've worked for a ton of famous people, right? Like, I can't be the most ridiculous house you've shown up to."
"Some," you say, keeping your attention on the muscle, working the tension out of her instep. "I don't really talk about it. Discretion's kind of the whole job."
"Mm, smart. Loyal. I like that." She wiggles her toes as you press into them one by one. "Okay, can I ask you something? And you have to be honest. Like, actually honest, no professional dodge."
"Go ahead," you say, switching to her other foot and starting the same slow work on the heel.
She takes a second, and there's a little curl at the corner of her mouth before she even says it. "Have you ever gotten hard giving someone a massage?"
You don't stop your hands, but you do glance up at her. "Oh. So that's where we're going."
"I'm just curious." She's all innocence, which fools nobody. "Professional question. For research."
"No," you tell her, even and easy, going back to her arch. "It's rare. You learn to keep your head in the work."
"Rare, huh? So you're telling me, if I touched your cock right now, it'd be soft? Nothing there?"
You open your mouth to ask her why on earth she would do som- and that's when her foot slips out of your grip. It slides down, slow and unhurried, and presses flat against the front of your pants, right over you, rubbing once with the ball of her foot.
"Liar," she says, delighted, her eyes lighting up. "You're hard. I can feel it."
"That's the fabric," you say, even as you catch her ankle. "These pants bunch up, it's not what you think."
She presses again, firmer this time, her toes curling against the shape of you through the fabric. "Nope. Felt it that time. Clear as day. You're not hiding anything from me, you absolutely cannot blame the pants for that."
You exhale and ease her foot back down to the table. "Okay. That one's on you. You kept rubbing my cock with your foot. What exactly did you think was going to happen?"
"Hey, I think it's kind of flattering, honestly." She props herself up on her elbows, the towel sliding dangerously low. "If it makes you feel any better, you touching me like that has me pretty worked up too. So we're even."
"I know your type," you say, letting your hands rest on her shins. "The kind of client who books a massage with a whole other agenda already in mind."
"That's not fair," she protests, though she's grinning the entire time. "I genuinely did not plan this. My back was actually killing me. But, you know. We're both here. We're both clearly a little worked up." She tilts her head, that bratty little spark fully lit now. "So what if I asked for a special massage? Hypothetically."
You hold her gaze. "I'd charge more for that."
"Money's not a problem. You can put whatever number you want on the invoice."
"Alright," you say, and you let yourself relax into it. "It's fine. I know a bit of erotic massage. It's not really my thing, but I'm not going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing." You reach for a different bottle in your case, the warming oil, and uncap it. "I'll need you to open the towel for me."
She doesn't hesitate. She lets it fall open and away, and there she is, topless, just a pair of small panties left, her tanned skin catching the soft light. Her breasts are perfect and small, her stomach toned, and she stretches a little under your gaze like she wants to make sure you get the full picture.
"You like what you see?" she asks, that smile turned up to its full wattage.
"Yes," you say plainly, because there's no point lying about that either. "Obviously."
That answer pleases her. She settles back down, arms relaxing at her sides, and watches you pour the warm oil into your palms. You rub them together to spread it, to get the heat into it, and then you start where you always start, but with intent this time. The professional foundation is still there in your hands, the steady pressure, the patience, but now you let it wander into places the standard package never touches.
You begin at her collarbones, smoothing the oil across them with both thumbs, working outward toward her shoulders and back in. She lets out a soft sound and her eyes flutter. You take your time there, easing the slick warmth into her skin, before you let your palms drift lower, onto the soft swell of her breasts.
"Oh," she says quietly, her chest rising into your hands. "Okay. That's a different kind of massage."
"You asked for the full job," you remind her, cupping her, kneading slowly, letting your thumbs pass over her nipples just enough to feel them stiffen under your touch. You don't rush it. You circle them, glide around the curve of her, and come back to brush across the peaks again, and her breath catches each time.
"You're doing that on purpose," she says, half accusation, half plea.
"I'm being thorough." You roll one nipple gently between your fingers and watch her stomach pull tight. "Tension lives everywhere. You'd be surprised."
"That is such a line." She laughs, but it breaks off into a groan when you press your palms flat and drag them down off her breasts, smoothing the oil down across her ribs. "God. Okay. Keep being thorough. Don't let me stop you."
Your hands travel down to her stomach, spreading the warmth across her abs, and she's clearly enjoying it now, her hips shifting just slightly, restless. You knead the soft muscle there, work your thumbs in slow lines down toward her navel, then fan out across her hips. Every pass of your hands is unhurried and certain, the same patient rhythm you'd use anywhere on the body, except now the route is taking you exactly where she's been steering you this whole time.
"You're really good at this," she murmurs, watching your hands move over her. "Like, genuinely. I don't know why you say it's not your thing."
"Because it usually isn't." You press into the soft hollow beside her hipbone and her breath goes ragged. "But I'll admit, you're making it hard to remember that."
"Hard. Cute." She bites her lip, looking up at you. "I can feel how warm everything is. Whatever that oil is, it's doing something."
"It's supposed to," you say. "Heats the skin. Opens everything up." You spread it down across her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, and her hips lift a fraction toward your hands without her seeming to decide to do it.
You move down, away from where she clearly wants you, to her thighs, and you hear the small frustrated sound she makes when you skip past the obvious. You take one thigh in both hands and start working the oil into it from the knee up, slow and firm, your thumbs pressing into the inside where the muscle is soft and sensitive. Her legs part for you, easy and willing, giving you room.
"You're a tease," she says, her head rolling to the side as she watches you. "You're going the wrong way on purpose."
"I'm being methodical." You drag your hands up the inside of her thigh, getting closer, the heel of your palm sliding along that tender stretch of skin until you're so near to where she's aching that you can feel the heat of her against your fingers. "You don't rush the good part. You earn it."
"Oh my god," she groans, her hips chasing your hands. "You're going to kill me. You know that, right? You're actually going to kill me."
You smooth your thumbs up the last inch of her inner thigh, oil-slick and warm, your fingertips just barely grazing the edge of the fabric still between her legs, and you stop right there.
You stay right where you are, your thumbs parked at the soft crease of her inner thigh, oil-slick and warm against her skin, and you let the moment stretch out longer than is fair. You smooth your palms back down toward her knees and then up again, tracing the same patient lines, skirting the heat of her every single time, watching the way her hips chase after your hands and never quite catch them. Her stomach is rising and falling faster now, the muscles pulling tight each time you get close, and there's a flush spreading across her chest that has nothing to do with the warming oil and everything to do with the fact that you've been keeping her on the edge of this for what has to feel like an eternity.
"Okay," she finally says, propping herself up on her elbows again so she can glare at you, though there's no real heat in it, just desperation barely held together. "I need you to stop pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing. You've been an inch away for like five minutes. You're going to touch my pussy. Right now. I'm not asking anymore."
"You sure about that?" you ask, and you let one thumb drag right up to the edge of where she wants you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her. "Because the second I touch your pussy, this officially stops being a massage. There's no walking that back."
She lets out a breathless little laugh, her head dropping back for a second before she lifts it again to look at you. "Are you serious right now? This stopped being a massage a long, long time ago. I think it stopped being a massage the second you put your hands on my tits and looked at me like that. So let's not pretend we're still being professional here."
"Okay… Yeah, fair enough," you say, and you can't quite keep the amusement out of it.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties and she lifts her hips for you without being asked, eager, helping you peel the small scrap of fabric down her thighs and off her ankles. The crotch of them is soaked through, a dark wet patch against the light cotton, and you make sure she sees you notice it before you set them aside. She bites her lip, watching you, and she's got that bratty little spark in her eyes even now, even spread out and bare and dripping on a massage table in a rented villa.
"That's a lot of mess for someone who claims she didn't plan this," you say.
"Shut up," she fires back, but she's grinning.
You don't go for her right away. You start at the soft crease where her thigh meets her body, working the warm oil into the skin there, your thumbs pressing slow circles into the tender spots just beside her lips without yet touching them. She makes a high, frustrated sound and her thighs fall open wider, an invitation that couldn't be clearer. You massage the whole area around her pussy, the smooth skin above it, the sensitive insides of her thighs, everything but the place that's aching for you, and you watch her come apart by degrees.
"You feel so good," she breathes, her hips rolling up into nothing. "Oh my god. I've never, I swear I have never been this turned on in my entire life. This is insane. You're being so mean and it's working."
"Now," you say, finally letting your fingertips slide to her center, "it really starts."
You part her with one finger, slow and careful, opening her up and finding her slick and hot and ready. She gasps at the first real contact, her whole body going taut, and you take your time getting to know her, dragging your fingertip up through her folds and back down, learning the shape of her, the places that make her breath stutter. You find her entrance and you sink one finger into her, slow, in to the knuckle, and her back arches off the table.
"There you go," you murmur, working that single finger in and out of her in an unhurried rhythm, curling it just slightly on the way in. "Relax for me. We've got all the time in the world."
"That's the problem," she manages, her hands gripping the edges of the table. "You're going to take all that time, aren't you? You're not going to rush a single second of this."
"Not a chance," you say, and you add a second finger.
She moans low at the stretch, her hips canting up to take more of you, and you start a deeper rhythm now, two fingers sliding into her with a slow drag that has her panting. Your free hand leaves her thigh and travels back up her oiled body, over the soft plane of her stomach, up to her breast, where you take one stiff nipple between your fingers and roll it in time with the work of your other hand. The double sensation makes her gasp and squirm, her body caught between the two points of contact, not knowing which way to push.
"Oh, that's not fair," she groans, her chest heaving up into your palm. "That's two hands. You're using two hands on me. Who taught you this? Who taught you to do this with your hands?"
You find that spot inside her, the soft swollen ridge along her front wall, and you start working it with the pads of your fingers, a slow firm stroke that has her hips jerking. "Lots of practice," you say.
"I bet." Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth open, and she's still trying to talk through it because of course she is. "I bet every single girl you've ever been with was completely ruined for everyone else. I bet they still think about your hands. This is- oh god- this is out of this world, what you do with your hands should honestly be illegal."
"Keep talking," you tell her, picking up the pace just slightly, "and I'm going to make you forget your own name."
You feel her clench around your fingers at that, and you smile. You keep going, that steady rhythm inside her while your thumb finds her clit and starts circling it, light at first, then with more pressure as you read what makes her thighs shake. You strum her with a precision you've earned over years, hitting that swollen front wall on every stroke in and brushing her clit on every pull out, your other hand still kneading her breast, rolling her nipple, and she's losing the thread of her own sentences now, the smart remarks dissolving into broken moans.
"I'm going to make you come like this," you say, watching her face. "With my hand. Just like this."
"I don't doubt it," she gasps out, one hand flying up to grab your forearm, not to stop you, just to hold on. "God, I don't doubt it for a second. Go ahead. Do the honors. I want to see if you're as good as you think you are."
That's all the permission you need. You set your mind to it now, fully, every bit of focus going into her body and the signals it's giving you. You curl your fingers to nail that spot on every stroke, faster now, your thumb pressing tight circles against her clit, and her bratty composure crumbles entirely. Her thighs are trembling against your sides, her hips rocking up to meet your hand, and the sounds coming out of her have gone high and helpless and completely genuine.
"Oh fuck, oh my god," she pants, her grip on your forearm tightening, her nails biting in. "Okay, that's, that's the spot, you found the spot, please do not stop, do not you dare stop now."
"I've got you," you say, your hand never breaking rhythm. "I'm not going anywhere."
You work her relentlessly, reading every twitch and clench, adjusting your angle when her breath catches sharper, keeping that perfect pressure on her clit while your fingers drive into her over and over. She's writhing now, her whole body a string pulled tight, her head thrown back against the table and her dark hair stuck to her flushed neck. The flush has spread all the way up to her cheeks and she can barely keep her eyes open.
"It's close," she chokes out, her thighs starting to clamp around your hand. "Oh god, it's so close, it's right there, I can feel it."
"I know," you tell her, calm and certain, and you press in harder, faster, that swollen spot under your fingertips and her clit under your thumb, both at once, refusing her any room to back off. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."
She breaks. Her back bows clean off the table and a strangled cry tears out of her, her cunt clenching down around your fingers in hard fluttering waves as the orgasm slams through her. Her thighs lock around your hand and her hips grind up against your palm, riding it out, and you keep your rhythm steady through all of it, drawing it out, working her through every last shudder until she's gasping and twitching and finally collapsing back down onto the table, boneless and shaking, her chest heaving.
You slow your hand gradually, easing her down, your fingers stilling inside her and then sliding out slick and warm. You smooth your palm over her hip, gentle now, while she catches her breath. Her eyes are glassy and half-lidded and there's a dazed little smile spreading across her flushed face.
"Holy shit," she breathes, one arm flung over her forehead. "Okay. Okay, that was… I don't even have a comment. You broke my brain. I had a whole thing I was going to say and it's just gone."
"Take your time," you say, wiping your hand on the towel beside her.
She lies there a moment longer, the rise and fall of her chest gradually slowing, and then she turns her head to look at you with those dark eyes, the bratty spark already crawling back into them even in her wrecked state. She crooks a finger at you.
"Come here," she says.
You lean over her, and she reaches up, fists her hand in the front of your shirt, and pulls you down into a kiss. It's slow and deep and unhurried, her lips parting against yours. She kisses you like she's making a point, and when she finally pulls back, she keeps her hand twisted in your collar so you can't go far.
"Okay," she says, looking up at you, her thumb dragging along your jaw. "So now I know exactly what your hands can do. That part's settled. No notes. Genuinely incredible." She bites her lip, and her eyes drop down your body and back up to your face. "But that just raises a whole new question, doesn't it? Because now I really, really need to know what your cock can do."
She pushes herself up slowly, swinging her legs off the side of the table, still a little unsteady on them as she stands, and she presses her bare body against your front, looking up at you through her lashes.
"Come on," she says, tugging you by the shirt toward the door. "Forget the table. We're going to my room.”
You let her lead you out of the treatment room and down the hall, her small hand fisted in your shirt, her bare feet quick and sure against the cool tile. Her bedroom is big and bright with a bed that's far too large for one person, white linens half-rumpled where she's clearly been sleeping diagonally across the middle of it. She lets go of you long enough to spin around and walk backward toward the bed, watching you with that look on her face, and you start working the buttons of your shirt, shrugging it off your shoulders and tossing it onto a chair.
You're still working at your belt when she drops to her knees in front of you, just like that, no hesitation, and takes over. She pops the button and pulls the zipper down and tugs your pants and underwear off your hips in one motion, letting them fall down to bunch around your thighs, and your cock springs free right in front of her face. She makes a low pleased sound at the sight of it, her dark eyes going wide and hungry. She wraps one small hand around the base and gives it a slow stroke, tilting her head as she studies it.
"Mm. Okay. Hello." She licks her lips and looks up at you through her lashes, that bratty grin curling across her mouth. "So... You're about to get a blowjob from Jenna Ortega. How does that feel? Be honest. Bucket list moment, right? You're going to remember this forever."
"Honestly?" you say, looking down at her with a calm you know is going to drive her crazy. "I'm pretty chill about it. Go ahead, though. Don't let me stop you."
Her jaw drops in mock outrage and she smacks your thigh with her free hand. "Oh, fuck off. Chill? You're chill?!" She narrows her eyes up at you, still slowly stroking you the whole time. "You're a fan of mine, don't even lie to me. You knew exactly who I was when I opened that door."
"I know who you are," you tell her with a shrug. "Doesn't mean I'm a fan. You were great in X, even though slashers aren't really my thing. But I don't follow your career or anything."
She stares at you for a moment, clearly caught off guard, before breaking into a bright laugh and shaking her head.
"Wow. Okay. The disrespect. You're unbelievable." She leans in close, her breath warm against the head of your cock, and her eyes flick back up to yours. "Fine. You know what? You will be a fan after this. Guaranteed. By the time I'm done you're going to be streaming my entire filmography."
And then she gets to work. She drags her tongue flat up the underside of you from base to tip, slow and warm, and then wraps her lips around the head and sinks down, taking you into the wet heat of her mouth. She knows exactly what she's doing, that much is immediately obvious. She works you with a hand and her mouth together, twisting her wrist on the upstroke, hollowing her cheeks on the way down, her tongue pressing along the underside on every pass. She takes you deeper each time, her nose nearly brushing your stomach, and the sounds she's making are filthy and wet and completely shameless, little hums of enjoyment vibrating through your cock.
At one point she pulls off you with a slick pop, a string of spit connecting her bottom lip to the head of your cock, and she looks up at you while she catches her breath, still stroking you with her slick hand.
"By the way," she says, grinning up at you, "I'm just messing with you. With the whole celebrity thing. I'm not that kind of girl, I swear. It's totally fine that you're not a fan. I actually kind of love it. It's refreshing." She gives the head a little kiss. "Most guys would've passed out by now."
"I know you're messing with me," you say, your hand coming up to brush her damp hair back off her face so you can see her better. "Now keep going. You were doing really well. Maybe I'll actually become a fan of yours after this."
That gets a smirk out of her, slow and satisfied, and she takes that as the challenge you meant it to be. She goes back down on you with renewed purpose, both hands now, working you with her mouth and her fists in tandem, her tongue swirling around the head every time she comes up before plunging back down. She gets you sloppy and wet, spit running down over her fingers and onto the floor, her saliva coating every inch of you until you're slick and gleaming and aching. She bobs on you with a steady rhythm, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes watering just slightly, completely committed to the task, and the obscene wet sounds of it fill the room. She keeps it up until you're soaked and twitching against her tongue, until she's clearly proven whatever point she set out to prove.
She pulls off you again, breathing hard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and rocks back on her heels with a satisfied look. "Okay. I'm ready. You're definitely ready." She rises to her feet, a little wobbly, and climbs up onto the bed.
You finally kick off the pants and underwear still bunched around your thighs, stepping out of them and leaving them on the floor, and when you straighten up she's already positioning herself in the middle of that big white bed, getting up onto her hands and knees and presenting herself to you. Her petite body looks even smaller out there on the wide expanse of the mattress, her tanned skin a warm contrast against the pale sheets, and she arches her back and looks at you over her shoulder, her perky ass tipped up in the air for you.
"Damn," you say, climbing up onto the bed behind her and putting both hands on her, palming the full round cheeks of her. "Your ass is actually pretty big for someone this small. Where are you hiding all this?"
"Years of squats and good genetics," she says, glancing back at you with a smug little grin, and she gives her hips a slow wiggle, shaking her ass at you, taunting. "You like it? Come on. Stop staring at it and do something about it."
You squeeze a handful of her, watching the way the flesh gives under your fingers, and then you take yourself in hand and line up against her. She's still soaking wet from earlier, slick and ready, and you drag the head of your cock through her folds a couple of times, coating yourself, teasing her entrance until she pushes her hips back at you impatiently. Then you start to press in, slow and steady, feeding yourself into her tight heat inch by inch, and she gasps and drops her head between her shoulders as her body stretches to take you.
"Oh my god," she breathes, her fingers twisting into the sheets. "Okay, you're- oh, that's a lot. Go slow, go slow, fuck. There. Like that."
"You okay?" you ask, holding still once you're seated all the way inside her, your hips flush against the soft cushion of her ass.
"I'm great. I'm so great. Don't you dare stop." She pushes back against you, taking that last bit, a long shaky breath leaving her. "Just give me a second. You're really packing, you know that? Like, criminally."
You give her the second, both of your hands gripping her hips, and then you start to move. You pull back slow and slide back into her just as slow, an easy unhurried rhythm to let her get used to the size of you, savoring the way her tight little cunt grips you on every stroke. She moans low and drops onto her forearms, changing the angle, her ass tipped even higher, and you take advantage of it, your pace picking up by degrees. Each thrust drives a little gasp out of her, and you watch your cock disappear into her over and over, slick and shining, her ass jiggling against your hips every time you bottom out.
"There you go," she pants, rocking back to meet you now, her hips snapping to match your rhythm. "Oh, fuck, that's so good. You feel so good. I knew it, I fucking knew your cock would be as good as your hands."
"You talk a lot for someone getting fucked from behind," you say, and you punctuate it with a harder thrust that makes her whole body jolt forward.
"Get used to it," she shoots back over her shoulder, breathless and grinning even now. "I'm a multitasker. I can run my mouth and take your cock at the- oh- oh god- okay, do that again, do exactly that again."
You do it again, snapping your hips into her with more force, and her smart remark dissolves into a long moan. You build the pace steadily now, your hands holding her in place by the hips while you drive into her, the smack of your body against her ass filling the room along with her gasps. You reach forward and grab a fistful of her dark hair, not pulling hard, just gathering it up and using it for leverage, and the sound she makes at that is something needy and wrecked. You fuck her like that, her back arched, her hair wrapped around your fist, her tight cunt swallowing every thrust, and you can feel her starting to clench around you, her thighs beginning to tremble.
"You getting close?" you ask, never breaking your rhythm, slamming into her with steady purpose.
"Yeah, yeah, oh god, I'm close, I'm so close, please don't stop, I swear if you stop I'll kill you." Her words are coming apart now, breaking up between thrusts, all the bratty composure gone. "Right there, that spot, you're hitting it, oh fuck, keep hitting it just like that."
You keep hitting it, exactly like that, driving into the same spot over and over while she falls apart underneath you. Her moans climb higher and her whole body goes rigid, her cunt squeezing down around your cock so tight you have to grit your teeth, and then she shatters. She cries out into the mattress, her back bowing, her pussy fluttering and clenching around you in waves as she comes hard on your cock, her arms giving out so her face presses into the sheets while her ass stays up in the air, riding it out against you. You fuck her through every pulse of it, slowing only when she starts to twitch and whimper from the overstimulation.
She collapses fully then, sliding off your cock as she goes flat onto her stomach against the bed, and a breathless laugh bubbles out of her, muffled by the sheets. She rolls onto her side to look up at you, her hair a mess across her flushed face, that dazed grin spreading wide.
"Okay," she gasps, still catching her breath, one hand pressed to her own chest. "That was really, really good. Holy shit. Role reversal: I'm the fan now. Officially. Card-carrying."
"It's not over yet," you tell her.
Before she can ask what you mean, you reach down and scoop her up off the bed entirely, one arm under her thighs and one around her back, hauling her petite body up into the air against your chest. She lets out a sharp surprised gasp, her arms flying around your neck and her legs scrambling to wrap around your waist, clinging to you as her feet leave the mattress and the whole world tilts.
You pull her closer, one arm locked under the swell of her ass, the other pressed flat against the small of her back, and you kiss her. She kisses you back immediately, no hesitation, her arms tightening around your neck as her mouth opens against yours. It starts hungry and gets hungrier. Her tongue slides against yours and you suck on it, tasting her, and she tilts her head and licks into your mouth and it goes from a kiss to something messier, something wetter, spit slicking between your lips as you devour each other. She breaks away just long enough to breathe and comes right back, biting at your bottom lip and tugging before sealing her mouth to yours again. Her fingers dig into the back of your neck and her legs squeeze around your waist and you can feel the heat of her slick cunt grinding against your stomach, leaving a wet streak across your skin as she rolls her hips without even seeming to realize she's doing it.
You adjust your grip on her, hitching her higher against your body, and her weight shifts in your arms. She's so light it's almost nothing. You reach between your bodies, angle yourself, and press the head of your cock against her entrance. She pulls back from the kiss with a gasp, her forehead resting against yours, and you start lowering her body down onto you. Slow. Gravity does most of the work. Her cunt stretches around you again and she whimpers, her mouth hanging open an inch from yours, her breath hot and shaky against your lips.
"Oh fuck," she whispers, her nails biting into your shoulders as you fill her. "Oh, that's deep. That's so deep like this. I can feel every inch of you."
You bottom out with her fully seated in your arms, her weight pinning her down onto the whole length of you, and for a second neither of you moves. You just stand there, holding her up, buried to the hilt inside the tight clench of her, and she looks at you with those glazed dark eyes and her swollen wet mouth, and she says exactly what you need to hear.
"Use me like this," she breathes, her fingers threading into the hair at the back of your head. "Just lift me up and drop me on your cock. Fuck me like I'm your little fleshlight. I want you to wreck me."
You pull her up and bring her back down. Hard. Her entire body jolts in your arms and the sound that tears out of her is raw and broken and loud in the quiet room. You do it again, and again, finding a brutal rhythm with nothing but the strength of your arms, lifting her off your cock until just the tip stays inside and then slamming her back down so her ass smacks against your thighs. She bounces on you, helpless in your grip, her breasts pressing against your chest and her legs locked tight around your waist and her head thrown back, completely given over to it.
"God, you're strong," she gasps, her fingers pulling at your hair. "You're just throwing me around- fuck! Look at you, I'm nothing to you, you're picking me up and fucking me like I weigh nothing."
"You barely do," you tell her, your arms burning in the best way, and you snap her down onto you hard enough to punch the breath out of her. Her cunt is so wet around you that every stroke makes an obscene sound, slick and loud, and her body clenches down on you each time she bottoms out.
She pulls your face to hers and kisses you again mid-thrust, sloppy and uncoordinated, more tongue and teeth and shared breath than anything that could be called a proper kiss. Your mouths slide together wet and messy while you keep fucking up into her, and she moans directly against your tongue, the vibration of it traveling down your throat. She breaks the kiss to gasp and you chase her lips and catch them again, biting down on her bottom lip and then licking into her open mouth, tasting the sounds she's making. Spit connects your mouths when you pull apart and she licks it off her own lips and grins at you like a feral little thing.
"You're so filthy," she pants, rocking her hips to meet your thrusts even from this angle. "I can't believe you walked in here all professional and polite and this whole time you had this in you. This is what you were hiding."
"You're the one who kept pushing," you remind her, driving into her deep and holding there for a second, grinding against her, and she whines and squirms in your arms.
"Best decision I ever made." She tightens her legs around you and rolls her body, taking you at a new angle that makes her whole face screw up in pleasure. "Fuck- right there, I can feel you so deep, you're in my stomach, I swear I can feel you everywhere."
You fuck her like that, standing in the middle of her bedroom, your arms wrapped around her small body and your cock buried inside her, her weight bouncing on you with every thrust. The pace stays relentless. You can feel the sweat building where your skin meets hers, can feel her thighs trembling where they grip your sides, and her cunt is getting tighter around you with every passing minute, that telltale flutter starting to build. She's babbling now, her face buried in your neck, her teeth grazing your shoulder between broken fragments of sentences.
"You're going to make me come again," she mumbles against your skin, her breath hot and fast. "You already made me come twice and you're going to do it again, I can't believe you, I can't believe my body right now, you ruined me, you completely ruined me."
"Come on my cock again," you tell her, bouncing her faster, harder, your hands gripping the meat of her ass and spreading her so you can thrust even deeper. "I want to feel it. Give me another one."
"Oh god- oh fuck- it's building," she gasps, pulling back to look at you, and her eyes are glassy and wet and completely undone. "Keep going, please, don't change anything, you're hitting the spot, you're right there, I'm gonna- oh fuck I'm gonna cum so hard."
You slam her down onto your cock and hold her there, grinding up into her, and it crashes through her hard. Her whole body seizes, every muscle locking up at once, her cunt clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses so tight it's almost painful, and she buries her face in your shoulder and cries out against your skin, shaking and clutching and spasming around you. You hold her through it, still buried inside her, rocking gently to wring out every last tremor until she goes limp and heavy in your arms, panting and twitching.
You carry her the few steps to the bed and set her down on the mattress, sliding out of her as you lower her onto the rumpled sheets. She sprawls back, boneless, her chest heaving, her skin flushed pink and gleaming with sweat, and she stares up at the ceiling looking thoroughly destroyed.
"Come here," she says after a moment, breathless and hoarse, reaching for you.
You lean down toward her and she grabs you, both hands on your chest, and with surprising strength she pushes and maneuvers you until you're lying on your back beside her, and then she's crawling over you, straddling your hips. Her thighs settle on either side of you and she plants both hands on your chest, looking down at you with her tangled hair falling around her face and that bratty spark flickering back to life behind the fucked-out haze in her eyes.
"You've been showing off," she says, pressing her palms flat against your pecs, her nails dragging lightly. "Making me come over and over again, with your hands, with your cock, while carrying me around the room. Very impressive. You've made your point. I get it." She sits up straighter, rolling her shoulders back. "But you haven't come yet. Not once. So now it's my turn. I'm going to show you that I can do the same thing you've been doing to me. I'm going to ride you until you lose your mind."
She reaches behind herself, her small hand wrapping around your cock, still slick and hard and aching from being inside her. She lifts her hips and positions you right at her entrance, the swollen head pressing against her folds, and she looks down at you with that knowing little smile curling the corner of her mouth.
"Wow," you say, looking up at her perched on top of you with your cock in her hand. "Jenna Ortega. Hollywood actress and professional rider. Is there anything you can't do?"
"Shut up," she says, flicking your chest with her free hand. "Stop being cute and just lie there and enjoy yourself. You've done enough work tonight. Let me handle this."
She lowers herself onto you, one slow, excruciating inch at a time. Her eyes flutter and her lips part and her thighs tense on either side of your hips as she sinks down, taking the full length of you into her for the fourth time tonight, and by now her body knows yours well enough that she slides all the way to the base without stopping. She sits there for a moment, fully seated, her palms flat on your chest, adjusting to the stretch with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she starts to move.
Slow, at first. Long, rolling motions of her hips, lifting up until you're almost out and gliding back down, grinding on you when she reaches the bottom. She finds a rhythm quickly, her body undulating on top of you with a fluid grace that tells you she wasn't bluffing when she said it was her turn to show off. Her hands slide up your chest and she arches her back, changing the angle, and the new position has her riding you with her whole body, stomach rolling, hips circling, her perky tits swaying with each motion. She looks down at you and catches you staring, and that smug little grin spreads across her face.
"You're watching me like you can't believe what you're seeing," she says, rolling her hips in a slow figure eight that sends a jolt straight through your spine.
"I'm just admitting that you actually know what you're doing up there," you tell her, your hands resting on her thighs, feeling the muscles flex and release under her tanned skin. "You said you were going to show me something and you're delivering."
"Damn right I am." She picks up the pace, bouncing on you now with more purpose, her ass slapping softly against your thighs on every downstroke, and she throws her head back and lets her hair tumble down her spine. The view from below is obscene. This tiny girl, a hundred pounds of toned Latina body, riding your cock with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good she looks doing it. Her stomach pulls tight with every roll and her freckled face is flushed and gorgeous and completely lost in the pleasure of it.
"Look at you," you murmur, your thumbs tracing circles on her hipbones. "You look incredible up there. You're putting on a whole show for me."
"You earned a show," she says breathlessly, planting her hands on your chest again and leaning into her rhythm, riding you harder. "After what you did to me tonight? Three orgasms? You earned front row seats." She clenches around you on a downstroke, tight and intentional, and grins when your jaw tightens. "Oh, you liked that. I felt you twitch. I can do that whenever I want, by the way. Just squeeze you whenever I feel like it."
"You're dangerous," you tell her.
"You have no idea." She does it again, bearing down on you and squeezing, and you grip her thighs harder. She laughs, breathless and pleased with herself, and then she changes her approach entirely, leaning forward until her chest presses against yours and her face hovers above your face, close enough that her damp hair brushes your forehead. She rolls her hips in tight, grinding circles, keeping you buried deep, and she looks into your eyes and kisses you.
It's slower than the kisses before. Her lips part against yours and her tongue slides into your mouth lazy and thorough, tasting you while she rocks on your cock, and the combination of her mouth and the tight wet grip of her pussy has you gripping the sheets on either side of your body. She kisses you deep and messy, pulling back to lick across your bottom lip and then diving back in, swallowing the groan you didn't mean to let out. She hums against your mouth, satisfied, and keeps riding, never breaking rhythm, rolling her body against yours while her tongue tangles with yours.
You can't take it anymore. Your hands come up and lock around her waist, fingers digging into her soft skin, and you plant your feet flat on the mattress and start thrusting up into her from below. She breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp, her eyes going wide, and you don't give her time to recover. You fuck up into her hard and fast, using your grip on her waist to pull her down to meet every thrust, and the sound of your hips smacking against her ass fills the room. Her whole body bounces on top of you, her tits pressed against your chest, her mouth open and panting next to your ear.
"Oh my god," she chokes out, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Oh fuck, there you go, now you're the one showing off, you can't just let me have my moment, can you?"
"You had your moment," you grunt, snapping your hips up into her. "Now take it."
"I'm taking it, I'm taking it, god you feel so good," she gasps, burying her face in your neck. "You're so deep, I can feel you in my guts, you're splitting me open."
You pound up into her relentlessly, holding her in place while you fuck her from below, and her body tightens around you with every stroke, that familiar flutter of her walls gripping and releasing. You can feel the heat building at the base of your spine, that coiling tension, and you know you're getting close. After a night of watching this girl come apart for you three separate times without letting yourself go once, your body is finally demanding its turn.
"I'm close," you tell her. "Jenna, I'm gonna cum."
"My face," she says immediately, no hesitation, already pulling herself off your cock with a slick sound. "Give it to me on my face. I already got the massage, now it's time for skincare."
She slides off the bed and drops to her knees on the floor between your legs, looking up at you with her messy hair and her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips, and she grabs your cock with both hands. It's soaked, glistening with her wetness from base to tip, and she starts stroking you with quick, practiced twists of her wrist. Every few strokes she leans in and wraps her lips around the head, sucking firmly, her tongue laving over the sensitive underside before she pulls off and goes back to her hands.
"Come on," she murmurs, looking up at you while she works you, her small fists pumping your slick shaft. "Give me a facial. I want to feel it all over my face. Cover me." She dips down and sucks the head into her mouth again, cheeks hollowing, and the sight of her on her knees with her big dark eyes staring up at you while her lips stretch around your cock is what finally tips you over.
You come hard. Your hand grips the edge of the mattress and your hips jerk and the first thick rope hits her across the cheek and the bridge of her nose, painting over those faint freckles. She pulls back and aims you with her hand, milking you through it, and the second streak lands across her lips and chin. She keeps stroking, squeezing every last drop out of you, catching it on her skin until her pretty face is glazed and dripping, white streaks across her cheekbone, her nose, her mouth and her jaw.
She looks absolutely filthy. She looks up at you through the mess on her face with those big brown eyes and she's never looked better. She raises one hand and drags her finger through the cum on her cheek, collecting a thick glob of it on her fingertip, and she puts it in her mouth and sucks it clean, her tongue curling around her finger.
"Mm," she says, pulling her finger out with a little noise. "Salty. Not bad." She grins up at you, still on her knees, still covered. "That was really fun. I feel so much more relaxed now. You should put that on your business card. Full body tension relief, guaranteed."
You laugh, dropping back onto the mattress for a second before sitting up and reaching for your clothes on the floor. You pull your underwear on and step into your pants, and she watches you dress from her spot on the carpet, still looking thoroughly debauched.
"So," she says, finally rising to her feet and stretching, completely unconcerned about being naked and cum-covered. "How much do I owe you for the special treatment? What's the upcharge on that? Because it felt pretty premium."
You snort as you pull your shirt on, working the buttons. "You don't owe me anything extra. I was kidding about that. It's just whatever you paid when you booked. Seriously, don't worry about it."
"Really?" She raises her eyebrows. "That's very generous. You could've squeezed me for a fortune and I would've paid it."
"I'm sure you would've," you say, tucking your shirt in. "Consider the special treatment complimentary."
"Well, thank you then," she says. "That was an amazing experience. I mean it. My first massage ever, and I don't think anything will ever top it. You ruined massages for me. Every masseuse from now on is going to be a disappointment."
"Happy to help," you say, gathering your case from the treatment room. When you come back through, she's grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand and is wiping her face clean, casual as anything. She catches your eye and grins through the tissue.
She follows you through the house still completely naked, padding along beside you on bare feet, and only pauses when she spots the towel she'd left on the floor of the hallway earlier. She scoops it up and wraps it loosely around herself, though it's more of a formality than actual coverage at this point. She walks you all the way to the front door, leaning against the frame just the way she had when she first let you in, except now her hair is a disaster and her lips are swollen and there's still a faint sticky shine on her cheekbone she missed with the tissue.
"It was a real pleasure meeting you, Jenna," you say, your case in one hand, turning back to look at her in the doorway.
She tilts her head, that slow bratty smile spreading across her face one last time. "Trust me," she says, crossing her arms over the towel and leaning into the doorframe. "The pleasure was all mine.”
—
A week passes. Seven days of normal life, normal clients, normal work. You do a couple's session at a resort downtown, a deep tissue for some tech CEO, and a sports recovery for a college swimmer with a pulled trapezius. Routine stuff. You go home, you eat, you sleep, you do it again. And you don't think about Jenna Ortega.
Okay, that's not true. You think about her a little. You think about her when you're setting up in someone else's living room and you catch yourself glancing at the door like you're expecting a girl in an oversized bathrobe to answer it. You think about her when you're working a client's feet and your brain flashes to the feeling of her toes pressing against the front of your pants. You think about her in the shower, briefly, and then you shut that down because you're not a teenager and you have a schedule to keep.
Now, about what happened with Jenna… It's not the first time. You're not going to sit here and pretend it is, because that would make you either a liar or delusional. In the years you've been doing this work, there have been three other occasions where a client turned the appointment into something else entirely. Three women who were attractive enough and forward enough and the circumstances were aligned enough that you let it happen. An interior designer in her forties who tipped you in cash and a kiss on the mouth. A fitness influencer who pulled you into her pool house after a ninety minute session. A divorce lawyer who locked the door of her home office and told you she needed a different kind of stress relief. Each time, it happened once, and you never went back. Not because it was bad. Because it was complicated. You work through a spa. You have a reputation. You have repeat clients who trust you to be professional, and the second that trust erodes, your entire livelihood goes with it. So the rule is simple. It happens, you enjoy it, you move on, and you never repeat the process.
Jenna should be the same. She should already be filed away in the same mental drawer as the other three, a great story you'll never tell anyone, a memory you'll revisit occasionally and leave alone. That should be the end of it.
Your phone buzzes on a Tuesday evening while you're eating leftover pad thai on your couch. Instagram notification. A message request from an account you don't recognize at first, and then you look at the profile picture and the verified checkmark and the follower count that has more digits than your bank balance, and you set down your fork.
Been thinking about you
How did you even find my Instagram?
Went to the spa's profile. They have this photo of all the employees at some company event and you're in the back row. Your profile was tagged. Easy. Took me like two minutes
So you stalked me
Absolutely I did. You should lock your doors and windows tonight. I know where you live now
You don't know where I live
Not yet. Give me another two minutes
Okay I'm not going to be weird about this. I'm just going to say it. I really liked you. And not just because of the sex, which, for the record, was incredible, genuinely top tier, I'm still thinking about it a week later which is embarrassing but whatever
You're a cool guy. You're funny. You went along with all my bullshit and you didn't get weird about it, you just matched my energy the whole time, and I really, really enjoyed that. Most people either get intimidated or they try too hard and it's exhausting. You just showed up and were normal and hot and good with your hands and I haven't stopped thinking about it
You read that twice. Then a third time. You're aware that this is the point where you should type something polite and final. Something about how it was great meeting her too and you wish her the best and maybe you'll see her around. That's what you did with the other three. Clean, simple, no loose ends.
But Jenna isn't the other three. And you know that already, have known it since she opened the door in that bathrobe with her hair dripping, because none of the other three made you laugh while you were inside them. None of the other three made you actually want to stay and talk after it was over. None of the other three texted you a week later being honest and funny and a little bit vulnerable underneath the bravado, and none of the other three made you sit on your couch staring at your phone like an idiot trying to figure out what you actually want.
You're cool too. I had a really good time
So...
So what?
So how about we meet up? Like, actual hanging out. Get drinks, talk, be normal people for a couple hours. And then maybe go back to my place and be not-normal people for a couple more hours.
No massage table required
You lean back into the couch and stare at the ceiling. In a normal situation, you'd say no. You know you'd say no, because you've said no before, and it was the right call every time. But Jenna is genuinely funny. She's sharp and self-aware and she doesn't take herself too seriously despite having every reason to, and she's beautiful in a way that hits different when you've seen her with no makeup and no performance and no pretense, just a girl on a massage table being honest about how tired she is. And the sex was, frankly, some of the best you've ever had, and you're not in the habit of lying to yourself about things like that.
Fuck it. Why not?
I'm in. Where and when?
Her response is instant. She sends you the name of a bar you've never heard of, some place in a part of the city you don't go to often, and it occurs to you that she probably picked it because it's low-key enough that nobody's going to bother her there. Smart. Then she sends a time, Thursday at nine, and a follow-up message.
I'll be there first. I'll grab us a spot.
Don't be late or I'll find another masseuse
There's no other masseuse like me and you know it
Cocky. I love it. See you Thursday
You put your phone down and pick your pad thai back up and eat the rest of it without tasting any of it, because your brain is already somewhere else entirely. You're thinking about what you're going to wear, which is not something you usually waste energy on, and that alone tells you that you're already in deeper than you planned to be.
—
Thursday comes faster than it should. After your last client, you shower, get dressed, and spend entirely too much time pretending you don't care what you're wearing. Then you head to the bar she sent you. It's small, dim, and pleasantly unpretentious. Good music, good atmosphere, the kind of place where people actually talk to each other. You walk in and scan the room. She's sitting in a booth near the back with a drink already in hand.
You spot her immediately. Jenna spots you, too, and she looks different tonight. Not worse, not better, just different. Her hair is down and dry and loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing a simple top and jeans and just enough makeup that you can tell she put thought into looking like she didn't put thought into it. The freckles are still there under her eyes. She lifts her glass to you from across the room and flashes that same bratty grin.
You walk over to the booth and slide in across from her.
"You're on time," she says, looking pleased. "I was ready to be stood up."
"Wouldn't miss it," you say, settling in. "You stalked me across the internet to set this up. Least I can do is show up.”
A waiter materializes beside the booth with the easy timing of someone who's good at his job, and you order a drink, something simple, while Jenna swirls the last of her amber whatever and asks for another. He nods and disappears back toward the bar, and you settle into the booth, taking in the place properly now.
"So do you come here a lot?" you ask, glancing around at the dim warm lighting and the small clusters of people who all seem to be minding their own business.
"Yeah, pretty often," she says, leaning back against the cushioned seat. "Usually with friends. It's one of the few places around here where I can just sit and not have my phone out in someone's hand pointed at my face the whole time. The staff knows me and they're cool about it. They don't make it a thing. It's a good spot."
"Then I'm flattered," you say. "You brought me to your secret good spot. That's basically a state secret."
She laughs, that bright unguarded sound you remember from the massage table. "Don't let it go to your head. I haven't decided yet if you've earned full clearance."
The waiter returns with both drinks and you settle into the rhythm of it, the easy back and forth, and it turns out to be effortless in a way that surprises you a little. She's funny, quick with comebacks, willing to make herself the punchline, and she listens when you talk, which is not something you expected from someone who spends her life being the center of attention. A few drinks later, she pauses, sets her glass down, and gives you a measured look, intrigued but not entirely convinced.
"Okay, so be honest with me," she says, tilting her head. "This has to happen all the time, right? Clients catching feelings for you, getting your number, taking you out. Your hands are basically a public health hazard. Your schedule must be absolutely stacked with women trying to get you alone."
You almost choke on your drink. "Okay, no. You're really misreading the situation here."
"Am I?" She arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. "Come on. I refuse to believe I'm special. You've got a whole roster, don't you? A little black book of housewives."
"I don't do this," you say, setting your glass down. "Like, ever. And I mean that. It's true that a few times something's happened with a client, I'm not going to lie to you about that. But three times. In years of doing this. Three."
She holds up four fingers and waggles them at you. "Four now."
"Four now," you concede, and she grins, delighted with herself. "But here's the thing. Out of those, I never once went back. Not a single repeat. It happens, it's nice, and then I keep it professional and move on, because the alternative is a disaster waiting to happen. So you're not just an isolated case. You're an isolated case among isolated cases. You broke a rule I've never broken."
That seems to do it. She studies you for a moment, absently turning her glass on the table as the teasing gives way to something more sincere. "Okay. So what made you break it, then? What's so different about this time that suddenly Mister Professional is sitting in a bar with a girl he gave a massage to a week ago?"
You consider lying, giving her something smooth. But she's been straight with you all night, so you give it to her straight back. "Honestly? I don't know. I just like you. That's the whole answer. And I kept thinking about that day all week, which doesn't usually happen, so when you messaged me it just felt like the right thing to do. So here I am. Breaking my own rules."
Something passes across her face, pleased and a little caught off guard, and she covers it by taking a sip of her drink. "Wow... Okay. That was almost dangerously sincere. I don't know how to handle you when you're not being a smartass."
"Get used to it. I have layers."
She laughs again, then goes quiet for a second, picking at the edge of her napkin. "I'm a little rusty at this, by the way. The whole dating, meeting people thing. I should probably just tell you that now so you don't expect me to be good at it." She shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. "Like, I've never really had much experience with it. I grew up on sets. I've been working since I was a little kid, always busy, always somewhere new, always with a chaperone or a tutor or a crew of forty people around me. So this kind of thing, just sitting in a bar with someone, going on an actual date, it's still kind of new territory for me."
"You're still really young," you tell her. "You've got plenty of time for all of it. More chances will come along, trust me."
"Sure," she says, and then she gives you a sideways look, that bratty spark flickering back. "But I'm living one of those chances right now, aren't I?"
You can't help but smile. "I guess you are."
"So?" She props her chin on her hand, watching you. "What's the verdict so far? How am I doing? Am I a disaster?"
"You're doing great. You're way better at this than someone who claims to be rusty."
"I'm enjoying it," she admits. "It's funny. I've shot a hundred scenes like this. First dates, bars, the whole flirty getting-to-know-you thing. I could do it in my sleep, hit every mark. But real life is so much more interesting. There's no script. I have no idea what you're going to say next and that's kind of terrifying and kind of great."
You keep talking, and the drinks keep coming, and the conversation wanders all over the place, from her ridiculous press tour stories to the worst client you've ever had to a long pointless debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza that gets weirdly heated. At some point, well into your fourth or fifth round, she sets her glass down and looks at you with an expression that's gone thoughtful and a little softer around the edges from the alcohol.
"Can I tell you what actually got me?" she says. "About you. From the start."
"Go for it."
"It's that you know I'm famous and you just genuinely don't care." She says it plainly, like she's still a little amazed by it. "From the very first second. When you walked in the door, even. And I'll be honest, at the beginning it kind of bugged me. I kept thinking, okay, I know you're being all polite and professional and saying you don't make it weird, but deep down I know what you're really thinking, I know you're freaking out a little on the inside. I was waiting for the mask to slip."
"And?"
"And it never slipped. Because there was no mask. You're just like that." She shakes her head, smiling. "That's so rare. You have no idea how rare. Normally people make this huge production out of it. They either pretend they don't recognize me and it's so obvious they do, or they go the other way and get all weird and starstruck, or worst of all they act normal for like ten minutes and then ask for a photo. But you were just, consistently, the entire time, treating me like a person. And that's actually what made me brave enough to message you."
"How so?"
"Because I knew you weren't going to screw me over," she says. "I didn't have to worry about it. Like, do you know how scary it is for me to flirt with someone? To send a message? Because there's always this thing in the back of my head going, what if he screenshots this, what if this ends up on some gossip site tomorrow, Jenna Ortega caught DMing her massage therapist, what if the whole world sees me being a normal person who likes a guy. But with you I just knew. I knew you'd never do that."
"I'd never do that," you confirm. "And not just because I'm a nice guy, though I am. It's also pure self-preservation. The second I do something like that I'm screwed too. I lose my job, my reputation, everything. So you're safe with me on a purely selfish level if nothing else." You take a sip of your drink. "But also, like, I figured you've got people fawning all over you constantly. Falling all over themselves. The least I can do is be normal and treat you like I'd treat anybody."
"You'd be surprised how few people actually do that. It sounds like the easiest thing in the world, just be normal, and almost nobody manages it." She raises her glass toward you. "So. Thank you. For having basic common sense. Apparently that's a rare and precious gift."
"To basic common sense," you say, clinking your glass against hers.
Time does that thing where it stops existing. You're deep in conversation and then you blink and the bar is emptier than it was and your glass is empty again and you realize you're both pretty drunk, the good kind of drunk, loose and warm and laughing too easily at things that aren't that funny. Jenna's leaning across the table now, gesturing with her hands while she tells you some story about a costar that has her giggling so hard she keeps losing the thread of it, and you're laughing too, and at some point you both seem to silently agree that it's time to go.
Jenna is the one who pulls out her phone and fumbles through the Uber app, squinting at the screen as she books the ride with the sluggish concentration of someone several drinks past sober. By the time she's done, she's drained the last of her cocktail, and the two of you make your way outside into the cool night air, lingering near the curb while the car makes its way over.
A few minutes later, the Uber rolls up. You both climb into the back seat, and Jenna immediately sinks against the upholstery, looking ready to pass out. The ride has barely begun when she suddenly notices something on her phone. With a groan, she realizes she'd entered the wrong destination while drunk and hastily updates the trip, correcting the address before letting herself slump back into the seat beside you, eyes half-closed as the car heads off into the night.
The city slides by outside the windows, all glowing signs and empty intersections, and after a couple of minutes you feel her shift and then the weight of her head settling against your shoulder. Her hair smells like whatever she put in it and faintly like the bar. She gets comfortable, tucking herself into your side.
"Just so we're clear," she mumbles, "this isn't romantic or anything. I'm just tired. Don't read into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say, and you feel her smile against your shoulder.
"Good. Because it's not. It's purely a logistics thing. Your shoulder is conveniently located."
"Very convenient. Premium shoulder real estate."
"Mhm." She goes quiet, and for a while the only sound is the hum of the road and the driver's radio turned down low, and you let her stay there, this tiny famous girl half asleep against you in the back of a stranger's car, and you think about how strange and good this all is and how thoroughly you've broken your own rule.
The Uber eventually pulls up the private drive you recognize, the bougainvillea spilling over the white wall lit up by the headlights, and Jenna stirs and sits up, blinking herself awake. You thank the driver and the two of you climb out, and she leads the way up to the door, fishing her keys out of her bag with the slightly exaggerated care of someone who's had a few. She gets the door open on the second try and steps inside, then turns around to face you in the entryway, leaning against the frame, that grin spreading slow across her face.
"Well," she says, spreading her arms a little. "Welcome back.”
You step through the doorway after her and the place is exactly as nice as you remembered, all high ceilings and soft lamplight, though there's something different about being here now, at night, with both of you swaying a little from the bar.
"It's good to be back," you say, and you mean it more than the words suggest.
She heads deeper into the house and you follow, and she's walking ahead of you but twisted around at the waist so she can keep talking to you, telling you something about how she rearranged half the furniture when she moved in because the staging was hideous, and she's so busy looking back at you that she doesn't see the low side table directly in her path. Her shin catches the edge of it and she pitches sideways with a startled yelp, and you lunge and get an arm around her before she goes all the way down, hauling her back up against your chest.
"Okay," you say, holding her steady. "You are a genuine hazard when you're drunk."
"I am not drunk," she protests, though she's still clutching your forearm and clearly grateful you caught her. "Okay, I'm a little drunk. But that's not the point. That table was not there before. I swear to god. Somebody moved it."
"Oh yeah? Who do you think moved it?"
She gets very serious, looking up at you with wide eyes. "I don't know. But I hear things at night. Voices. Footsteps." She drops her voice to a stage whisper. "I'm not alone in this house. There's something here. It rearranges the furniture to kill me slowly."
"That's deeply concerning," you say, still holding her against you, smiling down at the absurd earnest expression on her face. "You should probably move."
"Can't. The ghost would just follow me. We're bonded now."
You're about to say something else but she doesn't let you. She pushes up onto her toes and kisses you, and whatever you were going to say evaporates. It starts soft and goes from soft to hungry fast, her mouth opening against yours, her hands sliding up to fist in the front of your shirt. You kiss her back and she makes a small sound into your mouth and presses closer, the two of you start moving toward the bedroom without breaking apart, a clumsy drunken shuffle down the hallway, bumping into a wall, knocking a frame crooked, neither of you caring. She walks you backward through her bedroom door and your tongues are tangling, her fingers are pulling at your collar and it's all heat and wet and the taste of whatever you were both drinking.
She breaks away just long enough to kick off her shoes, hopping on one foot, and you toe off yours, and then she grabs you again and the two of you tumble down onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs, her laughing against your mouth as you land. You end up on top of her, settling between her thighs, and you kiss her again, sloppier now, more teeth, more spit, the kind of kiss that's lost any sense of finesse and doesn't want it back.
You break from her mouth and move down to her neck, dragging your lips along the warm skin there, and you can taste the faint salt of a light sweat on her, the night and the bar and her own heat. She tilts her head to give you more room and sighs, her fingers threading into your hair. You work your way along her throat, and at some point you lift your head and your eyes meet hers in the dim lamplight, and there's a beat where you just look at each other.
Then she leans up and licks your face. One long stripe from your jaw to your cheekbone, completely without warning.
"What the hell," you say, pulling back. "You're a freak."
"Excuse you," she says, grinning up at you, utterly delighted with herself. "That was the single most romantic thing I could have done. I poured my whole soul into that lick."
"Okay. You want romantic? I'll show you romantic." You reach for the hem of her top and she lifts her arms and lets you peel it off over her head, tossing it somewhere into the dark of the room. She's not wearing a bra, just like you suspected, and there she is, her small perfect breasts and her tanned skin glowing in the low light. You don't waste a second. You dip your head and kiss across her chest, pressing your mouth to the soft swell of her breast.
"Oh," she breathes, her back arching slightly. "Okay. Yeah. That's romantic. Worshipping my tits. Very gentlemanly of you. A true romantic hero."
You wrap your lips around one stiff nipple and suck, and her words dissolve into a sigh. You take your time with her, lavishing attention on one breast and then the other, kissing and licking and sucking, your tongue circling each peak before you draw it into your mouth. You cup the other in your hand while you work, rolling her nipple between your fingers, switching back and forth so neither one feels neglected. She squirms beneath you, her fingers tightening in your hair, her chest pushing up into your mouth, the drunken giddiness slowly giving way to something heavier and more breathless.
"You're really committed to this," she murmurs, watching you through half-lidded eyes. "I was joking but you're actually- oh, okay, keep doing that."
When you finally lift your head, both of you are flushed and glowing in the dim light, a faint sheen across her skin and yours, her breasts wet and shining where your mouth has been. You move down her body and hook your fingers into the waistband of her jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down, and she lifts her hips obligingly so you can peel them off her legs, taking her panties along with them in the same motion. You toss the whole bundle off the side of the bed, and now she's bare beneath you, completely.
"Okay," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "My turn. Off with all of this." She reaches for you, tugging at your shirt, and you let her undress you, helping where you can. She gets your shirt off and runs her hands appreciatively down your chest, then works at your belt and pulls your pants down your legs until you're left in just your underwear. She sits back on her heels, looking you over with frank approval, and then a particular kind of mischief creeps into her expression.
"So," she says, drawing the word out. "I was thinking. I want to do something a little different tonight. For a change."
"Different," you repeat, raising an eyebrow. "What's more different than having sex with your masseur? I feel like we already cleared the bar for different."
"Funny." She crawls off the bed and pads over to the nightstand and pulls open the top drawer. She rummages around for a second and then turns back to you holding a bottle of lubricant, brandishing it like a prize. "Okay, hear me out. I'm thinking we switch roles tonight." She climbs back onto the bed and tosses the bottle onto the mattress beside you. "It's not one of your fancy expensive massage oils or whatever, but it'll do the job just fine." She gives you a little push toward the headboard. "So. Lie back. On your back. And those need to come off." She nods at your boxers.
You look at the lube, then at her, and you understand exactly what she's got in mind.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband and lift your hips off the mattress, peeling your boxers down your thighs and kicking them off the end of the bed. Your cock springs up, already hard, standing thick against your stomach, and Jenna's eyes drop to it with that unabashed directness she has, no shyness, no pretending she's not looking. She picks up the bottle of lube from where she tossed it on the sheets and uncaps it, squeezing a generous amount into her palm, and the slick clear liquid pools in the center of her small hand.
"Let me do this properly," she says, settling onto her knees beside you. "You're always the one with the oils and the fancy products. Let me have my moment."
She wraps her lubed hand around the base of your cock and you feel the cool slick of it immediately, her fingers tightening and then sliding upward in a slow stroke, coating you. She's thorough about it, spreading the lubricant from root to tip with both hands now, her small palms twisting in opposite directions, making sure every inch of you is gleaming and slippery. She pays particular attention to the head, circling her thumb across the sensitive underside, and her eyes flick up to your face to watch your reaction while she works. Her grip slides all the way back down to the base and back up again, one long gliding stroke, and she gives you a satisfied nod.
"There we go," she says, examining her handiwork. "All ready. Now comes the master touch."
She shifts on the bed, repositioning entirely, turning so she's sitting facing you with her legs extended toward your hips. She leans back on her hands for support and lifts both feet, placing them on either side of your slick cock, pressing the soft warm arches against your shaft. Your cock sits between her soles, trapped in the gentle pressure of them, and the lube makes the contact impossibly smooth.
"Oh," you say, looking down at the sight of her bare feet cradling your cock. "Okay. This is a new type of massage."
She grins, wiggling her toes against you. "What? Have you never massaged someone with your feet before? It's a whole technique. Very ancient."
"In case you haven't noticed," you say, gesturing at yourself, "I am not an orangutan. My feet don't do the same things my hands do. They're purely structural."
She throws her head back and laughs, her whole body shaking with it, which incidentally makes her feet shift against your cock in a very interesting way. She has to take a second to compose herself, pressing one hand to her chest while she catches her breath.
"Damn," she manages, still grinning so wide her eyes are nearly shut. "Okay, that was genuinely a good one. I'll give you that. Full marks." She takes a breath and then fixes you with a stern look that's completely undermined by the fact that she's still fighting off giggles. "But hey. This is supposed to be hot, alright? We're having a sexy moment here. So stop being so funny. You're ruining my whole vibe."
"My apologies," you say. "Please continue. Show me the ancient technique."
She narrows her eyes at you, then starts to move. She presses her feet together with your cock sandwiched between them and slides them upward, the arches of her feet dragging along your shaft from base to tip, the lubricant making the motion fluid and easy. When she reaches the top, she curls her toes slightly around the head and then slides back down, setting up a slow, rhythmic stroke that has you exhaling through your teeth.
Nobody has ever done this to you before. In all your experience, all the various encounters and the handful of clients who crossed the line, this particular act has never come up. But the feeling of it is unexpectedly good. Her feet are small and impossibly soft, the skin smooth and warm, and the lube turns every pass into something slick and effortless. She finds a rhythm, her feet pumping up and down your length in tandem, and she watches your face the entire time with a look of concentrated satisfaction, reading your reactions the same way you read hers on the massage table.
"Look at you," she says softly, her feet gliding up your cock and back down again. "The big professional masseur, lying on his back, getting a footjob from his client. How does it feel to be on the other side? To be the one getting worked on instead of doing the work?"
"Still getting used to it," you admit, your stomach tightening as she picks up the pace slightly, her arches squeezing around you. "But it feels great. You've actually got real talent here."
"Thank you," she says, almost prim about it, as if you'd complimented her on a performance. "I take my craft very seriously."
She adjusts her angle, tilting her feet so one sole presses flat against the underside of your shaft while the other rubs along the top, creating a different kind of friction. The change in sensation makes your hips shift on the mattress and she catches it, noting what works, and she keeps that configuration going, one foot stroking the sensitive underside while the other applies pressure from above. Her toes curl around the head every few strokes, gripping gently, and the combination of soft skin and warm lube and the sight of her sitting there between your legs, naked and focused and so small that her feet barely span your full length, is doing something to you that you didn't anticipate.
"You're really into this," she observes, her eyes traveling from your face down to where her feet are wrapped around you. "Your whole body just tensed up. I can feel your cock twitching against my feet."
"You know what you're doing," you say, and your breathing is getting heavier now, you can hear it yourself, the steadiness leaving it.
She pumps her feet faster, finding a quicker rhythm, her soles slipping up and down your lubed shaft with a smooth wet glide. She presses her feet together tighter, increasing the friction, and starts working the top half of your cock with short quick strokes, her toes teasing the ridge of the head on every pass. You can feel the heat building in your gut, that familiar tightening at the base of your spine, and your hands grip the sheets on either side of you.
"Yeah, there it is," she murmurs, watching you with that knowing look, her feet never stopping. "I can see it in your face. You're getting close, aren't you? My feet are getting you off. That's so filthy. I love it."
She's right. The pressure is building fast, faster than you expected, and her small soft feet pumping your slick cock are pulling you toward the edge with alarming efficiency. You feel it coiling tighter, your thighs going rigid, your abs clenching, and she can see all of it, she can read your body the same way you read hers.
And then she stops. Both feet lift off your cock entirely and she pulls her legs back, tucking them underneath her, leaving you throbbing and slick and aching in the open air. The sudden absence of contact is almost painful, your cock twitching against your stomach, and you let out a breath that's somewhere between frustration and disbelief.
"No," she says simply, shaking her head, that bratty grin blooming across her flushed face. "Not yet. We've barely started. You don't get to finish that fast."
"Oh," you say, dropping your head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Oh, I see where this is going."
"Do you?" She tilts her head innocently.
"This is because of the massage, isn't it." You lift your head to look at her. "The first time. When I made you wait. When I kept teasing you and wouldn't touch where you wanted me to touch. This is payback."
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile, and fails completely. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you squirm. Could be either one. Could be both." She stretches her arms above her head, casual and unhurried, as if she didn't just edge you within an inch of your sanity. "In any case, tonight I'm going to have some fun with you. So just stay lying down like that. Get comfortable. You're going to be there for a while."
You exhale slowly and let your head fall back against the pillow again. "You're evil."
"I'm adorable and you love it." She repositions on the bed, sliding down between your legs, lying on her stomach with her face level with your hips. Her dark hair spills across your thigh as she settles in, and she props herself up on her elbows, one hand reaching out to wrap around the base of your still-slick cock. She tilts it toward her mouth, studying it up close with an expression of genuine appreciation, and she presses a soft, slow kiss to the tip. Her lips linger there, warm and full, and then she pulls back just enough to look up at you through her lashes.
"Now," she says, her breath warm against the wet head of your cock, "let's see how long you can last.”
She starts with her hand, just her hand, her fingers wrapped around you loosely at first and then tightening as she finds her grip, stroking you from base to tip with long, lazy pulls. The lube from before is still slick on your skin and her palm glides effortlessly, her thumb pressing into the underside on every upstroke, finding that sensitive ridge and dragging across it. She's in no rush. She watches her own hand working you, studying the way your cock responds to each variation of pressure, cataloguing what makes your stomach clench and what makes your breath stutter, and there's something almost clinical about the attention she's paying.
"You're so hard," she murmurs, squeezing gently and watching a bead of precum well up at the tip. "This is all for me. All of this." She swipes her thumb through the slick drop and spreads it around the head in a slow circle. "I barely touched you and you're already leaking. That's really flattering, you know."
Then she leans in and replaces her thumb with her tongue. She starts at the base, pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside of your shaft, and drags it all the way up in one long, wet, unhurried stroke. When she reaches the head she circles it once with the tip of her tongue and then goes back down and does it again, licking you root to tip, coating you in warm saliva, tracing the veins and the ridges. She licks up one side and down the other, her tongue traveling the full length of you over and over, and by the time she's done your cock is glistening and twitching and her lips are shiny and swollen.
"You taste good," she says, looking up at you from between your legs with those dark eyes. "Clean. A little salty. I could do this for a while."
She opens her mouth and takes you in. The head first, her lips stretching around you, and then she sinks lower, letting you slide across her tongue and into the tight wet heat of her throat. She goes slow, agonizingly slow, taking more of you with each bob, her cheeks hollowing as she applies suction, her tongue working the underside in constant motion. She pulls back until just the tip sits between her lips, sucks firmly, and then descends again, deeper this time, and you feel the back of her throat and the flutter of her swallowing around you.
"Fuck, Jenna," you breathe, your hand finding the back of her head, fingers threading into her dark hair.
She hums around you, pleased, and the vibration travels straight through your cock and into your spine. She settles into a rhythm, bobbing on you with a slow, savoring pace, and it's clear she's enjoying this as much as you are. She pulls off after a while and dips lower, her tongue tracing down past the base of your shaft to your balls. She takes one into her mouth, gentle, rolling it on her tongue while her hand keeps stroking you, and the dual sensation makes your hips jerk off the mattress.
"Stay still," she tells you, releasing you with a wet sound and moving to the other one, sucking it softly into her mouth while her fist pumps your slick cock. "I'm working here. Let me concentrate."
She lavishes attention on your balls until they're wet and tight, then licks her way back up your shaft and swallows you again, picking up speed now, her head bobbing faster, spit dripping down your length and pooling at the base. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy, and she doesn't try to be delicate about it. She's messy and thorough and she keeps her eyes on yours while she works, watching you unravel with visible satisfaction.
The first edge builds like a wave you don't see coming until it's already cresting. Your thighs go rigid and your abs clench and your hand tightens in her hair and you're right there, right at the precipice, your cock pulsing in her mouth, and she feels it. She feels the telltale throb against her tongue and she pulls off immediately, her hand releasing you, leaving you straining and twitching in the open air with your orgasm dissolving just before it breaks.
"Not yet," she says, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, grinning up at you while you groan and grip the sheets. "Patience. You taught me that, remember? On the table? You made me wait forever. This is educational."
"You're a nightmare," you manage, your chest heaving.
"I'm a delight and you know it." She waits, watching your cock throb and settle, and when she's satisfied that you've pulled back from the edge enough she dips her head and takes you in her mouth again.
The second round is worse. Or better, depending on perspective. She's learned exactly what gets you close now and she exploits it mercilessly, alternating between slow deep strokes that push you toward the back of her throat and quick focused suction on the head, her tongue flicking across the sensitive spot just below the tip. She drops down to your balls again when she feels you getting too close, lapping at them while she lets your cock cool down for a few seconds, and then she's right back on you, swallowing you deep and moaning around your length like the taste of you is the best thing she's ever had in her mouth. Her free hand comes up to cup your balls, rolling them gently while she sucks you, and the added stimulation pushes you toward the edge at alarming speed.
"Jenna," you warn her, your hand gripping her hair. "I'm going to come if you keep doing that."
She doesn't stop. Not immediately. She takes you all the way to the base, her nose pressing against your stomach, and holds you there in her throat for a long moment, swallowing around you, and your vision whites out at the edges. Then, at the absolute last possible second, she pulls off and squeezes the base of your cock firmly, cutting it off, and you feel the orgasm shatter and recede without ever fully arriving.
"Oh my god," you groan, throwing an arm over your face. "You're killing me. You're actually going to kill me."
"Don't come yet," she says, her breathing heavy, her lips puffy and wet and utterly ruined. She releases your cock and crawls up your body, her small frame sliding along yours, skin against skin, until she's lying on top of you with her face above your face. "I have plans for all your cum. Every single drop. So you don't get to waste it in my mouth. Not tonight."
She leans down and kisses you, and you can taste yourself on her tongue, salty and warm. You kiss her back hard, your hands coming up to grip her waist, and when you break apart she's breathing fast and her pupils are blown wide in the dim light.
You put your hand on her neck, just holding, your fingers spanning the slender column of her throat, and you use that grip to guide her off of you and onto the mattress, rolling her beneath you in one smooth motion. She goes willingly, her dark hair fanning out across the white pillow, her legs falling open as you settle between them. You reach down between your bodies and take your cock in hand, guiding it down until the swollen head presses against her folds. She's soaking wet already, you can feel the heat and the slickness of her against your tip, and you drag yourself through it, parting her lips with the head of your cock and sliding up to nudge her clit before pulling back down to her entrance.
"Is this where you want it?" you ask, pressing forward just enough that the head catches at her opening. "Right here? You want me to fill this pretty little pussy up?"
"Yes, daddy," she whispers, her hips tilting up toward you, trying to take you in. "Put it all inside me. Every drop."
"You sure about that?" You push forward another fraction of an inch, just barely stretching her entrance, holding there. "Because once I start I'm not pulling out."
"I'm sure," she says, her hands gripping your shoulders, her nails biting in. "I'm on the pill. I want to feel you come inside me. I've been thinking about it since last time. Please. I need it."
You press forward, and the tight wet heat of her begins to swallow the head of your cock, her body opening for you inch by slow inch.
You bottom out inside her and hold there, buried to the hilt, feeling her tight wet walls grip every inch of you. She exhales beneath you, long and shaky, her body adjusting to the fullness of you, and you give her a moment before you start to move. The first stroke is slow, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in deep, and she gasps, her nails pressing into your shoulders. You set an unhurried pace, long and thorough, each thrust filling her completely before withdrawing again, and you can feel how soaked she is, how easily you glide in and out of her, the obscene slick sound of it filling the quiet bedroom with every stroke.
"Put your hand back on my neck," she breathes, looking up at you through heavy lids. "Please. Like before."
You bring your hand up and wrap it around her throat, your fingers settling against the warm skin, and you apply just enough pressure that she can feel it without it restricting anything. Her eyes flutter and her lips part and she melts deeper into the pillow beneath her.
"Like that?" you ask, your hips still rolling into her at that same slow, punishing pace.
"Yes, daddy," she whispers, her hand coming up to rest on your wrist, not pulling you away, just holding on. "Just like that. Don't let go."
You tighten your grip the slightest fraction and thrust into her deep, holding yourself there while she squirms on your cock. "You had your fun earlier. Edging me with your mouth. Bringing me right to the edge and pulling me back. Watching me suffer." You pull back and slide into her again, slow and deep, and she whimpers. "Now it's my turn. I'm going to take what I want from you. And you're going to give it to me."
"Yes," she breathes, her hips rising to meet you. "Take whatever you want. I'm yours tonight. Use me, daddy. However you want. I'm right here."
You start building the pace. Not all at once but gradually, each thrust coming a little faster and a little harder than the one before, your hand still on her throat and your eyes locked on hers. She holds your gaze, those big dark eyes glazed with pleasure and something raw and trusting underneath it, and her mouth hangs open as the increasing rhythm starts to drive louder sounds out of her. You lean down over her, changing the angle so your cock drags along the front wall of her on every stroke, and you kiss her. Not gentle. You press your mouth to hers and push your tongue between her lips and she opens for you eagerly, moaning into your mouth, and you suck on her tongue, pulling it into your mouth and sucking hard before releasing it and diving back in. She kisses you back with equal ferocity, sloppy and breathless between the jolts of your hips driving into her, her teeth catching your lip, her tongue chasing yours.
Her legs come up and wrap around your waist, her ankles locking together at the small of your back, and the new angle pulls you deeper inside her. She gasps against your mouth and her thighs squeeze you, holding you close, and now every thrust grinds your pelvis against her clit and buries you as deep as her body will allow. She breaks the kiss to throw her head back, her throat pressing into your palm, and her fingers rake down your back harder.
"Oh god," she pants, her legs tightening around you. "Oh god, you're so deep. I can feel you everywhere. You're reaching places nobody's ever reached."
You pick up the pace again, fucking into her with steady, powerful strokes, and she starts to unravel beneath you. Then Jenna looks up at you with those wet eyes and her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips and she starts talking, and the filth that pours out of her pretty mouth makes your cock throb inside her.
"Breed me," she gasps, her hips bucking up to meet every thrust. "I want you to breed this little pussy. I want to feel you come so deep inside me. Fill me up, daddy. I want every single drop. I want to be dripping with it. I want my pussy so full of your cum it's leaking out of me."
"Yeah?" you grunt, snapping your hips harder, the bed creaking beneath you. "You want me to cream this tight little cunt? You want me to pump you full?"
"Yes, please, oh fuck, please," she begs, her nails digging into your back, her body jolting with each impact. "Make my pussy all creamy inside. I want to feel it, I want it so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about your cock filling me up and leaving me stuffed and dripping."
You release her throat and plant both hands on either side of her head, caging her beneath you, and you give her everything you have. Your hips piston into her relentlessly, the wet smack of your body against hers echoing off the bedroom walls, and she takes every stroke, her small frame absorbing the force of you, her tits bouncing with each impact. You can feel the sweat building between your bodies, can feel the heat of her skin pressed against yours, and her pussy is clenching around you tighter with every thrust, gripping you, pulling you deeper, refusing to let you go.
"Give it to me," she pleads, her legs locked around you so tight you couldn't pull out even if you wanted to. "Give it all to me. Come inside this little pussy. Please daddy, fill me up, I need it so bad!”
The orgasm builds from somewhere deep in your core, a pressure that's been accumulating all night through every edge and every denial, and it rises through you now unstoppable and enormous. Your thrusts go erratic, slamming into her with no rhythm left, just raw desperate need, and you bury yourself to the hilt and hold there as it hits you. You come harder than you've ever come in your life. The first pulse shoots deep inside her and your whole body locks up, your cock throbbing and pumping, flooding her with thick hot ropes of cum, filling her so completely you can feel the warmth of it around your own shaft. It keeps going, wave after wave, your balls emptying into her tight little pussy, and she feels every single pulse of it.
"Oh my god, I can feel it," she cries out beneath you, her eyes going wide, her walls clamping down on your cock. "I can feel you coming inside me, it's so warm, oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm cumming too, I'm cumming."
Her orgasm crashes into her at the same moment, triggered by the sensation of you flooding her, and she shatters around your cock, her pussy convulsing in hard rhythmic squeezes that milk every last drop out of you. Her back arches off the mattress and her legs clamp around you and her whole body trembles violently, the two of you locked together, coming together, your cock buried deep and pulsing inside the tight fluttering grip of her. You feel her cum mix with yours, feel the wet heat of it, and the clenching of her walls draws out your orgasm until you're shuddering and spent and completely emptied into her.
You collapse onto her, catching yourself on your forearms at the last second so you don't crush her, your face buried in her neck, both of you gasping and shaking and slick with sweat. You can feel your cock still twitching inside her, the last weak pulses, and her pussy still fluttering around you in aftershocks.
"Don't pull out," she whispers immediately, her arms wrapping around your back, holding you against her. "Stay inside me. Just a little longer. I want to feel you in me."
You obey. You stay buried in her, softening slowly inside the warm wet mess you made of her, and she sighs beneath you, a sound of total and complete satisfaction. Her fingers trace lazy patterns across your shoulder blades and her breathing gradually evens out, her heartbeat slowing against your chest.
"That was really intense," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Like, genuinely. I felt that in my soul. We came at the same time. I've never done that before. I didn't think that actually happened outside of movies."
"First time for me too," you say, lifting your head to look at her. "That's never happened before."
"Really?" She searches your face, and whatever she finds there makes her smile. "So we lost our simultaneous orgasm virginity to each other. That's kind of special."
"Kind of special," you agree.
For a moment, she says nothing. Her thumb traces your jaw while she looks at you, her gaze carrying a softness that feels entirely new. "Stay tonight," she says. "Sleep here. With me. In this bed."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She pushes a strand of damp hair off your forehead. "And in the morning we can have morning sex. Slow and lazy, the kind where you're both still half asleep. And then maybe I'll even make you breakfast. I can do eggs. They're not great, but they're edible."
"Wow." A grin spreads across your face. "Morning sex and mediocre eggs? That's a really hard invitation to turn down.”
"I know it is," she says, her own grin matching yours. "I made it impossible on purpose. I'm very strategic."
"Then I'm in," you tell her.
She lifts both hands to your face and gently draws you down to her. Her lips meet yours in a slow, lingering kiss, carrying traces of the night. You melt into it, tangled together in the soft white sheets, letting the kiss linger longer than either of you intended.
—
Jenna has a way of slipping into your life without warning. No grand entrance, no announcement. Just a text at nine in the morning while you're preparing for your first client, or a photo of her breakfast, while you send back a photo of your massage table and she replies that seeing it gives her flashbacks and she needs to lie down. This goes on. Throughout the day, between clients, during her meetings or her fittings or whatever it is she's doing on any given Wednesday, your phone buzzes and it's her. Never anything heavy. Never anything that demands a response right this second. Just the steady, easy presence of someone who's thinking about you and isn't trying to hide it.
You see her again three days after that first night. She picks a ramen place this time, somewhere loud enough that nobody pays attention to anyone else, and you sit across from her in a corner booth slurping noodles and talking about nothing in particular.
You end up back at her place. The sex is good, but what strikes you is how different it feels from the first time. Nobody's trying to impress anyone anymore. Nobody's keeping score. You don't even make it to the bedroom. She ends up riding you on the couch, and at one point she has to stop because she's laughing too hard at the cushion constantly sliding off the frame. You're holding onto her with one hand and trying to keep the couch together with the other. Afterward, she stays curled up on top of you while the TV runs in the background. Neither of you could tell anyone what was on. Her fingers drift lazily over your collarbone, and for a while neither of you says anything at all. The quiet feels nice.
You sleep at her place that night. And the next time you see her. And the time after that. It becomes the default, somehow, without either of you formally establishing it. Her bed is bigger than yours and her sheets are nicer and she has a fancy espresso machine that you figure out how to use by the third morning, which earns you a standing ovation from her while she sits on the kitchen counter in your t-shirt with her hair going in six directions.
She starts sleeping at your apartment too, occasionally. The first time, she looks around your place with genuine curiosity, picking things up and examining them, asking questions about the framed photo on your shelf and the stack of books on your nightstand. Your bed is smaller and your neighborhood is louder and she tells you she loves it, that it feels lived in, that her house sometimes feels like a showroom designed by someone who's never actually inhabited a space. She curls up on your side of the bed and steals both pillows and falls asleep before you've even finished brushing your teeth.
Between these nights, in the ordinary hours, you learn things about her. Not the things you could read in any magazine profile, not the filmography facts or the career milestones, but the small private details that only proximity reveals. She's particular about her morning routine in a way that borders on ritualistic, always in the same order, face wash then moisturizer then sunscreen, and she does it with a focus that suggests the world might end if she skips a step. She gets anxious before phone calls with her manager and paces the kitchen while she talks, opening and closing the fridge repeatedly without ever taking anything out. She watches horror movies the way other people watch nature documentaries, analytically, pausing to comment on the practical effects or the score choices, pointing out where the scare was telegraphed and where it actually landed. She's terrified of moths for reasons she refuses to explain. She can quote entire scenes from films you've never heard of.
She learns about you too. That you played soccer in college but blew out your knee sophomore year, which is how you ended up in physical therapy and eventually massage. That your parents are divorced and you're closer to your mother. That you read before bed every night without exception and if you skip it you can't fall asleep. That you're genuinely uninterested in social media and your Instagram exists purely because the spa required it. That you cook well but only three things, and you rotate between them with no shame. She absorbs all of it quietly, storing it away, and you notice her remembering details you mentioned once in passing, bringing them up days later in a way that tells you she was actually listening.
The conversations always have that same easy quality. Nothing forced. She's funnier in private than she probably is in any interview, quicker and meaner and more willing to be the butt of her own joke. She never tries to impress you with stories about her career and you never ask. When work comes up it's casual, the same way you'd mention a difficult client or a long day. She talks about a fitting that ran three hours and made her want to scream. You talk about a deep tissue session that left your hands aching. These things sit side by side, equal and unremarkable, and that seems to be exactly how both of you prefer it.
One night, maybe two and a half weeks in, she asks you about the three other clients. Not with jealousy. With curiosity. She's lying next to you in her bed, on her stomach, chin propped on her folded arms, and she asks what happened with them and why you never went back. You tell her the truth. That they were nice enough but there was nothing beyond the physical. That repeating it would have been complicated and ultimately pointless. That none of them made you want to break the rule.
She falls silent for a second before saying, "And I did.”
"You did," you confirm.
She smiles into her arms and doesn't say anything else about it, but you feel her foot slide over to touch yours under the covers and stay there.
By the third week, you stop counting. You stop tracking the timeline in your head, stop noting which night is the fourth or fifth or sixth, because the numbers stop mattering. She is simply present. A fixture. The girl whose toothbrush is in your bathroom and whose hair ties are on your nightstand and whose sleepy morning texts arrive before your alarm goes off. The girl who argues with you about what to order for dinner and always wins.
It's a Saturday evening, or maybe a Friday, and you're on her couch. Some movie is playing on the screen across the room, something she picked, and the lights are low and the remnants of takeout containers sit on the coffee table. She started the movie sitting next to you, her legs tucked underneath her, but over the course of the first act she migrated, shifting and resettling, and now her head is in your lap, her body stretched along the length of the couch, her dark hair fanning across your thigh. She's watching the screen with half-focused attention, occasionally murmuring commentary about the cinematography or the lead actor's choices, and your hand is in her hair. Not doing anything particular. Just stroking, your fingers combing through the dark strands, moving from her temple back over her ear and down to the ends and then starting again. She leans into the contact the way a cat does, tilting her head subtly to follow the path of your fingers, and every now and then her eyes close for a few seconds before she opens them again to keep watching.
"That shot was gorgeous," she murmurs at one point, not looking up at you. "The framing. The way they held the wide angle. Most directors would've cut to the close-up way too early."
"Mm," you say, your fingers working a gentle path through her hair.
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you."
"Not even a little bit."
Jenna laughs softly, then she reaches up and finds your free hand and laces her fingers through yours, bringing your joined hands to rest against her chest. She holds them there, your knuckles against her sternum, then she turns her attention back to the screen, and it hits you all at once how completely this moment exists outside anything you ever planned for.
—
She shows up at your door on a Monday afternoon. No text beforehand, no warning, just a knock, and when you open it she's standing there in a plaid skirt and an oversized cream sweater that swallows her frame, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. She looks like she's on her way somewhere. You know immediately that something is off because she doesn't greet you with a joke or a kiss or a complaint about traffic. She just says hi and walks past you into the apartment.
She sits on the arm of your couch instead of the cushion. Not relaxed. Perched. Like she might need to leave quickly. You close the door and lean against the kitchen counter across from her, giving her room, and you wait.
"So," she says, picking at a thread on her sweater sleeve. "I got the part. That project I've been talking about. They confirmed it yesterday."
"That's great," you say. "Congratulations. That's the one you really wanted."
"It is. Thank you." She's looking at the floor between you. "Filming starts in twelve days. In London."
"London."
"Yeah." She finally looks up at you. "I'll be gone about six months. Maybe longer depending on reshoots, but the core shoot is six months."
Six months. You turn the number over in your head, automatically calculating where that puts you. Sometime next year.
"Wow," you say. "That's a long time. That's like, a really significant stretch."
"I know." She pulls at the thread harder. "I know it is."
"You could've sent a message, you know. You didn't have to come all the way across town for this."
"No, I wanted to tell you in person. The flight is in six hours. I've got a car picking me up at four. I just, I didn't want to text you something like this. It felt wrong."
"Okay. So this is serious business, huh."
She gives a nervous little laugh. "Yeah. I mean." She pauses, runs her hand over her face, and exhales. "It kind of feels like things between us have gotten a little out of control. Don't you think? Like, we started this as one thing and now it's, I don't know. It's something else. And I'm about to leave for half a year and I feel like we should probably talk about that."
You push off the counter and move to the couch, sitting down on the actual cushion beside where she's perched on the arm. You look up at her. "Okay. I think it's time we're honest about what's going on between us."
"Agreed," she says. "One hundred percent. Let's do that."
Silence. She looks at you. You look at her.
"You start," she says.
"Why me?"
"Because you're the good guy," she says, gesturing at you with both hands as if this is self-evident. "This is the part of the movie where the good guy declares his feelings for the good girl. You give the speech. I react emotionally. It's a classic structure. I've done this scene a dozen times."
"I'm not sure that's entirely accurate," you say. "And you're not exactly the good girl in this scenario. Let's be real."
"Rude. But fair. Go ahead. Tell me."
You lean back into the couch and take a breath. "Okay. In the last few weeks, things between us have gotten pretty intense. And I know we both felt that happening and neither of us said anything about it because it was easier to just keep going and not put a label on it. But it went past casual a while ago. We both know that. And I don't mind. I'm not scared of it. I've actually been enjoying it, a lot. Waking up next to you these past couple of weeks has been, honestly… it's been amazing. You're amazing. And six months without that is going to suck. I'm going to miss you."
She's quiet through the whole thing, her eyes on yours, and you watch the tension in her shoulders gradually release as you talk. When you finish she nods slowly, pressing her lips together, and you can see her processing.
"Okay," she says softly. "Yeah. I feel the same way. About all of it." She slides off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion next to you, tucking one leg underneath herself. "And I think that's been kind of obvious, right? Like, embarrassingly obvious. I was sleeping at your apartment four nights a week. I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I reorganized your spice cabinet last Thursday and you didn't even comment on it. We were both just playing at being naive and pretending this was still casual when it clearly stopped being casual somewhere around the third week."
"Probably earlier than that," you admit.
"Probably." She exhales and stares at her hands in her lap. "And now I'm leaving and we don't have time to figure out what this actually is. That's the part that's messing with my head. We were in the middle of something and now there's going to be this huge gap right when it was getting real." She looks at you, and there's genuine worry beneath the composure. "Do you think it's too late? For us to figure this out?"
"I think maybe we need to admit what this is. What it already is. And then see if the feeling survives six months of distance. Because if it does, if we both still feel this way on the other side of it, then it's worth investing in for real. All the way."
"I'll text you every day," she says. "I mean it. Every single day. You'll be sick of me by month two."
"I'll hold you to that. Every day. No exceptions."
"No exceptions." She nods firmly, more to herself than to you, and then she leans over and kisses you. Her hand coming up to rest against your cheek, her lips pressing to yours gently, and you can feel the emotion packed into it, all the things she didn't quite say out loud folded into the contact of her mouth against yours. You kiss her back and she pulls away, but she doesn't stand up. She doesn't move toward the door. She stays right there on the cushion next to you, her knee touching your thigh, her fingers still resting against the side of your face.
"We still have a few hours," she says quietly. "I don't want to spend them being sad about leaving."
"A farewell fuck," you say, and you watch the corner of her mouth twitch. "That sounds totally like us."
"It sounds exactly like us," she agrees, and then she's kissing you again, harder this time, her hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you into her. You wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her deep, your tongue meeting hers, and without breaking the kiss you pull her toward you and she follows, climbing into your lap with ease, her skirt riding up her thighs as she straddles you on the couch. Your hands settle on her hips and her fingers thread into your hair and the kiss gets wetter, needier, the kind of kiss that knows it has to last for six months.
She breaks away to breathe, her forehead against yours, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks at you for a long second. Then she takes your face in both hands, tips your chin up, and spits into your open mouth.
You swallow it. Blink. Look at her.
"That one's new," you say.
"Improvised," she says, completely unapologetic, that bratty little spark back in her dark eyes. "Felt right in the moment. Went with it."
"You actors really are good at improvising," you say, licking your lips. "Fully committed to the choice. Very bold."
"Thank you. I trained extensively." She shifts in your lap, settling her weight, and she goes still as she feels the hard length of you pressing against the inside of her thigh through your pants. Her eyebrows lift and she rolls her hips once, slowly, grinding against you, confirming what she felt.
"Okay," she murmurs, rocking against you again, feeling you twitch beneath her. "Enough with the improv. I think it's time I follow the script." She reaches between your bodies and presses her palm flat against the bulge straining against your zipper, squeezing gently. "And we both know exactly how this scene goes.”
You reach between your bodies and fumble with your zipper, lifting your hips off the couch enough to shove your pants and boxers down your thighs in one motion, Jenna rising up on her knees to give you room without climbing off your lap. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed, and she looks down between them at it with that hungry little expression you've come to know well. She reaches down and pulls the crotch of her panties to one side, holding the fabric taut against her inner thigh with two fingers, and with her other hand she gathers her skirt up around her waist, bunching the plaid fabric so nothing is in the way.
You take yourself in hand and angle upward, pressing the swollen head against her slick folds, and she's already wet, and you drag the tip through the warm mess of her, parting her, finding her entrance. She braces one hand on your shoulder and starts to lower herself. Her thighs flexing on either side of yours as she takes you in bit by bit, her tight cunt stretching to accommodate you, her breath going shallow. You watch her face as she sinks, watch the way her brow creases and her lips fall open and her eyelids flutter, and then she bottoms out with her full weight in your lap and your cock buried completely inside her, and she exhales long and unsteady.
"There," she breathes, settling, adjusting, her inner walls squeezing around you in a slow pulse. "God... Every time. Every single time it feels like the first time."
She starts to move. Lifting herself with her thighs and dropping back down, finding a rhythm that's slow and grinding, her hips rolling in small circles every time she takes you to the base. Her hand stays fisted in her skirt, holding it out of the way, and you can see everything, your cock disappearing into her, the way her pussy stretches around your girth, the shine of her arousal coating your shaft as she rises and falls. She keeps the pace unhurried, savoring it, and you realize she's memorizing this. Banking the sensation for the months ahead.
You pull her face to yours and kiss her, catching her mouth mid-rise, and she moans softly against your lips as she sinks back down. You kiss her deep and slow, matching the pace of her hips, your tongues sliding together while she rides, and she tastes warm and familiar and a little desperate. She breaks away to pant, her forehead pressing against yours.
"I'm going to think about this every night I'm away," she murmurs, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, her pussy gripping you on every stroke. "In some hotel room in London, alone in bed, I'm going to think about your cock inside me and touch myself and it's not going to be enough."
"Then make this one count," you tell her, your hands finding her waist through the bulky sweater. "Take what you need."
"I plan to." She rolls her hips in a tight circle and you feel your cock stir inside her, nudging deeper at a different angle, and her breath catches. "I plan to take everything I can get in the next few hours."
You tug at the hem of her sweater, pulling it upward, and she releases her skirt long enough to raise her arms so you can peel it off over her head. It goes somewhere behind the couch. Underneath she's wearing a simple black bra, nothing fancy, the kind of thing she threw on this morning without thinking, her skin is warm and flushed beneath your palms as you run your hands up her bare sides. She's still riding you, never stopped, her rhythm continuous and steady, and the absence of the sweater lets you feel the heat of her body against yours, the slight dampness building between your chests.
"Get this off too," you say, your fingers finding the clasp at her back.
She reaches behind herself and unhooks it with one hand and shrugs the straps off her shoulders. The bra falls away and her small breasts are bare, nipples already stiff, and you fill your hands with them immediately. You cup both in your palms and squeeze, feeling the soft give of them, your thumbs finding her nipples and pressing, rolling them between your fingers while she rides your cock. Her back arches into your touch and a low sound escapes her throat, needy and pleased.
"You love my tits," she says, watching you touch her, her hips still working steadily. "Every time. The second they're out, your hands are on them."
"Can you blame me," you say, pinching lightly, tugging, and she gasps and grinds down harder on you. You squeeze them together and run your thumbs across both nipples simultaneously, and her pace falters for just a second before she recovers.
"Fuck," she pants, planting both hands on your chest now and leaning into you, using the leverage to ride you faster. The angle shifts and your cock hits deeper and she makes a choked sound that she tries to swallow. "Your hands… I swear. Even now. Even when you're just sitting there and I'm doing all the work, your hands make me insane."
"That's literally my profession," you remind her, rolling her nipples between your thumbs and forefingers. "Hands are my whole thing."
"Shut up and keep touching me." She bounces on you harder, her thighs flexing, her ass slapping against your lap on every downstroke, and you keep your hands on her breasts, kneading and squeezing and teasing her nipples while she fucks herself on your cock. Her skirt is bunched around her waist, her panties still pulled to the side, and the visual of her half-dressed and riding you, tits in your hands and her face twisted in pleasure, is something you want burned into your memory for the next six months.
"You feel incredible," you tell her, squeezing her breasts harder. "Your tight little cunt. The way you ride. I'm going to think about this too. Every single day you're gone."
"Good," she gasps, her nails digging into your chest. "I want you thinking about me. I want you unable to function. I want your cock hard in the middle of a massage because you thought about me for half a second."
"That's going to cause problems at work."
"I don't care." She slams down on you and grinds, rotating her hips with you buried to the hilt, and you feel every inch of her tight wet heat clenching around you. "I want to ruin you for six months. I want you counting the days until you can have me again."
She leans forward and kisses you, her breasts pressing against your chest, your hands sliding from her tits around to her back, holding her against you while her tongue pushes into your mouth. She rides you through the kiss, shorter strokes now, keeping you deep, her clit grinding against your pelvis on every roll. You kiss her until neither of you can breathe, until spit is smeared across both your chins and her lipstick is on your mouth and your lungs are burning.
You kiss her again, one more time, hard and brief, and then you grip her hips and lift. She gasps as your cock slides out of her, the sudden emptiness making her whimper, and you guide her off your lap and turn her around. She reads your intention immediately, planting her knees on the couch cushion and bracing her hands on the armrest, her back arching, her skirt still rucked up around her waist and her panties still pulled crookedly to the side. She looks back at you over her shoulder, hair falling across her face, and spreads her knees wider on the cushion.
"There she is," you murmur, getting up on your knees behind her, one hand on her hip and the other guiding your slick cock back to her entrance.
"Come on," she says, pushing her ass back toward you. "We don't have all day. Put it back in me.”
You sink into her to the hilt in one long steady stroke, her pussy so slick and swollen from the edging that you meet almost no resistance, just tight wet heat swallowing you whole. She groans into the armrest, her fingers clawing at the fabric, and you grip both cheeks of her ass, spreading them, watching your cock disappear between her flushed pink lips. You pull back slowly and push in again, setting an easy rhythm. Her cunt is so wet that every thrust produces a thick squeaking noise, that unmistakable sound of a pussy that's been thoroughly worked over, drenched and puffy and desperate to be fucked. Each time you pull back there's a slick sucking quality to it, her walls clinging to your shaft, reluctant to let you withdraw, and each time you push back in there's that soft squelching that gets louder as you build speed.
"Listen to that," you say, squeezing her ass, pulling her cheeks apart so you can watch yourself sliding in and out of her glistening cunt. "Listen to how wet you are."
"It is a mess," she agrees breathlessly, her back arching deeper. "My pussy is a total mess for you. Fuck, I can feel it running down my thighs."
You thrust into her harder and the wet sound intensifies, and you can see it now, the white cream starting to build at the base of your cock, that telltale frothy ring forming where her body meets yours. Every stroke churns it, pulling it out along your shaft in thick milky strings that coat you and smear across her swollen lips. Her pussy is getting creamier with every passing minute, her arousal whipped into something visible and filthy by the steady pistoning of your cock.
"Look at you," you murmur, watching the cream gather and spread. "Getting all creamy on my cock. Making a mess all over yourself."
"I can't help it," she whines, pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. "My body's been ready to come since I sat on your lap and now it's just leaking everywhere. You did this to me."
You pick up the pace, your hips snapping forward with more force, and she starts throwing her ass back to meet you, matching your rhythm thrust for thrust. The collision of your bodies fills the room alongside the wet sticky sounds of her cunt taking your cock, and her ass ripples with each impact against your hips. You watch the way her small frame absorbs every stroke, the way her spine flexes and her shoulders tense and release, and you can see the cream coating your shaft thicker now, visible even in the dim afternoon light filtering through the apartment windows.
You reach forward and gather her hair in your fist, wrapping the dark strands around your hand once, twice, and you pull. Not violently. Firm and steady, enough to arch her neck back and lift her face off the armrest, and she gasps, her scalp tingling, her back bowing into an extreme curve that changes the angle of your cock inside her.
"Oh god," she chokes out, her hands bracing against the armrest now that her head is pulled back. "Pull my hair and fuck me. Just like that. Make it count. I want to feel this for weeks. I want to be in London with a sore pussy thinking about you."
"You will be," you tell her, tightening your grip in her hair and driving into her harder. "Every time you sit down on set you're going to feel where I've been. Every time you cross your legs in a meeting you're going to remember what my cock feels like splitting you open."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I will. I'm going to think about your cock every single day. I'm going to touch myself in my hotel room and pretend it's you and it's never going to be enough."
You fuck her with her hair wrapped in your fist, pulling her head back just enough to keep that arch in her spine, your other hand gripping her hip for leverage. The pace is relentless now, steady and powerful, and her pussy is making the most obscene sounds you've ever heard, wet and thick and creamy, her arousal churned into froth by the constant friction. You can feel her tightening around you, her walls starting that familiar rhythmic clenching, and her breathing is climbing in pitch, getting shorter and more ragged with every thrust.
"I'm getting close," she pants, her thighs trembling against the couch cushion. "Oh fuck, I'm getting so close. Your cock is hitting the perfect spot. Every time you thrust I feel it in my whole body. My legs are shaking."
"Come for me," you tell her, releasing her hair and gripping both hips, pulling her back onto your cock with every forward thrust, driving as deep as her body will allow. "Come all over this cock, Jenna. Let me feel that creamy little pussy squeeze me. Give it to me. Everything. Right now."
"Oh god," she cries out, her fingers white-knuckling the armrest, her whole body going rigid. "Oh god, I'm coming, I'm coming, it's happening."
Her orgasm crashes through her in waves. You feel it start deep inside, a vice-like clenching around your shaft, and then it pulses outward through her entire body, her legs shaking violently, her abs contracting, her back seizing into a tight arch. She buries her face in the cushion and screams into it, muffled but raw, and her pussy clamps down on you so hard it's almost difficult to keep thrusting. But you do. You fuck her straight through it, never slowing, maintaining that punishing pace while she convulses around you, and each stroke draws another wave of clenching and another broken sound from deep in her chest. The cream on your cock multiplies, thick and white, pushed out of her with every thrust, coating her lips and dripping onto the couch beneath her.
The orgasm rolls through her in what feels like thirty continuous seconds, her body clenching and releasing and clenching again, and you feel your own release building at the base of your spine, drawn out by the relentless milking pressure of her cunt around your shaft. Your balls tighten and your stomach clenches and the heat gathers low and urgent and you know you're almost there.
You give her three more deep thrusts, each one burying yourself completely, grinding against the deepest part of her, and then you pull out. Your cock slides free of her pussy with a slick wet sound, glistening and coated in thick white cream, and you grip yourself and angle upward. You press the swollen head against the tight little ring of her asshole, still shiny and sensitive from your tongue, and you stroke yourself twice, three times, and you come.
The first thick rope pulses out of you and lands directly on her asshole, hot and white against the pink puckered skin. You groan through it, your hand pumping steadily, and the second and third streaks follow, painting her tight little hole in thick creamy lines that pool and drip. You keep stroking, milking yourself empty, watching your cum gather in the cleft of her ass, coating the rim of her asshole until it's glazed and dripping and obscene. A thick bead of it runs slowly down from her asshole toward her spent pussy, leaving a glistening trail across her perineum.
Jenna moans softly as she feels it, a low satisfied purr, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I can feel it," she murmurs into the cushion, her eyes closed. "Your cum on my ass. It's so warm. It's dripping everywhere."
You milk the last drops out onto her, watching them fall onto the mess you've already made, and then you release yourself and sit back into the corner of the couch, your chest heaving, your cock softening against your thigh, still slick with her cream and your own cum. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes, catching your breath.
Jenna stays face down for a long moment, her body slack and boneless, draped over the couch with her ass still slightly raised, your cum slowly sliding down her skin. Then she melts all the way flat, lowering herself onto her stomach with a contented sigh, her cheek pressed against the cushion, her eyes half open and glazed. Her skirt is still bunched around her waist. Her hair is a disaster. She looks thoroughly, comprehensively ruined.
"That was really good," she says, her breathing still uneven, a lazy smile spreading across her flushed face. "The ass thing. The tongue. All of it. That was a strong farewell performance."
"Had to make it memorable," you say, still catching your breath.
She crawls across the couch toward you, slow and languid, and tucks herself against your side. She tilts her face up and kisses you, soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of salt and warmth, her hand resting on your chest over your heartbeat. When she pulls back she stays close, her nose almost touching yours, those dark eyes searching your face with something tender lurking beneath the post-orgasm haze.
"How many times do you think we can come before I have to leave?" she asks, her thumb tracing idle circles on your chest. "My car is coming at four. That gives us, what, a few more hours?"
You glance at the clock on the wall behind her. You have time. Plenty of it.
"I think we can find out," you say.
Jenna smiles. Not the bratty grin or the teasing smirk or the performative confidence she wears for the rest of the world. Just a real, genuine, warm smile from a girl who's about to leave for six months and wants to spend every remaining minute exactly where she is.
She's on all fours in front of you, her back arched, her knees spread wide on the couch cushion, her panties stretched crookedly to the side and her skirt bunched around her waist like a belt. She's looking back at you over her shoulder, expecting you to slide back inside her, expecting the blunt press of your cock against her entrance, and instead you grip both cheeks of her ass and spread them apart and press your mouth directly against her tight little asshole.
She jolts. Her whole body tenses and her fingers grip the armrest of the couch and her head whips around, her eyes wide with genuine shock.
"Oh," she breathes, and there's a note of real surprise in it, not performance, not bratty posturing, actual unfiltered surprise. "Oh my god. That's, okay, that's new."
You pull back just enough to talk, your thumbs still holding her open, your breath warm against the sensitive puckered skin. "Thought I'd improvise."
She lets out a shaky laugh, her thighs trembling on either side of your hands. "Using my own material against me. Okay. Respect."
You lean back in and lick her. A slow, flat, broad stroke of your tongue from just above her pussy all the way up to the tight ring of muscle, pressing firmly, and you feel her entire body shudder in response. You do it again, slower this time, letting her feel every millimeter of the contact, and she drops her forehead against the armrest and makes a sound that's somewhere between disbelief and surrender.
"Nobody's ever done this to me," she says into the cushion, her fingers clutching the fabric. "Not once. I've thought about it but nobody's ever actually, oh fuck, oh my god."
You seal your lips around her asshole and suck gently, then release and follow it with the pointed tip of your tongue, tracing tight little circles around the rim. The muscle twitches beneath your mouth, reactive and sensitive, and you keep at it, circling and licking and pressing, varying the pressure, listening to the sounds she's making to guide you. She's vocal in a way she hasn't been before, louder and less controlled, the novelty of the sensation stripping away whatever composure she usually maintains.
"That's insane," she pants, her hips pushing back against your face. "That's absolutely insane. How does that feel so good? It shouldn't feel that good. What the fuck."
You push your tongue against the center, pressing firmly, not penetrating but applying steady targeted pressure, and her thighs clench and her spine dips into a deeper arch. You can feel the tension in her glutes under your hands, the way her body is fighting between instinct and unfamiliarity, wanting more but not sure how to ask for it. So you give her more without making her ask. You flatten your tongue and lap at her in long steady strokes, thorough and wet, getting her slick with spit, and then switch back to the pointed tip, flicking rapidly across the sensitive nerve endings.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck," she whimpers, grinding back against your mouth. "You're eating my ass on your couch. This is so filthy. I love it. I love every second of it. Don't you dare stop."
You have no intention of stopping. You grip her cheeks harder, spreading her wider, burying your face between them, your tongue working her asshole with focused relentless attention. You lick and suck and probe, alternating between techniques, keeping her guessing, and her reactions tell you everything. The rapid breathing when you circle the rim. The full body shiver when you press the flat of your tongue against her and hold it there. The whine that escapes her throat when you point your tongue and push just barely inside, just the tip, just enough to feel the tight ring of muscle give the slightest fraction.
"Right there," she gasps, pushing back. "Oh my god, right there, your tongue, I can feel your tongue trying to get inside my ass, that's so dirty, that's the dirtiest thing anyone has ever done to me."
You keep your tongue where it is, pressing rhythmically against that tight entrance, and you bring your right hand down from her cheek and slide it between her thighs from behind. She's drenched. Your fingers find her pussy swollen and slippery, her arousal coating her inner thighs, and you run two fingers through the mess of it, gathering the wetness, before pressing both fingertips against her opening and pushing inside.
She cries out when you enter her, her cunt clenching around your fingers immediately, tight and hot and soaking wet. You sink both fingers in to the second knuckle and curl them forward, finding the spongy spot on the front wall, and you start to fuck her with your hand while your tongue continues its assault on her ass.
"Oh my god," she practically sobs, her arms giving out, her chest dropping to the cushion while her hips stay raised. "Both. You're doing both at the same time. Your tongue in my ass and your fingers in my pussy. I can't handle this. I actually cannot handle this."
You pump your fingers steadily, curling them on every inward stroke, massaging that sensitive spot inside her, and your tongue keeps circling and pressing and lapping at her asshole, and the combination turns her into something you've never quite seen before. She's writhing, her whole body undulating on the couch, her face pressed into the armrest, and the sounds pouring out of her are raw and broken and utterly without pretense.
"Don't stop, daddy," she begs, rolling her hips between your mouth and your hand, fucking herself on your fingers while grinding back against your tongue. "Please don't stop. Your mouth feels so good on my ass. Your fingers feel so good in my pussy. I'm losing my mind. You're making me lose my mind."
You add more pressure with your fingers, pumping faster, the wet sound of them sliding in and out of her filling the room alongside her desperate panting. Your tongue pushes against her asshole with renewed purpose, firm and insistent, and you feel the ring of muscle relaxing incrementally under the sustained attention, opening to you, her body learning to accept this new kind of pleasure. You seal your lips around her and suck while your tongue works the center, and she practically screams into the cushion.
"Daddy, please," she whines, her thighs shaking violently, her pussy gripping your fingers so tight you can barely move them. "Nobody's ever made me feel like this. My whole body is on fire. I can feel it everywhere. Your tongue on my ass is making my pussy throb and your fingers in my pussy are making my ass clench and it's all connected and I'm going crazy."
You can feel her building toward it. The telltale signs you've learned over these weeks together. The rhythmic clenching of her walls around your fingers, getting tighter and faster. The trembling in her thighs moving into her core. The pitch of her breathing climbing higher. Her whole body is coiling, tensing, approaching that edge with increasing speed, and you know she's close.
"Oh god, daddy, something's happening," she gasps, her hips bucking erratically. "Something's building, it's so intense, it's different from before, it's bigger, I think I'm going to come, daddy, I think I'm going to come from you eating my ass, that's so filthy, I'm so close, I'm so close, please don't stop, please."
You stop.
You pull your mouth away from her ass and slide your fingers out of her pussy in one clean motion, leaving her empty and exposed and teetering on the precipice. She lets out a sound of pure anguished frustration, her hips pushing back toward you searching for contact that isn't there anymore, her body clenching around nothing.
"No," you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Not yet. I want you to come with my cock inside you. I want to feel this one around my dick."
She drops her face into the armrest and laughs, breathless and shaky, her whole body still trembling from how close she got. "You're so cruel. You are genuinely the cruelest person I have ever met in my life. You just edged me with your tongue in my ass. That's a war crime."
"You edged me three times the first night we were together," you remind her. "Consider this ongoing retaliation."
She laughs again, shaking her head against the cushion, and then she looks back at you over her shoulder with those glassy dark eyes and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. "Okay. Fine. I accept it. The idea of coming on your cock is better anyway. I want to feel you stretching me when I go over." She bites her bottom lip and pushes her ass back toward you. "But put it in now, daddy. Right now. My pussy is aching. I need you so bad it hurts. Fill me up."
You grip her hip with one hand and take your cock in the other, lining the swollen head up with her dripping entrance, pressing forward until you feel her heat engulf the tip, and you push inside.
You sink into her to the hilt in one long steady stroke, her pussy so slick and swollen from the edging that you meet almost no resistance, just tight wet heat swallowing you whole. She groans into the armrest, her fingers clawing at the fabric, and you grip both cheeks of her ass, spreading them, watching your cock disappear between her flushed pink lips. You pull back slowly and push in again, setting an easy rhythm, and the sound that fills the room is obscene. Her cunt is so wet that every thrust produces a thick squeaking noise, that unmistakable sound of a pussy that's been thoroughly worked over, drenched and puffy and desperate to be fucked. Each time you pull back there's a slick sucking quality to it, her walls clinging to your shaft, reluctant to let you withdraw, and each time you push back in there's that soft squelching that gets louder as you build speed.
"Listen to that," you say, squeezing her ass, pulling her cheeks apart so you can watch yourself sliding in and out of her glistening cunt. "Listen to how wet you are. That's from my mouth on your ass. I ate your little asshole and your pussy turned into a fucking mess."
"It is a mess," she agrees breathlessly, her back arching deeper. "My pussy is a total mess for you. It's been dripping since you put your tongue on me. I can feel it running down my thighs."
You thrust into her harder and the wet sound intensifies, and you can see it now, the white cream starting to build at the base of your cock, that telltale frothy ring forming where her body meets yours. Every stroke churns it, pulling it out along your shaft in thick milky strings that coat you and smear across her swollen lips. Her pussy is getting creamier with every passing minute, her arousal whipped into something visible and filthy by the steady pistoning of your cock.
"Look at you," you murmur, watching the cream gather and spread. "Getting all creamy on my cock. Making a mess all over yourself."
"I can't help it," she whines, pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. "You edged me so hard. My body's been ready to come for the last twenty minutes and now it's just leaking everywhere. You did this to me."
You pick up the pace, your hips snapping forward with more force, and she starts throwing her ass back to meet you, matching your rhythm thrust for thrust. The collision of your bodies fills the room alongside the wet sticky sounds of her cunt taking your cock, and her ass ripples with each impact against your hips. You watch the way her small frame absorbs every stroke, the way her spine flexes and her shoulders tense and release, and you can see the cream coating your shaft thicker now, visible even in the dim afternoon light.
You reach forward and gather her hair in your fist, wrapping the dark strands around your hand once, twice, and you pull. Not violently. Firm and steady, enough to arch her neck back and lift her face off the armrest, and she gasps, her scalp tingling, her back bowing into an extreme curve that changes the angle of your cock inside her.
"Oh god," she chokes out, her hands bracing against the armrest now that her head is pulled back. "Pull my hair and fuck me. Just like that. Make it count. I want to feel this for weeks. I want to be in London with a sore pussy thinking about you."
"You will be," you tell her, tightening your grip in her hair and driving into her harder. "Every time you sit down on set you're going to feel where I've been. Every time you cross your legs in a meeting you're going to remember what my cock feels like splitting you open."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I will. I'm going to think about your cock every single day. I'm going to touch myself in my hotel room and pretend it's you and it's never going to be enough."
You fuck her with her hair wrapped in your fist, pulling her head back just enough to keep that arch in her spine, your other hand gripping her hip for leverage. The pace is relentless now, steady and powerful, and her pussy is making the most obscene sounds you've ever heard, wet and thick and creamy, her arousal churned into froth by the constant friction. You can feel her tightening around you, her walls starting that familiar rhythmic clenching, and her breathing is climbing in pitch, getting shorter and more ragged with every thrust.
"I'm getting close," she pants, her thighs trembling against the couch cushion. "Oh fuck, I'm getting so close. Your cock is hitting the perfect spot. Every time you thrust I feel it in my whole body. My legs are shaking."
"Come for me," you tell her, releasing her hair and gripping both hips, pulling her back onto your cock with every forward thrust, driving as deep as her body will allow. "Come all over this cock, Jenna. Let me feel that creamy little pussy squeeze me. Give it to me. Everything. Right now."
"Oh god," she cries out, her fingers white-knuckling the armrest, her whole body going rigid. "Oh god, I'm cumming, I'm cumming, it's happening."
You feel it start deep inside, a vice-like clenching around your shaft, and then it pulses outward through her entire body, her legs shaking violently, her abs contracting, her back seizing into a tight arch. She buries her face in the cushion and screams into it, muffled but raw, and her pussy clamps down on you so hard it's almost difficult to keep thrusting. But you do. You fuck her straight through it, never slowing, maintaining that punishing pace while she convulses around you, and each stroke draws another wave of clenching and another broken sound from deep in her chest. The cream on your cock multiplies, thick and white, pushed out of her with every thrust, coating her lips and dripping onto the couch beneath her.
The orgasm rolls through her in what feels like thirty continuous seconds, her body clenching and releasing and clenching again, and you feel your own release building at the base of your spine, drawn out by the relentless milking pressure of her cunt around your shaft. Your balls tighten and your stomach clenches and the heat gathers low and urgent and you know you're almost there.
You give her three more deep thrusts, each one burying yourself completely, grinding against the deepest part of her, and then you pull out. Your cock slides free of her pussy with a slick wet sound, glistening and coated in thick white cream, and you grip yourself and angle upward. You press the swollen head against the tight little ring of her asshole and you stroke yourself twice, three times, and then you come.
The first thick rope pulses out of you and lands directly on her asshole, hot and white against the pink puckered skin. You groan through it, your hand pumping steadily, and the second and third streaks follow, painting her tight little hole in thick creamy lines that pool and drip. You keep stroking, milking yourself empty, watching your cum gather in the cleft of her ass, coating the rim of her asshole until it's glazed and dripping. A thick bead of it runs slowly down from her asshole toward her spent pussy, leaving a glistening trail across her perineum.
Jenna moans softly as she feels it, a low satisfied purr, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I can feel it," she murmurs into the cushion, her eyes closed. "Your cum on my ass. It's so warm. It's dripping everywhere."
You milk the last drops out onto her, watching them fall onto the mess you've already made, and then you release yourself and sit back into the corner of the couch, your chest heaving, your cock softening against your thigh, still slick with her cream and your own cum. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes, catching your breath.
Jenna stays face down for a long moment, her body slack and boneless, draped over the couch with her ass still slightly raised, your cum slowly sliding down her skin. Then she melts all the way flat, lowering herself onto her stomach with a contented sigh, her cheek pressed against the cushion, her eyes half open and glazed.
"That was really good," she says, her breathing still uneven, a lazy smile spreading across her flushed face. "The ass thing. All of it. That was a strong farewell performance."
"Had to make it memorable," you say, still catching your breath.
She crawls across the couch toward you, slow and languid, and tucks herself against your side. She tilts her face up and kisses you, tasting faintly of salt and warmth, her hand resting on your chest over your heartbeat. When she pulls back she stays close, her nose almost touching yours, those dark eyes searching your face with something tender lurking beneath the post-orgasm haze.
"How many times do you think we can come before I have to leave?" she asks, her thumb tracing idle circles on your chest. "My car is coming at four. That gives us, what, a few more hours?"
You glance at the clock on the wall behind her. You have time. Plenty of it.
"I think we can find out," you say.
Jenna smiles. Not the bratty grin or the teasing smirk, just a real smile from a girl who’s about to leave for six months and wants to spend every minute she has left exactly where she is.
—
You're brushing your teeth when the apartment finally catches up with you. The silence of it. Not the usual silence of living alone, but the silence of an absence.
Her sneakers aren't by the door anymore. The couch cushion where she was stretched out a few hours ago still holds the faint impression of her body. The whole apartment carries traces of her: a hint of perfume, the lingering aftermath of sex…
You spit, rinse, wipe your mouth, and pad into the bedroom. The sheets are clean because you changed them this morning, before she came over, before everything, and they feel too smooth and too cold when you climb in. You plug your phone into the charger and set it on the nightstand and you're reaching for the lamp when the screen lights up.
A photo. Jenna in an airplane seat, first class, her hair pulled back under a baseball cap, her face bare and a little tired. She's doing a peace sign. Behind her you can see the curve of the cabin wall and the edge of a window showing nothing but dark tarmac.
It's going to be a long flight
You pull the phone off the charger and settle back against your pillow, typing with one thumb.
How long?
Like 11 hours. I'm going to lose my mind
Sounds rough. You should try to rest during the trip. You'll need it when you land
I will. Eventually. I'm too wired right now. My body is still buzzing from earlier.
I'll probably dream about you. Just so you know.
That's actually really romantic. I'll dream about you too
You better. If I find out you dreamed about someone else I'm flying back immediately to fight you
Nobody else worth dreaming about
She doesn't respond right away to that one. Three dots appear and disappear twice before her next message comes through, and you can picture her in that airplane seat, cap pulled low, chewing her lip, trying to figure out how to respond to sincerity the way she always does.
It's going to be a long six months
We'll survive it
You think so?
I know so
How? How do you know?
You stare at the screen for a moment, thinking about what to say. You could send something long, something thoughtful about how the last few weeks have shown that this is real, that it's worth holding onto. But that's never really been how the two of you communicate. You say what matters and leave the rest unsaid. Right now, she doesn't need a speech. She just needs to know.
Because nothing about this has felt temporary. Not once. And I don't think six months changes that
I really like your confidence. It's annoyingly attractive
That's my best trait. Top of the list. Everything else is secondary
Oh please. Your best trait is your hands and we both know it
Fair point. Confidence is second then. Now rest. Seriously. Sleep on the plane. We'll talk when you land
Okay okay. I'm going to sleep. Talk later
Talk later. Bye, Jenna
Bye babe
You stare at that last message. Babe...
Two syllables. Four letters. Dropped into the conversation like it was something she'd been saying for months. But she hasn't. Not once in all the weeks of texts and nights together and mornings tangled in sheets has either of you used a pet name. Not once. She's called you daddy in bed but that's different, that lives in a separate category, and outside of those moments you've both operated in the careful neutral territory of first names and pronouns. Well, it seems that has changed too.
And you like it. You really like it.
Six months. A hundred and eighty days, give or take. She'll be in London, on sets, in costume, surrounded by crews and actors and the entire machinery of her career, and you'll be here, in this apartment, at the spa, running your hands over strangers' backs and checking your phone between clients. The distance will be real and constant and some days it will probably be terrible. You know that. You're not naive about it.
But you're not worried either, and that might be the strangest thing of all. There isn't even a trace of doubt. What started on a massage table in a villa has become woven into the fabric of your days; there in the mornings, there in the evenings, there in the ridiculous smile that appears whenever her name lights up your screen at eleven o'clock at night. It wasn't something either of you performed into existence. It just happened, slowly and naturally, between two people who weren't looking for it but found it anyway.
You close your eyes. Your phone lies untouched on the nightstand. Somewhere over the Atlantic, a girl in a baseball cap is curling up in a first-class seat, falling asleep thousands of miles away. And somehow, you're completely certain that when you wake up, there'll be a message from her.
With that thought, you settle into your pillow and drift off.
Eléa Clementine Jones is a twenty-one-year-old aspiring Hollywood creative with a passion for fashion, music, and everything that happens behind the scenes. After losing her family at the age of nine, she learns to rely only on herself, eventually leaving her small hometown in Georgia for Los Angeles in pursuit of a better future. Quiet, observant, and fiercely hardworking, Eléa has built walls around her heart after years of loss and disappointment. While many mistake her independence for coldness, those who earn her trust discover a loyal, compassionate, and deeply loving soul. Working at Epic Records, her life takes an unexpected turn when she crosses paths with Michael Jackson, setting in motion a journey that will change both of their lives forever.
Before we begin, I wanted to share a few things about this story!
Eléa was intentionally written to be somewhat open-ended so that readers can more easily place themselves in her shoes. Because of that, I won't be giving her any specific physical features such as hair color, eye color, race, or other defining characteristics. I want the focus to be on her personality, experiences, and relationship with Michael rather than her appearance.
I've chosen to start the story with Eléa at twenty-one years old and Michael at nineteen, during one of my favorite eras of his life. The story will begin as Michael is transitioning into adulthood and establishing himself as a solo artist, leading into major milestones such as The Wiz, Off the Wall, and eventually Thriller. Personally, the Off the Wall era has always been my favorite version of Michael, so it felt like the perfect place to begin his journey.
I'm doing my best to keep the timeline and historical events as accurate as possible, but there are a lot of important moments throughout Michael's life and career. If I accidentally miss a performance, award show, tour date, interview, television appearance, or any other significant event, please feel free to let me know in the comments! I would love any tips, corrections, or suggestions from fellow fans.
Thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope you enjoy following Eléa and Michael's journey as much as I enjoy writing it. Also my first ever story so be kind and let me know your thoughts.
Hiii! I love your writing so much, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in writing a Michael Jackson x Reader story set during the Neverland era or another era if you think that would fit better for this idea. The reader is an animal caretaker/zookeeper who looks after all of Michael's animals at Neverland. They don't really know each other at first, but after an emergency involving one of the animals, they finally meet and slowly start spending more time together. If possible, I think a slow-burn friends-to-lovers story with lots of sweet and fluffy moments, cute animal interactions, and emotional bonding would be really good too! I also think some romantic tension as they get closer, with their feelings developing naturally over time would be super interesting! No pressure at all if you can’t! I'd just love to see your take on this idea! Thank you so much if you decide to write it. 🤍
𝑻𝒊𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: Being in charge of the tiger enclosure at the Neverland Ranch was something you never expected when you got your masters in Wildlife Biology. Yet, here you were. Watching over the two sibling tigers, Thriller and Sabu, while still having never met their famous owner.
Content/Warnings: Fluff, Slow-Burn, friends to lovers, yearning, tension
W.C. 6k also since this one is pretty long, it's gonna be the only one I post today, but trust I got a lot more in the works.
Masterlist
When you got your masters in Wildlife Biology, the last place you thought you would end up was at the Neverland Ranch, home to superstar Michael Jackson.
You hadn't even really wanted to go to Neverland. You had been working at a private zoo right after you graduated college, the same zoo that you later found out was the zoo Michael Jackson bought all his exotic animals from. You worked around a lot of different animals, but took a particular liking to the two tiger cubs that had arrived just a month after you started working at the zoo.
It had seemed as though the cubs had chosen you personally as their favorite. Whenever anyone else tried feeding them, or doing routine checkups, they whined and whined until you were brought in. You weren't really sure why, but everyone had joked that you had probably been a tiger in your past life.
You had bonded with them quickly, they grew accustomed to the sound of your steps and the smell of your hand. You spent a lot of time around them, arriving early in the morning to let them out of the inside enclosure, bringing them their breakfast, checking their fur for fleas, giving them big belly rubs, kissing them both goodnight as you went home for the day. They were your little buddies, your two huge oversized kittens.
Just a month after the cubs arrived, your boss called you into his office. Without so much as a warning, he informed you that the cubs had been bought by someone he wouldn't name. He said that the mystery buyer was also looking for someone to look after the cubs, and of course, your boss had recommended you. He said pay would be much higher than what you were receiving now, and you would remain with the small tigers whom you had grown so close to. Despite the mystery of the buyer, you agreed.
That was exactly how you had ended up working at the Neverland Ranch. When you first found out that it was Michael Jackson who had bought the cubs, you thought it was some sort of prank. Of course he had been known to have an affinity for animals, but you hardly thought he would want two baby tigers. You were wrong.
Your typical day took a dramatic shift. Instead of waking up around 6:00 to get to the zoo by 7:00, you now had to wake up around 5:00 to get to the estate by 6:45. Instead of leisurely parking in the zoo lot, you now had security to go through before parking near the back of the estate and walking a good 15 minutes to the animal enclosures. Coffee became your best friend on the early drives to the estate. But it was all worth it when you finally reached their enclosure and saw their cute little faces looking up at you with so much joy.
Everytime you entered the pin, they would run up to you, waiting for you to scoop them up. It was precious, and completely worth the dark circles under your eyes. The one thing that you couldn't seem to wrap your head around was the fact that Michael didn't seem all that interested in meeting you. You had heard that he had personally interviewed all of the other animal keepers before they started, yet you had seemingly just been given the job.
You knew Michael visited them, but somehow within the 6 months you had been working, you had yet to meet him. At least officially. You had seen him walk by a couple times. You had even helped him hold the tigers properly a few times, but the interactions were all minimal, and completely professional.
You figured it would always stay that way, although you couldn't help but feel a little bummed out when Lane, who watched over the giraffe, told you that he and Michael often had lunch together. Apparently, you were the only one who had yet to build a friendship with the popstar.
It wasn't that you had done anything. In fact, Michael had been meaning to have a real conversation with you for a while now. But for a reason unbeknownst to him, every time he planned on visiting you and the tigers, he would suddenly find something else to do, pushing the visit to another day. Michael wasn't sure what it was that made him so nervous about finally getting to know you, maybe it was that it had been so long now that it would be super awkward no matter what, maybe it was something else entirely different. Either way, each time he saw you playing with the growing cubs, he mentally kicked himself for letting the lack of greeting drag on for so long. He silently hoped that by some miraculous miracle, something would force the two of you to finally meet.
Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly a miracle that had caused Thriller to become incredibly sick on your one day off. Michael had finally managed to drag himself to the small zoo, silently hyping himself up. Today he was going to bite the bullet and finally introduce himself properly. Except when he got there, you were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Lane was in the tiger enclosure moving about nervously.
Michael's brows furrowed as he stepped into the enclosure. "What's going on?" He spotted the 7 month old cubs under their small play house. He immediately noticed the sick look on one of them. "Where is Y/n?"
"It's her day off and of course it's the one day that Thriller decided to get sick. I know she keeps a list of typical ailments and what to do in case something happens, but I can't find anything." He frantically flipped through a manilla folder.
Michael knelt down beside Thriller, a gentle hand resting on the cub's head. "Go find the nearest phone and call her. Tell her what's going on and ask her what we need to do."
Lane ran off into the small break room, he returned not even 2 minutes later. "Okay, she's on her way. She said to keep him out of the sun and in an area with air conditioning."
Michael nodded and scooped up the poor baby, bringing him into the break room.
He waited anxiously, holding the cub carefully in his arms. The poor thing looked absolutely miserable, ears down, and tiny tail tucked between his legs.
You were there in no time. When you got the call, you were already headed to the estate. You had a bad feeling when you woke up earlier that morning and decided it wouldn't hurt to go check on the tigers even if it was your day off. You rushed into the break room, breathless from sprinting across the estate. You silently cursed the fact that parking was so far away. Michael stood up immediately, bringing Thriller to you.
You took him carefully. "How long has he been like this?" You placed him gently on the coffee table, squatting down and checking his eyes.
"Around an hour?" Lane answered.
You continued asking questions, trying to determine what the cause was. "When did you feed him? How long did the food sit before they ate? Is Sabu feeling okay? Was he awake when you got there? Has he thrown up at all."
Michael's eyes darted between you and the tiger, watching with anticipation as you ruled out certain things.
You paused when Lane said that it Thriller didn't eat his food right away. "So, Sabu ate his breakfast immediately but Thriller's sat out in the sun for an hour?" You confirmed. He nodded. You looked at the sickly tiger. "Then it's likely he's got salmonella."
Michael looked confused, "But don't big cats eat raw meat all the time?"
You nodded, "Yes, but typically their prey is fresh when they eat it. His sat out in the sun, plus cubs are much more susceptible to contracting it because their immune systems are still developing."
"Will he be okay? Do we need to take him to the vet?"
You shook your head. "No, there's no need for a vet. This is relatively common, and it's honestly best to let it run its course and get out of him naturally. But I'll need to stay close to him for at least 3 or 4 days, just to make sure nothing else happens."
Michael seemed to relax slightly, leaning back against the counter. "Alright, I'll pay you extra."
You shook your head, "There's really no need. It's kinda my job to watch over him anyway, and I'd happily do it for free either way." Thriller nuzzled into your hand as you gently scratched behind his ear.
"You're supposed to be off today."
You shrugged, picking up the small cub and cradling him in your arms. "Yeah, but really I don't mind. Him and his brother are like my babies, I could be across the country and if they were sick I'd find a way to get to them."
Michael smiled slightly. "You've been with them since they were really little, right?"
"Mhm, we got them when they were just 4 weeks old. I've been with them ever since." You smiled down at the small cub who was starting to doze off in your arms.
"So they must really trust you, hm?"
"Well I'd hope so by this point! For the amount of times I've had to clean up after them and bottle feed them, I think I deserve their trust." You joked slightly.
Michael smiled, you wouldn't take your eyes off the now sleeping cub. It was a heartwarming sight to see someone have such care for something so tiny. "Well, judging by the way he immediately dozed off, I think it's safe to say you've earned it."
You finally looked up at him, smiling slightly. "Y'know, I think this is the longest we've spoken and I've been here half a year." You teased slightly, watching as he immediately looked embarrassed.
"Don't remind me. I've been meaning to talk to you for a while now, I swear. Just everytime I try, I sike myself out." He ran a hand down his face.
You laughed lightly, not at him, just at the thought of him being nervous of talking to you. "You do know I only take care of tigers, right? I'm not gonna bite your head off."
He glanced over at you with a smile, "You can never be too sure." The two of you stared at each other before laughing quietly. Michael continued, "I just thought it would be awkward because of how long I had already gone without introducing myself."
You nodded in understanding, "Well, no time like the present." You carefully stuck out a hand towards him, "Hello, I'm Y/n."
He smiled more, reaching out and taking your hand in his. "Nice to finally meet you, I'm Michael."
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You ended up staying the night at the ranch that night, wanting to be close to Thriller just in case there was an emergency. Michael had insisted that you stay in a guest room, but you declined, opting for the break room couch.
Michale spent the day with you, asking random questions about you and the tigers. Conversation flowed nicely, you almost forgot he was a global popstar. He didn't carry himself the way you had thought he might have. He wasn't uptight, or overly snobby. Instead, he was kind, curious, and surprisingly very energetic for a man who was constantly traveling around the world and putting on shows for thousands of people. What surprised you the most was how much he seemed interested in your schooling, and not just your college schooling, he asked you all about highschool. Before either of you knew it, the sky had turned dark and a yawn was fighting its way past your lips.
"I guess I should get you some blankets and let you get some rest." Michael stood up.
"Oh there's no need for blankets, I'll be perfectly fine." You waved a hand, standing up with Thriller still nuzzled in your arms. He had slept essentially the entire day, waking up long enough to do his business before returning to your lap. Michael had Sabu nestled in his arms, the two of you talked quietly as you returned the cubs to their enclosure for the night.
Michael looked at you as you closed the gate behind you, "I'm getting you a blanket, end of story." He crossed his arms.
You laughed, "Alright, fine. But one! I don't need anything else." You smiled to yourself.
"I'll be back." He disappeared from view before you could even turn to watch.
He definitely was not going to bring just one pillow.
Ding ding ding, you were right. Michael returned in a golf cart, the seat beside him and the back seat stacked with way too many pillows and blankets for one person.
You shook your head with a laugh. "Michael, seriously, I don't need all that."
He waltzed past you and into the break room, "Who said it's all for you?"
You eyed him and then the cart, spotting a box with a blowup mattress pictured on the front. You turned to look at him, "You can't be serious."
He smiled, "Oh, dead serious. We're gonna make a fort!" He flashed you a childish smile.
Part of you wanted to object, but to be honest, it did sound really fun. You mulled the idea over for less than a minute before giving in without any real persuasion. "Alright."
He beamed even more. Together, the two of you turned the break room into a fort straight out of a movie. Everything was tied together perfectly, sheets draped over chairs and lamps. An old Charlie Chaplin movie played on the tv, snacks strewn about on the blow up mattress. You and Michael laughed wildly as he told you yet another horror story from one of his concerts.
It felt just like being a kid again, you felt free. You talked about anything and everything, conversation drifting from stories to jokes to stupid facts you had read off the side of cereal boxes.
Michael listened to you, he leaned in when you spoke, hanging onto every word that came from your mouth. He was genuine, the kind that was refreshing. He made you realize how long it had been since you felt actually seen by someone. And Michael felt the same way about you. He appreciated how you genuinely laughed with him, not forcing a laugh because you wanted something from him. He liked that he felt like he didn't have to put on a show for you, you enjoyed him just as he was. Most of all he liked how passionate you were. It showed itself in different ways. He saw passion in the loud moments, and passion in the moments when you got quiet and spoke more thoughtfully.
The night felt easy, nothing felt rushed or slowed down. It was just right. It was natural. It was natural how you talked, how your eyes started growing heavier, and it was natural when you both seemed to agree to go to sleep without even saying anything.
And for the first time in a while, Michael felt sleep wash over him with ease.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The days that followed flowed similarly. You checked on Thriller, spent your time with the cubs, and Michael spent time with you, or at least as much time as his busy schedule allowed.
You enjoyed talking with him, and you especially enjoyed how he interacted with the tigers.
Once Thriller was feeling better, the little cubs chased Michael around the enclosure. The sight was absolutely adorable. The tiny tigers chasing around a global phenomenon, him occasionally letting them catch up only to run faster.
You sat under a tree and watched the scene unfold. He managed to keep their attention for a long time, it was actually quite impressive. But sooner or later they grew tired, both of them flopped to the floor at the same time. Their legs gave out from under them as their tongues stuck out slightly.
You and Michael scooped them up, taking them inside to get water.
"They're super energetic! Do they play with you like that a lot?" He asked you.
"Mhm, but their favorite game to play is predator vs. prey. They love sneaking up on me and pouncing. I always see them coming, but of course act like I don't and when they get me I roll over dramatically. It's real cute." You replied, watching the tigers fondly.
He nodded, noticing just how small they were. "So when will they stop growing?"
"Well, it kind of depends. They're considered cubs until they're a year old, but it could take up to 5 years for them to reach their full potential."
"How big do you think they'll get?" He scratched Thrillers back gently.
"They're still pretty small for their age, but I think Thriller will get to be around 575 lbs, maybe more if he eats really well. Sabu I think will be a little less, he's slightly scrawnier, so maybe 500 lbs?" Your brows furrowed slightly as you examined the tigers in front of you.
"That's big- is that normal?" Michael's eyes were wide.
"Yeah, I think male Bengal tigers can actually get to be almost 690 lbs, it's pretty crazy. But honestly, no matter how big they get, they'll always be my little babies." You paused for a moment, "Well, technically not mine, but you know what I mean."
Michael looked at you with a smile. "I think they're as much yours as they are mine, if not more. I mean you've been with them for so long."
He watched as you faded into the memory of first meeting them, eyes locked on them but slightly distant. "They were so small when we first got them, they were slightly grey, but that's normal. Ugh, you could hold them in two hands, and they were so clingy!" You reminisce on the memory.
As if hearing your words, the two tigers walked over, rubbing against your leg like house cats. You smiled down at them. They purred lightly.
Michael watched with a smile, something in him stirring slightly, something he wasn't quite sure he wanted to address yet.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
That night, Michael found himself doing his own research on tigers. He wasn't quite sure what brought about the urge. Maybe it was the fact that he was growing fond of the friendship blossoming between the two of you, maybe it was the memory of him playing with the tigers, maybe it was something else entirely. But whatever it was, he had found what he had unknowingly been looking for.
Michael didn't hesitate calling the number and placing his credit card number on file with the company.
In three days, a gigantic kitty pool -pun fully intended- would be dug into the enclosure. He wasn't sure if he wanted to tell you so he had someone to share his excitement with, or if he wanted to see the shock on your face when you saw it. He decided a surprise would be the most fulfilling.
The next couple of days he was practically bursting at the seams. He almost gave it up at least 20 times. He just about caved in when he watched you giving the tigers a bath, watching as they relaxed their tiny heads on the side of the tub. The sight nearly stuck him down on the spot. But somehow, he prevailed.
The builders came in after you had left. He took it upon himself to entertain the small cats while everything was being built. That was how he ended up taking pictures of the twin cubs all over his house. They had a mini photoshoot, Michael placing his fedoras on their heads, watching as their small faces disappear beneath the hats. He took pictures of the twins absolutely blinged out in expensive jewelry.
The moment the pool was installed and the cubs were back in the enclosure, he got straight to developing the photos.
He couldn't wait to show you both their new pool and the massive amount of photos from their adventures.
When you got to work the next day, Michael was waiting for you at the parking lot. He sat comfortably in his gold cart, a massive grin on his face.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. "You've done something." It wasn't a question.
He nodded, "I have."
"What is it?" You held your bag tightly against your shoulder.
He patted the empty seat beside him, "You'll have to come and see."
You got into the gold cart. "I swear to goodness, Michael. If you have dyed their fur pink or something, I might actually strangle you."
He laughed and shook his head. "No no, I promise I haven't done anything to Thriller or Sabu, other than make their life more luxurious." He took off towards the small zoo.
You couldn't help but smile at his words. You knew whatever he had done was nothing bad. He knew better than to mess with those cubs, especially after you chewed out Lane for not reading your instructions thoroughly.
When you got close enough that you could see the tiger enclosure, your jaw dropped. Michael laughed. You smiled so wide, "You did not!" You bounced slightly in excitement, now wishing the gold cart would move faster.
"I did!" He responded. The cart had barely come to a stop before you leapt out and rushed through the gate, mouth agape at the sight of the pool. Michael appeared beside you. "You like it?"
You shook your head in disbelief. "Do I like it? What kind of question is that? I don't just like it, I love it! Oh my gosh! I can't believe you did this! How? When? Why? Wait, why didn't you tell me??" You looked up at him.
He smiled, "I wanted it to be a surprise! Oh and the cubs haven't tested it out yet, I wanted to wait until you got here so we could watch together."
Something about his words partially took your breath away. For weeks now, you and Michael have been friends. Yes of course you loved hanging out with him, and he was always thoughtful, but this. This was something entirely different. You had never mentioned a pool, never really even thought to. No, Michael had done this all on his own, and had done it not only for Thriller and Sabu, but you as well. He kept it a surprise, he waited so you could see the tigers' reactions together. Something deep in your chest twisted, heart pulling at your brain, yelling at you to wake up.
This was more than just a thoughtful idea from a friend. This was something more for the both of you, and you both knew the other felt it too. For a moment you just stared up at him, realization settling into your bones.
"Michael, this means so much. Thank you." Your voice was soft and earnest, a gentle smile pulling at your lips. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly.
He smiled and held you close, chin resting on the top of your head. "Anytime."
The two of you stayed like that longer than you should have. Longer than was considered still friendly territory. You pulled away first, beaming brightly. "Well let's go get them!"
He watched as you quickly brought them out from their inside habitat, one in each arm. He laughed as you whispered lightly to them.
"Look at what your friend Michael got you boys! It's that sweet? Now you can cool off and play whenever you want!" You gently set them down. They practically galloped to the pool, both leaping in with tiny splashes.
Your laugh rang through the air, and Michael swore that it was a sound he wanted to hear more often than he should've. You knelt by the pool, keeping a close eye on them to make sure they stayed afloat. It was definitely big enough for two grown tigers, so you wanted to make sure the two cubs stayed safe. Michael sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
"There's one other thing I've gotta show you." He smiled.
You looked at him like he was crazy, "There's more? Don't tell me you got them actual prey to hunt or something." You laughed.
He slowly took the stack of photos out from his back pocket. "No, this is mainly for you." He handed over the photos, smiling as he watched your jaw drop to the floor AGAIN.
You flipped through the photos, juggling your shock and amusement. You held up the picture of the two of them in Michael's fedoras. "Aw! So cute! Michael, this is adorable! Thank you so much." You hugged him again, arms wrapping around his shoulders as you leaned into him. He hugged you back, hands placed lightly on your waist. His touch sent a small shiver up your spine, and you pulled away, resuming your admiration of the photos.
"I like all of them, but I feel like I'm missing a very vital photo." He spoke more intently, eyes still on you.
You looked at him quizzically. "What is it?"
"I don't have a photo of you with them." His voice was soft and sincere. His words practically melted you right into the pool. Your head felt dizzy, all of this was so much to take in.
Blush crept up your cheeks and you looked back at the tigers who had now climbed out of the pool. "Well, would you look at that? Done already? Let's get you two dried off." You stood and disappeared inside.
The cubs looked at Michael, and he laughed. "I think she got a little flustered." He smiled as you returned with two towels. He watched as you pulled both cubs onto your lap, wrapping them up in the turkish cotton. The sight was too precious not to capture. Before you knew it, Michael had his camera aimed at you and the tigers, a small click going off repeatedly.
You ducked your head, groaning slightly, "Michael!" Your back turned towards the camera.
"What? Oh come on don't hide, this is a great angle." He smiled more and reached out. His hand gently turned your shoulder towards him, your red face coming into view. He smiled more, resuming his onslaught of pictures.
Once the tigers were dried off, you set them down, letting them play, attention finally returning back towards Michael. "You're a piece of work." You shook your head with a slight laugh.
He smiled, knocking your shoulder with his, "Admit it, you love it."
You rolled your eyes slightly, "Oh you wish."
And he did. He felt his chest tighten more than it should have. This was going somewhere he hadn't anticipated, but he wasn't entirely upset about it.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Moments like that only became more and more frequent. Your friendship with Michael continued growing, along with the feelings that were budding in the bottom of your stomach. Everything with him became so natural, to the point that you hadn't even realized his impact until it was already there.
Michael felt the same, if not stronger. He found himself thinking about you periodically throughout his day. Random things like the smell of fresh herbs brought the memory of you sitting with the cubs as they munched on some herbal treat you had found. The colors orange and black always reminded him of you, not the tigers, you. Kakis made him think of the uniform that fit you so perfectly. This was getting to be a real problem, a problem whose existence he found harder and harder to ignore.
Michael wasn't sure how many more times he could sit beside you and pretend that he didn't want to feel the touch of your hand in his. He wasn't sure if he could keep reminding himself that you were not only just a friend, but his employee. That thought alone made him particularly frustrated, it made crossing the line even more risky. While he was fairly sure you felt the same, he also couldn't bring himself to risk it. Your friendship meant too much. What if he put himself out there and you felt grossed out, what if you said you couldn't work there anymore? He knew he was being unreasonable, but still the doubts were strong in his mind.
Meanwhile, you were growing impatient of all the unspoken words. You knew what you felt for him, and you knew what he felt for you. To you, you weren't worried about the boss employee aspect of it. People did that shit all the time, plus you weren't sure you really considered him your boss anymore. The moment he started inviting you to lunch inside of his house, you were pretty certain the professional line had been crossed.
You saw every moment he looked like he was about to finally admit the truth, you saw the want in his eyes as he looked at you. But every time, he'd stop himself, coming up with some compliment or comment that he thought was sooooo smooth.
It was getting ridiculous, the two of you had been beating around this bush for nearly 3 months now. The lingering looks, the small touches that lasted far too long, the thick air that settled in the silence between the two of you was getting suffocating.
For someone who had millions of fans and performed in front of thousands on a regular basis, he sure was terrified of speaking his feelings. You couldn't quite understand what the hold up was, but you were tired of waiting.
It happened on what Michael thought would be a regular Saturday morning. Despite having a concert that lasted late into the prior night, Michael made sure that he was waiting for you at the parking lot with his golf cart, something that had become routine.
You got in, smiling to yourself, plan brewing in your head. Michael immediately noticed the shift in your typical morning attitude. He handed you the coffee he had made for you, looking at you nervously. "What's got you so happy this early in the morning?" He started driving to the tiger enclosure.
"Oh nothing!" You sighed whimsically. Totally uncharacteristic of you.
"This isn't nothing, you're never this excited to see me in the morning." Michael tried keeping his focus on the sidewalk.
"And who said I'm excited to see you? I see you essentially everyday." You sipped the coffee.
"Well then what's got you so excited??" He was starting to get nervous.
"Nothin, just had a really good night last night." You tried containing your smirk as the cart lurched forward slightly.
"Oh, well that's good. Did you have friends over or something?" He held onto the wheel tightly, waiting for your next response.
"No, I went on a date." The golf cart screeched to a stop, coincidentally right in front of the tiger exhibit. You smiled and grabbed your bag, getting out of the cart. "Yikes, gotta work on your breaking, Mikey."
He followed you like a kicked puppy inside of the enclosure. "A date? Why? With who? Why? When? Why?" The questions flew out of his mouth.
You stifled a laugh, trying not to blow your cover. "Yes, a date. Why? Because I was asked. You don't know the guy. Why? Cause I'm single. And I already told you, it was last night. And why do you keep asking why?" He shot the answers back at him before disappearing inside to grab the cubs.
When you emerged he searched your eyes, "But I thought we- well why didn't you tell me?" He watched as you got the tigers breakfast ready.
"I didn't realize I needed to? Do I need to get my bosses permission for everything?" You laughed. His eye twitched slightly at the word 'boss'
Oh it was over for you. "Boss?" He questioned, voice dropping slightly lower.
Now it was your turn to be nervous. "Um- yeah?" You set down the bowls for Thriller and Sabu. As you stood back up, Michael was directly behind you.
He gently grabbed your waist, spinning you around to face him. "I thought we both understood I'm more than just a boss." His face was dangerously close to yours.
Against your better judgement, you decided to push him a little further. "Right, I'm sorry. You're a friend."
His grip on your waist tightened. "Is that right?" His face tipped closer towards yours.
You swallowed hard, still not backing down. You murmured a quiet "Mhm."
His eyes dropped to your lips before back to your eyes. "Strange, I don't have any other friends that look at me the way you do. And I didn't realize you had friends that admire you the way I do. How many of your friends hold you like this?" He pulled your body flush against his.
Your breathing became shallow, you couldn't answer. Instead your hands slide up his arms and around his neck. Michael couldn't hold himself back anymore, not with how you were looking at him. His lips captured yours eagerly. One hand slid to the back of your neck, pushing the kiss deeper. Your hand slid into the hair at the back of his neck, a strangled noise escaping your lips as you pulled back for air. Michael's lips chased yours, catching them again. He was hungry. Months of build up had his head absolutely reeling. How he had managed to keep his hands to himself this whole time was beyond him, but he silently cursed himself for missing so many opportunities.
You quickly regained composure, lips meeting his with the same sort of passion and hunger. One hand gripped the collar of his jacket, pulling him closer. His hand traveled from your waist to your hip, squeezing at it gently. You both were a mix of heavy breathing and wet kisses. When he finally pulled away, his head rested against yours.
He nudged your nose with his. "Answer me, baby. How many friends you got that kiss you like that?"
You smiled, breathing out a laugh. "Just you."
He smiled, "Wrong, cause I'm not just your friend, baby. And I'm certainly not just your boss. You're my girl, and I'm your man. So no more dates unless they're with me."
You smiled, face hot from his sudden boldness. "I didn't go on a date last night, Michael. I was just trying to get you to finally man up and kiss me. So jokes on you, I got exactly what I wanted."
He looked at you with wide eyes, but the shock melted into pure adoration and humor. "You're a sly little thing aren't you?"
You laughed and shrugged, "What can I say? I know what I want."
The cubs beside the two of you walked around your legs, moving between you and Michael. You both laughed and picked one up. Michael held Thriller as you cradled Sabu. "Look at us, boys. Mommy and Daddy are finally together." The cubs purred lightly. Michael looked at you, "Hey who knows, maybe one day we'll have some cubs of our own."
You raised a brow and laughed, "Slow down there, tiger. It took you like 4 months to kiss me, who knows it could be 20 years before we even tie the knot."
He shook his head as he rocked Thriller, "No, now that I got you, I'm not wasting anymore time."
summary: during michael’s invincible album release, he does a meet and greet with his fans. not only does he meet the cutest little boy, but his mother might also be a sweet lil thing too..
sorry guys been xtra busy recently. more stories and the requests coming next week, also thank u for all the requests i’ve seen them and will be writing𑣲⋆
“are you okay, baby” you said quietly, crouching slightly to whisper in the boys ear.
“i’m okay mama, it’s just very loud” zain whispered back, his head slightly bowed, the fedora tipping slightly.
you grabbed his tiny hand tighter, squeezing it to reassure him that you were there protecting him and nobody would hurt him.
you and zain were stood around 6 people away from michael, his cd signing allowing 500 lucky fans to get into the store.
when you had heard of the chance to meet michael, you did absolutely everything in your power to do so, for your little boy.
zain had loved michael from the moment he had first heard him on the tv when he was 1 years old. he had heard black or white, standing infront of the tv watching the music video whilst shaking his little shoulders, asking you to replay it multiple times before it became practically engrained into the walls.
it was then you went down a rabbit hole with him, playing every michael jackson song that was available to play at his request, his favourites accumulating to don’t stop till you get enough and remember the time.
he had even stood in the living room trying to copy the dangerous dance breakdown, eventually almost mastering it to the best of his toddler abilities.
he had become one of michael’s biggest fans, and he was only three and a half years old.
now you both were stood in the music shop, blessed to receive access after you had bought the invincible cd the day before, your son had been wrapped up in your arms as he bounced up and down, so excited to get his hands on the music.
the line finally began to shorten after what felt like years of being stood in the same spot, the sequins on zain’s white glove digging into the skin of your palms. his tiny suit ruffled every time his legs moved, restless from standing still for so long.
the table became easier to see as you got closer, michael sat there whilst his hands signed the cd alongside listening attentively to what the fan infront of him was saying, nodding politely.
you picked zain up, placing him onto your hip so you could talk to him closer.
“okay we are nearly there now, don’t worry baby. can you see him right there” before pointing towards michael.
“oh my gosh mama! he’s right there!” he squealed slightly, his hands grabbing your shoulders and wrapping around the back of your neck to hug you.
you giggled at his excitement, so happy to see your son laughing and getting tense with energy.
the joy ran like honey through your veins, it had been a difficult few months. struggling with money in order to put food on the table for your son and you and paying for clothes and bills. but you had finally gathered your footing, starting a new job that payed exceptionally, now able to fund zain’s michael jackson obsession.
the large, burly security guard stood next to the large sign beside the table, gently guiding you and your son forward and putting space between you and the person behind you, probably wanting to protect the little boy that shuffled his feet in anticipation along the carpeted floor.
michael’s eyes scanned the room, moving down the line towards the people he was about to meet. his dark brown eyes glinting and glittering under the bright lights before locking onto someone, the little boy dressed up as him. he laughed out loud, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he stared in shock.
michael tried to focus on what the man standing in front of him was saying, his hands signing the cd with the all too familiar signature, but his mind and eyes kept wandering back to the little boy.
you moved forward, going up the steps of the platform to the table, guiding your son towards the table. your heartbeat began to race, an unexpected nervousness overcoming you at the sight of the handsome king of pop.
the cloth covered table covered the majority of zain’s body, only his bright eyes and fedora peeking over at him, his hands gripping the table so tight his knuckles nearly turned white.
“come on, honey, he can’t see your outfit” you said, laughing quietly at his pose.
your hands went under zain’s arms, placing him onto the table infront of you, hands resting gently on his lower back to steady him and make him feel safe. a symphony of ‘awh’ echoed behind you, the cuteness of the moment forcing everyone to look.
michael laughed loudly, his head tipping back before his head came forward, looking over zain’s outfit in awe.
“you look like me!” michael exclaimed, his voice going a tiny bit higher, his finger grazing zain’s tiny knuckles.
“well… i-i… mamaaa” zain stuttered, turning around suddenly and burying his face into your neck.
he had become all of a sudden to nervous to even look michael in the eye, one of his favourite people ever was stood infront of him but all the attention was too much.
“it’s okay, baby. look, show him your dance moves, you said to me before that you wanted to show him something didn’t you?”
your comforting hand running over the length of his back, trying to coerce him to turn around to look at michael, who was staring at him in awe and you with a certain look in his eye that you couldn’t quite name.
zain turned, his back pressing against your chest as he leant against you. he looked at michael, a tiny hand coming out for him to shake.
“hi, i’m zain” he whispered, the other hand coming up near his mouth.
“hi zain, it’s lovely to meet you! you look amazing, your mama said you wanted to show me something?” he leant closer, his other hand coming up to bend the small fedora back to uncover his face.
zain shuffled forward a little bit, before getting into position. he span in a circle, the cloth bunching under his feet, before he brought one hand to his lower stomach and one hand to his hat, his leg propping out. zain ended his quick performance with his hand grasping the little fedora and tilting it down to block his face, and then coming up to a point.
michael clapped, getting to his feet to give him a proper standing ovation. he wrapped the boy up in his arms, giving him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head, a huge smile painted across his face.
“wow, that was amazing! you could take my place one day.”
looking at the interaction between michael and zain, any random person would think it was between a father and son the way he cared so much. he held his hands in his, nodding along and consistently complimenting zain, whether it was on his dance moves, his outfit or his cute curly hair.
“and mama must be very proud of you, huh? at having a son with such god given talent” michael said suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts, your eyes meeting his.
“oh he’s amazing, he’s loved you since he’s been able to move around, always dancing in the living room to your songs, aren’t you?” you tickled zain’s sides lightly, causing a high pitched giggle to fall from his mouth.
“is that so, zain? well you have made my day with your little dance moves and your cute little smile” michael said, “guess we know who he got that from”
his eyes locked onto your face, more specifically your shiny lips, before running up and down your body, taking in your full appearance.
you shyly dipped your head, a small, nervous tilt of your lips making you look even more prettier to michael. the black zip of your bag brushed against your hands as you opened it, reaching into grab the cd and place it on the table.
“zain was so excited to come here, dressing up as you was his idea actually. but it was a surprise cause he usually doesn't like wearing this stuff” you looked at zain, his hands locking infront of him as he swayed from side to side.
michael’s hands took the cd off of the table, before taking the cap off the pen and bringing his head down, writing a little message to zain with absolute concentration before signing off with his iconic signature.
you turned your head to zain, tilting his hat back and pulling his jacket down as it had ridden up to his waist in all of the chaos. you asked how he was, wondering if this was becoming too much for him before he smiled at you, confirming that he was as happy as can be.
“here you go, little man”
he placed the cd in zain’s hands, his large eyes scanning over the writing before turning it towards you.
“mama, what does it say?”
you and michael burst into laughter, zain’s head tilted as he looked at you with confusion.
“we will read it later baby, come on”
the security guard motioned to michael that it was time for you to move on, the moment stopping all too soon for his liking, but he understood the need to keep on time.
“well it was lovely to meet you zain, and you too mama, you have raised him beautifully” he whispered towards you, his hand taking yours in a handshake before bringing it to his lips.
you felt your body get hot, eyes widening in shock, a slight sweat building up on your brow bone as you grew increasingly flustered.
turning towards zain, a nervous laughter bubbling in your chest as you moved to pick him up off of the table.
“say bye, zain” you whispered in his ear.
zain shot forward, wrapping his arms around michael’s neck in a hug, his face buried into the crook of his shoulder.
michael’s large hands moved to his back, one supporting his back, the other engulfing the back of his curly hair. his eyes shut as a warm smile grew on his face at the young child’s sweetness.
“bye zain, thank you for coming today”
zain moved backwards towards you, his legs wrapping around your waist and head resting against your chest, your hands moving to grip his back slacks to hold him up.
he waved a small goodbye, his eyes filling with tears at the departure.
“bye mikey!”
you smiled at michael, before walking down the steps, around the back of the set up to leave the store.
zain stifled a small cry, his lip trembling and a few tears slipping down his chubby cheeks.
“mama, i miss him already” he muttered into your shirt, your hand resting on his head.
michael’s doe eyes followed you out, before turning slightly to his head of security and whispering something into his ear before getting a nod in return.
the man gripped the walkie-talkie on his waist and brought it up to his lips before saying something inaudible into it.
as you walked closer to the door, whispering comfort into zain’s ears as he sobbed gently into your neck, a man dressed in black stopped you, the words ‘SECURITY’ painted across his chest.
“are you zain’s mother, the little boy michael just met?” the man said, sounding very serious, a pit forming in your stomach.
“oh um.. yes i am, is there a problem?” your voice twinged with confusion, wondering if you had done anything wrong.
he glanced around to see if anyone was nearby before reaching into his pocket, pulling out a folded note and placing into your slightly closed hand that rested on zain’s hip.
“have a good day, ma’am” ,turning and walking back to the cd signing.
staring in confusion at the man’s back as he walked away, you glanced back at your son, a deflated look painted across his face.
“let’s go and get something to eat, and we can read what michael put on the cd, yeah?”
you walked into the cozy restaurant, being led to a booth in the corner, placing him along with your bags into the corner and sitting down yourself.
you read zain the menu, allowing him to pick what he wanted before reading it off to the waiter along with your own order.
the day had clearly began to wear on zain, his eyes beginning to droop and gradually becoming more clingy and wanting your affection.
you wrapped your arms around his shoulder, guiding him to lean against you as you held the cd in your hands.
“should we read this together then, baby?”
zain nodded his head, his legs swinging over your thighs and getting more comfy so you can read the message to him.
“okay, it says: dear zain, thank you for showing me your dance moves, i was very impressed at how good you are - especially that spin, that was amazing. i might have some competition!
keep dancing, keep smiling and i hope you enjoy this album, maybe you can make some new moves for me? love, michael jackson”
zain’s smile widened, his pearly teeth showing, “mama, he said that i was amazing?”
“he did, baby! you must have blown him away with your coolness!” you giggled, ruffling his curls as his eyes squinted due to his grin.
you turned the cd in your hands to look at the full thing, before flipping it onto the back, black marker standing out against the blue background.
your eyebrows furrowed at it, wondering how you had missed him writing on the back.
‘mama, there is something very special about your son, the way he allows the music to take over his body is amazing, it reminds me of when i was a child. he has a beautiful spirit and i hope he keeps that for the rest of his life. you have done an amazing job at raising him.
take care of yourself, michael’
you read it in your head, a warmth in your chest growing. someone else had noticed the spark in your boy, the ever growing spark growing brighter in his eyes as he grew older, something different from the other children in his class.
remembering the note that had been placed into your hand and then stuffed into your bag as you focused on finding somewhere to eat in the big city, slipping into the black purse and pulling out the note.
‘please call me, i would love to meet you and your wonderful son again. - michael’
the number underneath was written in big bold letters, a contrast to the cursive writing on the cd, obviously written by the security guard.
smiling at not only the note on both the cd and the paper, but also at your sons excitement, the plates clinked against the table.
grabbing the knife and fork and cutting your sons food into smaller pieces, passing the fork to him to eat.
Summary: Your uncle Michael loves watching you scroll through TikTok so he wants you to teach him how to use it.
Warnings: None. But I did cry making this so maybe you will too.
Author’s note: I have so many ideas that involve Michael being alive, so please let me know if you’d like to read more of this. Might make this an “Uncle Michael” series. Also, reader is Jermajesty’s jertwin twin and Michael is back at the Hayvenhurst house ❤️
You were curled up on one end of the living room couch, scrolling through TikTok while a collection of snacks —that your uncle insisted on getting for you— sat untouched on the coffee table.
Your TikTok for you page could be described as an interesting place; maybe even a weird one too. It was a mix of dances, recipes, and fashion videos. That was the normal side of it. The other side was far more unhinged: memes, fan edits, and, of course, plenty of content related to your family.
You didn't really mind, because some of those brought you to literal tears—either from their humor or from the feelings they stirred up.
"What are you watching?"
You looked up to find your uncle Michael leaning over the back of the couch, his chin resting on his folded arms. Eyes fixed on your phone screen with curiosity, as if you were holding something he has never seen before.
It was no secret that your uncle was the absolute worst when it came to technology, but he knew about TikTok, right?
"A TikTok."
"A what?"
"A TikTok."
He frowned.
"I heard you the first time, Nugget."
You giggled, always finding his technology struggles quite funny. Actually you take that back, you find his technology struggles hilarious, but extremely cute too.
"It's an app. People videos on it."
Michael's eyes narrowed with interest.
"Can I see?"
Before you could answer, he made his way around the couch and dropped down beside you. Curious, he leaned forward to get a better look at your screen as he grabbed his glasses. Within two minutes, he was fully invested, eyes fixed on the screen and completely absorbed in whatever you were watching.
A cute llama video came up, making him gasp.
"Oh, that's precious! Reminds me of my sweet Louie." He gave her a soft smile. "You would've loved Louie, Nugget. He was just as sassy as you!"
"I'm not sassy." You sassed, making him raise an eyebrow. "Scroll." He pointed at the screen. "And I'm the sassy one..." You mumbled as you scrolled.
A cooking video appeared. It was a simple sourdough recipe. But of course, he couldn't comprehend that the video wasn't posted at a normal speed.
"How did they make that so fast?"
Then came a comedy skit.
Michael burst into laughter so suddenly that he nearly spilled his drink.
For the next half hour, he remained glued to the screen. More animals, more recipes, even videos of him and your family popped up. He was in complete awe, and every time you attempted to scroll past a video, he stopped you.
"Wait, wait, go back." He pointed at the screen. "But already watched it." You complained. "I need to see it again." He fixed his glasses. "You've watched it four times." You looked at him, unimpressed. "Please, Nugget?"
By the seventh replay, you started to suspect he enjoyed the video more than the creator did.
Eventually, he sat back and crossed his arms.
"I have made my decision." He said in a serious tone. "What decision?" You felt a little worried because he never uses that tone unless he's mad or very, very serious.
"I want TikTok."
You blinked.
"You want TikTok." You stared. "Yes." He nodded. "You?" You were pointing at him now. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because last week you asked me where the "unlock" button was on your new phone. Your phone uses Face ID, Unks."
He looked at you all offended but proceeded to point at your phone.
"Stop making fun of me and teach me."
—
Ten minutes later, we were seated at the kitchen table with his phone between us.
Michael looked strangely serious, as if he was about to drop another banger album instead of downloading a social media app.
"First," I explained, "we need to make your account. Well, your brand already has one, but we won't use that one for whatever it is that you want to do"
Michael nodded solemnly.
"Very important."
"Not really."
"It is extremely important, Nugget." He leaned forward. "What should my username be?"
"Whatever you want." You already knew this wasn't going to end well.
A smile immediately spread across his face.
"KingOfPop." You typed it.
Taken.
Michael frowned.
"KingOfPopOfficial."
Taken.
"TheRealKingOfPop."
Taken again.
"MichaelJacksonOfficialOfficial."
You looked up at him with a smile, wiggling your eyebrows.
"You look so much like your brother when you do that." He pointed at your eyebrows. "Don't you ever say I look like him again." You side-eyed him. "Okay okay, sorry. And that's terrible." He said, referring to the username. "I know." You both started laughing.
After nearly ten minutes of trying to figure out a username, you settled for TheMichaelJackson.
"You've got a profile picture of a llama."
"I like llamas."
"You don't even own a llama anymore."
"That doesn't matter."
"If you want people to know it's you for real, we need to start by having you as the profile picture." You patted his back. "Fine. I'll take a picture of one of me and Louie's pictures and have you set it as the profile picture."
—
Teaching him how to use the app itself took considerably longer.
Your uncle approached every feature with the enthusiasm of a child opening his Christmas presents.
He clicked every button, icon, setting, and filter without really understanding what any of them did. Several times you had to take the phone away in case he was about to disable his account by mistake.
At one point he managed to switch the language settings to German. Later he accidentally started a livestream. None of you knew how. but he did.
"Oh no." He said.
"What happened?" You asked, walking back into the living room. "People can see me." He looked at you.
"End it!"
"How?"
You grabbed the phone while Michael stared at it in utter panic, as if the phone was a grenade. A few seconds later the livestream ended. Your uncle sighed dramatically.
"That was stressful."
"You were live for five seconds."
"Five very terrifying seconds."
—
The time he was most excited about had finally come: making videos.
The moment you explained to him how recording worked, he practically bounced out of his chair.
"Finally."
You handed him the phone.
"Okay, just press this button—"He immediately struck a pose.
Not a normal pose. A full performance pose. Head down, legs crossed. His expression looked like he was about to deliver the emotional finale of a world tour.
You blinked.
"Uncle Mike."
"Yes?"
"This isn't a concert."
"So?"
"You don't need to do all this" You giggled. He looked genuinely confused. "Of course I do."
Before you could say something else, he pressed record.
"Hello, TikTok!" he said excitedly to the camera. "I'm Michael Jackson and this is my TikTok account. I am aware there is another account under my name but that is for my brand, like Nugget said, but on here I will be posting random stuff like vlogs!"
You gave him a thumbs up.
—
The rest of the afternoon was filled with absolute chaos and laughter, attempting dance trends and different challenges. Michael being the perfectionist he is, insisted on learning every move perfectly before recording.
He had somehow convinced you to record and post at least three videos before the rest of the family arrived for dinner. Normally, you would have refused without a second thought, but with him, it was impossible to say no.
You had to admit, this had been one of the best days you’d ever had in a long time. You love all your uncles, but the love you have for your uncle Michael can't be put into words— so seeing him happy and have this much fun—especially with you— made you really happy, and a little emotional too.
You know how much he suffered, so you will do whatever it takes to protect that light that took so long to come back.
"Nugget?" He called, pulling you away from your thoughts. "Yes?" You looked at him. "Thank you for today, I had a lot of fun. You are always so patient with me."
SUMMARY: You and Max are both professional athletes with insane stamina, something you never really thought about… until your friend casually asked how many rounds you two could actually go before tapping out. One conversation with your friend, one deal with Max later…
PAIRING: max verstappen x reader
WARNINGS : 18+ ONLY!! MINORS DNI , Explicit smut, overstimulation, edging, switching (dom!reader & dom!max), oral sex (m & f receiving), deepthroating, gagging, praise kink , begging, competitive sex, unprotected sex , established relationship.
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
The conversation with your friend refused to leave your head.
“You two have never actually tested it? How many rounds those insane athlete bodies can really handle before one of you taps out?” she’d asked, eyes wide with curiosity. “You’re both elite. You’ve never just kept going until one of you physically can’t anymore?”
You’d been shocked. “What do you mean?"
That question followed you home. The next evening, Max came up behind you in the bedroom, pressing his chest to your back and kissing your neck slowly , his silent “I need you” signal. You were needy too, and the curiosity burned hotter than usual.
You turned into his arms. "Max... about that thing my friend asked. I want to test it but let's turn it into a challenge"
His competitive grin appeared instantly. “Yeah?”
“Whoever taps out first has to be the other’s personal servant for the next two months. Whatever they want, whenever they want. No excuses.”
“Deal,” he said, eyes gleaming. “But I’m not losing, schatje.”
You both loved sabotaging each other. You had secrets to make him lose his mind. He knew your weak spots too. Game on.
You started slow, saving energy. He peeled your shirt off, you did the same to his. Clothes dropped piece by piece until you were naked. He rolled a condom on carefully, then pulled you into soft, deep kisses, hands gentle on your waist as he laid you down.
It was sweet, slow rolls of his hips, lazy making out. Until Max pulled an ace from his sleeve.
While still moving inside you with that unhurried rhythm, his thumb found your clit and started rubbing tight, perfect circles. He knew how easily you got overstimulated there. The gentle session turned electric in seconds. Your breathing grew heavy, hips jerking.
“Max— fuck...” you gasped.
He didn’t stop. He kept the slow thrusts going and rubbed your clit relentlessly until the orgasm hit you like a wave. You cried out, clenching hard around him, thighs shaking. He didn’t let your poor clit rest, drawing out every aftershock until you were panting and dizzy.
It took you a moment to recover. Then you remembered: you had to fight back if you wanted to win.
You pushed him onto his back and straddled him, sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion. You were in control now.
“No hands,” you ordered, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head.
You rode him exactly how you knew he liked: deep rolls of your hips, then faster bounces, then slowing down cruelly when he got close. Max’s eyes started rolling back, fingers gripping the sheets tightly.
“Please… please let me come,” he murmured, voice strained.
You slowed even more, teasing. “What did you say? Say it louder if you want it.”
Max was too desperate to fight his pride. “Please, Y/N… just let me come, pleasee”
“Good boy,” you whispered, riding him hard and fast until he came with a deep groan, filling the condom.
It was obvious this was only the beginning. Normally you would have stopped here, but your friend was right: pushing limits was addictive. And neither of you liked losing.
Max reached for another condom. You stopped him.
He raised an eyebrow until you slid off the bed and knelt between his legs. His cock twitched at the sight. You rarely did this ,maybe twice in five years, and he knew you weren’t a big fan. That made it even more effective.
“Don’t put it on yet.”
Max needed a bit longer to get fully hard again. You used the time to tease him with your mouth.
He hardened instantly when you kissed the tip. You teased with soft kitten licks and kisses, drawing it out. Soon his hand rested on the back of your head. You let him guide you, relaxing as he pushed deeper.
You gagged and pulled back for air. “Sorry… I’m really inexperienced with this.”
He just stroked your hair gently, breathing hard. You went back in more determined. Your eyes watered, tears slipping down your cheeks as he grew frantic. The ache between your legs became unbearable, so you slipped a hand down and rubbed your clit while sucking him.
Max groaned at the sight. You looked up at him through wet lashes and cupped his balls and that broke him. His eyes rolled back and he spilled into your mouth with a broken moan.
“You don’t have to swallow if you don’t want to,” he rasped.
But you did. You pulled off, opened your mouth to show him, then swallowed.
“Fuck… such a good girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked. His cock twitched hard at the sight.
He noticed your hand still between your legs and grinned. “Is my pretty girl horny? Want me to help?”
“Yes please,” you whispered.
He pulled you back onto the bed, spread your legs wide, and settled between them. He spread your soaked folds, admiring how your pussy clenched around nothing. He toyed with you, circling your clit, sliding fingers along your labia, dipping one finger in only to pull it out.
“Please Max, do something,” you begged, hips humping his hand.
“Naughty girl. Be patient,” he said, then gave your pussy a light slap.
Your whole body jolted and a strangled moan escaped. Max looked surprised but pleased, he’d never done that before. He did it again, a little harder. Your hips jerked and another moan tore from you.
“I see… we’re learning new things about each other,” he said, voice low. He gave one more light slap, then dove between your legs with his mouth, making you see stars.
“How about a 69 if we’re experimenting?” Max suggested with a wicked grin, still catching his breath.
The night became a blur of exploration. You tried positions you’d never bothered with before. Max took you from behind while you gripped the headboard. You rode him reverse cowgirl, grinding back against him. He fucked you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist. You switched dominance constantly : sometimes you pinned him and edged him until he begged, sometimes he held you down and made you come over and over until your voice went hoarse.
You both lay there for a minute, catching your breath, sweaty and laughing softly.
“Still good?” he asked, competitive glint still in his eyes.
“Better than you,” you shot back.
“Oh my god, Max, you and your stupid 69 jokes,” you laughed.
“Please?” He gave you the softest, subby eyes and sweet talk until you gave in.
It wasn’t a joke. He was obsessed, eating you out like a man starved while you took him back into your mouth. The mutual pleasure was overwhelming. You both came hard again.
Round… you’d lost count.
You were both exhausted, bodies covered in sweat, legs trembling. But neither would quit. You wanted to break him.
“Don’t take a condom this time,” you said, voice hoarse. “I want you raw.”
Max’s eyes darkened with surprise and lust. You were both clean and you were on birth control. He was more than happy to agree, but you could see he was fighting exhaustion too.
He slid into you bare and you both moaned at the feeling. He found your g-spot almost immediately and hammered into it relentlessly, trying to make you tap out. The raw friction felt incredible, too good. You were sore, overstimulated, and felt like it had been hours, but the pleasure kept building.
You came once more, but this time the overstimulation was bordering on too much. Your muscles were tired. Max chased his own release, thrusting deep until he spilled inside you with a guttural groan. He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from your pussy for a moment before collapsing beside you.
You both stared at the ceiling, chests heaving.
You turned to look at each other, shocked, then started laughing weakly.
“I’m quitting,” you said at the exact same time as him.
“So… we both lose?” you asked.
“Technically yes,” Max grinned tiredly. “This time. Rematch in two days?”
You groaned but smiled. “Deal.”
He pulled you into his arms and kissed your temple. You stayed there for a while, enjoying the warmth.
“Okay, I need to go clean up,” you said eventually, trying to stand.
Max reached for you. “Sit back down, I’ll clean you up—”
Too late. Your legs gave out the second you stood. You started falling. Max tried to catch you but when he stood up, his own legs buckled too. Both of you ended up on the floor in a tangled, exhausted heap.
You burst out laughing. “I was just… searching for something on the ground.”
“Sure thing,” Max chuckled, pulling you on top of his chest right there on the floor.
the jackson chronicles: part i (good f—cking journalism)
contents page
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
summary ⋆ after surviving hours of painfully repetitive interview questions, you finally come back to life when somebody asks about your cats instead of your marriage.
content ⋆ mild language, suggestive, discussions of fame / public scrutiny, not proof-read
author's note ⋆ i had a lot of these little ideas for cute scenarios with michael floating around my head but they were never long enough to justify a full one-shot so i thought making a little series for me to just write them down would be nice! please lmk if you guys like this format and if i should continue it or if i should go back to full fics T-T also they serve as good buffer uploads as i work through my requests which are coming!
the interview rooms had begun melting together somewhere around hour four. by this point, every reporter sounded exactly the same to you.
what’s it like being married to michael jackson?
how do you handle public attention while married to michael jackson?
are the rumours of you being married to michael jackson true?
what’s the secret to your relationship with michael jackson — and so on and so forth, to the point where the name michael jackson had started sounding like complete gibberish.
you had answered so many repetitive questions throughout the day that your brain was beginning to meld into one giant, useless glob. the overhead studio lights felt approximately one degree away from being an actual human rights violation; somewhere between being trapped inside a toaster oven and standing directly on the surface of the sun.
honestly, the only thing stopping you from snapping at these so-called journalists outright was the fact that michael was there to witness your increasingly visible descent into interview fatigue. at the very least, it made the entire mind-numbing experience slightly more bearable. half-hidden beside one of the producers, your husband looked entirely too entertained by the whole thing.
you flashed michael a look of pure desperation while waiting for the next question — a silent, increasingly frantic plea for rescue. michael, for his part, didn't move an inch to help. if anything, the faint crinkle near the corners of his eyes suggested he was having the time of his life watching you suffer.
you shot him a deeply unimpressed look in return. you were one more “so… how difficult is it dating the most famous man in the world?” away from chewing directly through the microphone cord.
the interviewer sitting across from you smiled politely while glancing down at her cue cards.
internally, you braced yourself.
“alright,” she said brightly, “so to end on a lighter note…”
oh thank god.
“…how many cats do you actually have?”
your mouth fell open, agape in shock. for a second, you simply stared at the interviewer as though she had personally descended from heaven to deliver salvation.
and then, instantly — and i mean instantly — your entire demeanour changed.
your posture straightened so fast it was amazing your back didn’t give out. light returned to your eyes with near biblical immediacy, like saul struck by revelation on the road to damascus. for the first time in hours, genuine life returned to your face.
“finally,” you breathed emotionally, placing a hand against your chest in actual relief. “some good fucking journalism.”
a bewildered sort of stillness lingered across the set before everything immediately broke.
somewhere behind the cameras, michael nearly disappeared into himself with a startled wheeze.
“pardon me—” the interviewer coughed, half-dying from her sudden loss of composure, “you’ve been waiting for this question all day, haven’t you?”
“you have no idea.”
you were already digging frantically through your custom hermès kelly with the kind of determination that suggested you knew exactly what you were looking for, even if nobody else did.
michael lifted his head just enough to watch you with visible joy. he knew exactly what was coming.
“no, because nobody ever asks about them,” you continued passionately while wrestling with your dangerously overstuffed bag. “everybody always asks about him—” you gestured vaguely in michael’s direction without actually looking, both hands still occupied with your search, “—which, okay, fair enough. he is my husband and i love him, but i also have children.”
“they’re cats,” michael called from off-camera.
you finally looked up properly just to glare at him in complete offense. “well excuse me sir, they are my emotionally complex dependents.”
the interviewer had fully abandoned any sort of professionalism at this point.
“oh my god, please show us.”
you beamed brightly at her enthusiasm. “gladly.”
finally, you managed to yank out a concerning avalanche of photographs from seemingly out of nowhere — several fluttering straight onto the floor in the process — before immediately beginning to sort through them. once you found the photo you were looking for, you immediately shoved it directly into the interviewer’s face with impressive speed.
"okay, so this one is his excellency attorney general meatloaf — or meatloaf for short."
you held up a slightly blurry polaroid of an aggressively round cat loafing on a windowsill, the edges of the photo worn from being handled so frequently.
“he likes to loaf a lot, hence the name. he’s actually perfected the art of the tuck; no paws visible, no tail, just one singular furry orb.”
a brief silence settled over the room as you regarded the photograph with profound seriousness. “and he bites people when he gets overstimulated, but honestly? i respect that about him. i wish i could do that. if i bite people when i get angry, i get the police called on me.”
the interviewer was already crying.
michael physically turned away from the cameras, hiding behind the producer next to him with one hand clamped tightly over his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the high-pitched giggles threatening to derail the entire recording.
another photograph appeared, slapped down onto the coffee table with the dramatic flair of a high stakes poker player revealing a winning hand.
“this is baron von murderpillow.”
"amazing name," the interviewer managed to chortle out.
“thank you. he earned the title during the great sofa cushion uprising of ’92. allegedly, he’s wanted in several states for crimes against upholstery. for legal reasons, i must refrain from elaborating any further.”
another.
“clovernhorn, destroyer of mars.”
“why does that one look evil?” the interviewer asked, leaning in to squint at the tiny, grainy image of a grey, puff ball plotting intergalactic war from the comfort of a sunbeam.
“no he’s not.” you deadpanned.
another.
“the devourer.”
the interviewer looked down at the tiny cat photo again as if hoping she had somehow misheard you. “you named your cat ‘the devourer’?”
“he once swallowed an entire chicken wing — with bones — without chewing. quite possibly one of the most upsetting things i’ve ever witnessed.” you explained with a shudder of remembered horror.
by this point, even the camera crew had started laughing audibly, the boom mic dipping slightly into frame as the operator fought for his life.
“and finally,” you said reverently, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper as you carefully extracted the final, slightly bent polaroid from the very bottom of your bag. you held it daintily with both hands, as if the photo would crumble with a single breath.
“jim.”
the interviewer leaned in, perhaps expecting a regal sphynx or sleek siamese to round out the eccentric collection. instead, she stared at the photograph for a long moment before completely losing it.
“just jim??” she wheezed.
you looked down at the photo adoringly, ignoring her hysterics. jim was, undeniably, just a cat. he was a vibrant, classy shade of orange, captured in a state of total, empty-headed bliss while wedged awkwardly inside a plastic laundry basket. there was no thought behind those wide, amber eyes; only the vague, distant hum of a single shared brain cell.
“he’s very grounded,” you explained solemnly, your expression remarkably sincere given the circumstances. “jim just wants to exist in the proximity of warm laundry. he keeps the rest of us humble.”
the interviewer leaned back, looking between the stack of cat photos spread across your lap and your completely sincere expression. she seemed to be searching for a punchline that wasn’t coming.
“…you keep these in your wallet at all times?” she asked, her voice hitching with a leftover giggle.
you frowned slightly, tilting your head as if she had just asked why you chose to breathe oxygen. you were getting progressively more confused by the skepticism.
“well yeah,” you said, your tone earnest. “what if somebody asks about my cats? it would be incredibly rude to describe his excellency attorney general meatloaf without providing visual evidence of his girth.”
the interviewer clutched her cue cards to her chest in a desperate ploy to ground herself. “you actually carry around physical, analog photographs just in case of a feline-related inquiry?”
“obviously,” you replied, sniffing with mock dignity.
you began the delicate process of gathering the portraits of baron von murderpillow and the devourer, finally tucking jim—the orange, laundry-loving soul of the household—carefully back into the leather depths of your kelly.
“it’s not like i have some tiny glowing rectangle in my pocket,” you continued, “where i can instantly show people photos while slowly destroying my collective attention span by scrolling through endless amounts of meaningless short-form content for six hours straight.”
the studio fell into a sudden, heavy silence as the weight of the description settled over the room.
“…that was oddly specific,” the interviewer said weakly, blinking as if she had just seen a ghost from the future.
“sounds dystopian,” michael added weakly from somewhere behind the cameras.
“thank you,” you replied.
“that wasn’t a compliment,” he called back, though the unmistakable affection in his tone betrayed him.
“and yet i’m choosing to receive it as one.”
the studio remained thick with a bewildered sort of silence. the interviewer looked like she was still trying to decipher how your brain operated, while the camera crew exchanged looks that vacillated between amusement and concern.
you glanced down thoughtfully at your kelly.
“…i actually didn’t show you lieutenant dan.”
the interviewer made a small noise somewhere between horror and exhausted resignation as your hand immediately disappeared back into the bag.
somewhere behind the cameras, one of the producers quietly muttered while rubbing his temples:
SUMMARY: what starts with Michael lying horribly about loving to tour slowly becomes an intimate portrait of the life he built with the one person who loved him beyond the fame.
CONTENT: michael jackson x reader. chaotic domestic fluff. established relationship. ‘i love to tour’.
this is one of my favorites so far. dedicated to the kind people in my inbox <3 you know who you guys are!
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭
The cameras had been rolling for almost four hours.
By now they had already covered the children.
Neverland.
Recording.
The media.
Michael’s perfectionism in the studio.
His sleep schedule, which had somehow turned into a twenty-minute argument because Y/N kept exposing how little he actually slept.
And now there were only two topics left on the producer’s clipboard:
Touring.
And Y/N.
Half-empty water bottles cluttered the tables near the monitors.
Somebody’s headset crackled every few minutes.
One exhausted production assistant sat cross-legged on the floor eating pretzels straight out of the bag while trying not to fall asleep.
And in the middle of all of it sat Michael Jackson.
Leg crossed neatly over the other.
Black jacket up rolled slightly at the sleeves.
Dark hair falling softly around his face.
So beautiful it was almost unfair.
But tonight he looked different.
Less guarded.
The whole point of the recording was supposed to be honesty.
Michael watching old home videos and reacting naturally after years of manipulated interviews and twisted media narratives that turned every sentence into a headline.
The production team wanted warmth.
Humanity.
Softness.
What they got instead was Michael Jackson being impossible.
“Okay,” one producer said carefully from behind the cameras, glancing at his notes. “Next we’re gonna talk a little about touring.”
Michael visibly deflated immediately.
Y/N noticed from across the studio and started smiling to herself.
Because she knew that expression.
That was Michael preparing to complain.
The producer continued cautiously.
“Just keep it positive.”
Michael blinked slowly.
“But I don’t like it, though.”
The entire room froze.
A camera operator lowered his headset.
The producer laughed nervously.
“…Michael.”
“No, I go through hell,” he insisted sincerely. “I go through hell touring.”
Y/N had already covered her mouth trying not to laugh.
Michael kept going. “You go from one continent to another. You’re sleepy, the time zones are different. You can’t sleep after the shows.”
The producer rubbed his forehead.
“We just mean maybe phrase it a little more… positively.”
Michael stared at him for a very long moment. Then sighed dramatically.
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll keep it positive. But you guys know the truth.”
The producer looked deeply unconvinced already.
Michael turned toward the camera, face completely serious.
“I love to tour.” He said while he lifting one hand delicately in this exaggerated little gesture like he was trying way too hard to sell the lie himself.
Y/N absolutely lost it.
Not a cute laugh.
Not graceful.
Full-body hysterics.
She folded in half on the couch beside the monitors wheezing so hard she nearly slid onto the floor.
The entire studio broke immediately afterward.
The sound guy bent over laughing.
One assistant smacked the table repeatedly trying to breathe.
Even the producer gave up pretending to be professional.
And Michael sat there looking deeply pleased with himself.
“That’s not funny,” he muttered while trying not to smile.
Y/N pointed at him gasping for air. “You looked directly into the camera like somebody was holding you at gun point!”
Michael burst into laughter too then. Real laughter. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes squeezed shut. Shoulders shaking.
And years later that exact clip would go insanely viral online.
Millions of people replaying Michael’s painfully obvious lie followed immediately by Y/N’s explosive laugh echoing somewhere behind the camera like she physically could not believe his audacity.
People quoted it constantly.
“I love to tour.” *violent wheezing somewhere off-camera*
Entire compilations existed of “Michael Jackson being accidentally hilarious.”
And Y/N’s laugh became part of internet history.
But back then,inside that warm sleepy studio, it just felt real.
Eventually the producers calmed everybody down enough to continue filming.
“Alright,” an assistant sighed while wiping tears from beneath her eyes. “Let’s roll the tapes.”
The lights dimmed softly.
The monitor flickered.
Static crackled through the speakers before old home video footage appeared onscreen.
Grainy.
Golden.
The kind of footage that made every memory feel softer somehow.
Michael’s expression changed immediately.
The joking faded.
Not completely.
But enough.
Because suddenly there was a younger version of himself onscreen.
No makeup.
No stage lighting.
No rehearsed answers.
Just Michael.
The first clips showed Neverland in the early morning.
Sunlight spilling across the grass.
Animals wandering lazily near fences.
Children laughing somewhere in the distance.
Then suddenly the camera jerked violently because someone behind it started running.
“WHERE IS SHE?” Michael’s voice echoed breathlessly through the speakers.
And instantly Y/N appeared from behind a tree holding two enormous Super Soakers.
Michael inhaled sharply laughing already.
“Oh no.”
Y/N looked directly into the camera with the expression of somebody about to commit a felony.
Then proceeded to fire water directly into the lens.
The footage shook violently while Michael screamed.
The studio burst into laughter.
“She cheated,” Michael protested immediately. Y/N looked offended. “You had TWO super soakers.” He pointed an accusatory finger at where she stood behind the cameras.
“That’s called strategy.”
“That’s cheating!”
The footage continued.
Michael sprinting across the grass absolutely soaked while Y/N chased him relentlessly. Both laughing too hard to aim anymore.
At one point Michael slipped dramatically near the lake and disappeared completely from frame.
Y/N’s scream-laugh echoed through the tape so loudly the cameraman started laughing too hard to hold the camera steady.
Studio Michael physically hid his face smiling.
“Oh my God…”
Another clip started.
The lake at Neverland.
Golden sunlight reflecting across the water.
Michael floating peacefully on his back while Y/N swam nearby splashing water directly into his face every few seconds just to annoy him.
“You’re so mean to me,” young Michael complained weakly.
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately I do.”
The studio laughed softly.
But Michael had gone quieter now.
Watching carefully.
Then another tape started.
The camera quality looked worse here.
Shakier.
Chaotic.
The kind of footage that Michael filmed himself constantly.
The screen showed Neverland’s arcade room decorated for some kind of party.
Bright lights.
Music blasting faintly in the background.
And little Macaulay Culkin running across the room screaming.
The entire studio immediately smiled.
“Oh my God,” Y/N whispered already laughing.
The footage panned suddenly —and there she was.
Completely unaware of Michael filming.
Y/N stood in the middle of the arcade dancing ridiculously with Macaulay.
Not normal dancing either.
Terrible dancing.
Full commitment.
Wild arm movements.
Spinning in circles.
At one point Macaulay dropped dramatically to the floor mid-dance and Y/N copied him instantly like they were in some serious choreography routine.
Michael’s voice behind the camera laughed softly.
“Look at these fools…”
Y/N grabbed Macaulay’s hands suddenly and the two of them started aggressively swing dancing completely off beat.
The studio burst out laughing.
“She dances exactly like she drinks,” one assistant muttered.
“Violently,” Michael answered immediately.
Onscreen Y/N attempted some kind of spin, but her boot got caught awkwardly against the carpet. And suddenly—she absolutely ate shit.
Straight to the floor.
Macaulay screamed.
The camera jolted violently because Michael behind it started wheezing.
Not normal laughing.
Full breathless wheezing.
The kind where he physically couldn’t hold the camera steady anymore.
“Oh my God—”
Young Y/N stayed sprawled dramatically on the floor for a second before pointing accusingly toward the camera. She didn’t say anything, just glared.
Michael’s laughter got worse.
The footage shook so badly now you could barely see anything.
Macaulay had collapsed beside Y/N laughing too hard to stand.
“I thought you died for a second!” he yelled through laughter.
Y/N lifted one arm weakly from the floor.
“Tell my family… I was batman…”
The studio completely lost it.
Even the producers were crying from laughing now.
Michael had buried his face in one hand trying unsuccessfully to breathe normally.
“You fell for no reason,” he accused weakly.
“I was performing.”
“You looked absolutely possessed.”
Y/N pointed at the screen defensively.
“That carpet attacked me.”
Michael laughed so hard tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
Then another clip appeared.
Michael teaching Y/N how to moonwalk inside one of Neverland’s empty hallways.
The camera quality got shakier because whoever filmed it was already laughing.
Michael stood patiently demonstrating the movement.
“No, no,” he said through laughter. “You gotta glide.”
“I AM gliding.”
“You look like a confused C-3PO.”
Y/N gasped dramatically, looking genuinely offended. “You take that back,” She pointed her index finger at him. “You know I like R2-D2 better.” Michael rolled his eyes playfully.
Then she proceeded to try again. And immediately lost balance.
Michael instinctively reached forward to catch her.
Which turned into both of them crashing onto the carpet in a tangled mess of limbs and laughter.
Y/N screamed laughing directly into his shoulder while Michael tried unsuccessfully to sit back up.
Then suddenly—without any warning— Y/N grabbed his face and started kissing him everywhere.
Forehead.
Cheek.
Jaw.
Nose.
Rapid-fire affectionate attacks while Michael laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe.
“STOP—”
“You’re talented!”
“Y/N—”
“You’re AMAZING.”
Then her voice echoed dramatically through the hallway:
“You know what they say: support the arts, kiss a musician!”
From behind the camera somebody snorted laughing.
Michael blinked up at her.
“Y/N, who on earth says that?”
“Well ME.”
And then she immediately resumed kissing his face obnoxiously while Michael curled into himself laughing helplessly.
The studio melted.
Because neither of them even looked aware of the camera.
It was just instinct.
Comfort.
Love overflowing too naturally to contain.
Another tape rolled.
This one started abruptly.
The camera quality was terrible.
The angle was crooked.
Lens zoomed in.
Clearly filmed by somebody who had absolutely no idea what they were doing.
And of course, Y/N’s voice filled the speakers.
“Okay,” she whispered dramatically into the camera. “Operation Birthday Cake has begun.”
Studio Michael blinked.
“Oh no.”
The footage showed Y/N crouched somewhere inside Neverland’s kitchen wearing oversized pajamas and an apron that said Kiss The Cook.
Flour already covered her cheek somehow.
The camera tilted violently downward as she tried to use a fruit bowl as a tripod.
“I’m baking Michael a birthday cake because he’s a bit sad,” she explained seriously.
Studio Michael immediately softened.
Because he remembered that period.
Exhaustion.
Tour rehearsals.
Tabloids.
Pressure.
He’d barely been sleeping back then.
Then onscreen Michael’s younger voice suddenly echoed from somewhere upstairs:
“Why are you up so late?”
Y/N froze like a criminal, eyes widening.
Then whispered toward the camera dramatically:
“God forbid a girl is secretly Batman.”
The studio burst into laughter again.
“What’s with you and batman?” An assistant asked with curiosity.
Y/N just shook her head and mumbled an “I don’t even know.”
The footage cut suddenly.
Now the kitchen looked like a war zone.
Flour everywhere.
Eggshells on the counter.
One bowl smoking slightly, God knows why.
Y/N stood in the middle of that chaos looking horrified while reading the recipe card upside down.
“What does ‘fold gently’ mean?” she demanded off-camera. “How do you aggressively fold something?!”
Studio Michael physically covered his face laughing.
Then another voice entered the kitchen.
Tiny.
Excited.
“Y/N!”
Little Macaulay Culkin sprinted into frame carrying three bags of candy.
Y/N gasped dramatically.
“Oh thank God.”
Macaulay looked around at the disaster.
“Did it explode?”
“Not exactly.”
After that the footage became infinitely worse.
Because now there were two of them.
Macaulay dumped an entire bag of chocolate chips into the bowl without measuring.
Y/N nodded seriously.
“Beautiful work.”
Another clip.
Flour exploded directly into Macaulay’s face.
Another.
Y/N trying to crack an egg one-handed and accidentally launching it onto the floor.
Another.
The mixer turning on unexpectedly and spraying batter absolutely everywhere.
The camera caught Y/N standing frozen in silence afterward covered head-to-toe in frosting. She looked like a traumatized soldier.
Macaulay collapsed onto the floor laughing.
Studio Michael was wheezing now.
“You two are ANIMALS.”
Onscreen Y/N pointed dramatically toward the camera.
“This is for LOVE, Michael!”
Another cut.
The cake finally appeared.
Crooked.
Leaning slightly to one side.
Covered in way too much frosting.
Decorated with messy stars and badly piped writing that read:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MICHAEL :)
Macaulay stared at it proudly.
“It looks haunted.”
“It looks homemade,” Y/N corrected defensively.
“It looks like it survived something.”
Then the footage cut one final time.
Now the camera had been hidden strategically inside the dining room.
Perfect angle toward the table.
Candles glowing softly atop the cake.
And after a few seconds Michael walked into frame.
Younger.
Tired-looking.
Still wearing rehearsal clothes.
Completely unsuspecting.
Y/N and Macauley’s voice immediately yelled from off-camera:
“SURPRISE!”
Michael physically jumped.
Then he saw the cake.
And his entire face changed. Not dramatically. Not for the camera. Just this small soft shift. Like something inside him loosened.
Y/N and Macaulay stumbled into frame wearing party hats and singing loudly off-key.
Macaulay was still covered in flour somehow.
Y/N looked exhausted, frosting still smeared across her cheek.
Michael stared between them and the cake slowly.
“…You made this?”
“We went to battle for you,” Y/N informed him seriously.
Macaulay nodded solemnly.
“She almost died.”
“I did not.”
“You caught the oven mitt on fire.”
“Okay, that was ONE time.”
Michael laughed softly. Then looked back at the cake again.
And suddenly he looked emotional.
Really emotional.
The kind he tried hiding immediately.
Y/N noticed instantly and her voice softened right away. “You okay?”
Michael nodded quickly. But he kept staring at the cake.
At the uneven frosting.
The crooked decorations.
The ridiculous amount of effort somebody put into making him feel loved.
Then quietly—almost too quiet for the tape to catch— he said:
“You did all this for me?”
Y/N looked genuinely confused by the question. “Yeah?” She said it was obvious.
Like loving him was the easiest thing in the world.
The studio watching the footage went completely silent.
Because even through grainy tape quality you could see exactly when Michael fell a little more in love with her.
Another clip rolled unexpectedly afterward.
The camera pointed shakily toward Neverland’s front gates before suddenly turning around and there was Michael.
Huge grin already forming on his pretty face.
Holding a tiny dachshund puppy carefully against his chest.
The puppy blinked at the camera while Michael tried unsuccessfully to act normal.
The entire studio immediately gasped.
“Oh my God,” Y/N whispered, immediately covering her mouth with a hand.
Michael looked directly into the camera with the most devastatingly smug expression imaginable.
Then he lifted the puppy slightly higher, so the camera could capture him. It was so tiny it fit in only one of Michael’s hand. “Y/N is always saying she wants a wiener dog,” He shook his head, chuckling at how she referred to dachshund dogs. “and if my girlfriend thinks she can just bat her cute little eyelashes at me and get whatever she wants…” He glanced down at the dog. Then back toward the camera. “…she’s absolutely right.”
The studio audibly melted. Everyone chanted “awww” in unison.
One assistant physically grabbed her chest.
Another whispered:
“Ohmygod I think I’m gonna die.”
Michael hid his face smiling while Y/N looked seconds away from emotional collapse already.
Then the footage jolted because Michael started walking quickly through Neverland holding the camera in one hand and hiding the puppy behind his back with the other.
The puppy’s tiny paws kicked lazily against his shirt.
“You have to be quiet,” He whispered dramatically to the dog. “This is espionage.”
The studio burst out laughing.
The footage moved through the house shakily before finding Y/N near the kitchen island wearing sunglasses indoors and holding a mug she had custom made just to tease Michael.
It said ‘Coff-hee-hee’
She looked completely unsuspecting.
Michael tried to sound casual.
“Hey.”
Y/N looked up.
“Hey.”
Then, the puppy made the tiniest sound imaginable behind Michael’s back. Y/N narrowed her eyes immediately.
“…Michael.”
“Hmm?”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“You look guilty.”
“You always say I look guilty.”
“True.”
The studio laughed softly.
Then Michael finally stepped closer and revealed the puppy from behind his back.
He was met with silence.
Y/N froze completely.
The beloved mug almost slipped from her hand.
“Michael.”
The puppy blinked at her.
“Michael,” And then Y/N made the most horrible strangled sound alive before bursting into tears immediately. “Oh my GOD—”
She dropped to the floor beside the puppy laughing and crying at the same time while Michael started laughing behind the camera.
“You gave me a wiener?!” Michael chuckled hard at her words.
The puppy climbed directly into her lap while she held it like it had personally descended from heaven.
“Oh my God,” she kept repeating emotionally. “Oh my God…”
Young Michael crouched beside her still laughing softly while she cried over the dog dramatically.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“You deserve every wiener dog in the world, my love.”
“LOOK at him!”
The puppy licked her chin.
Y/N gasped like she’d just experienced divine intervention.
“We’re naming him Shamone.” She blurted out.
Michael burst into laughter.
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes we are.”
“No dog should be named Shamone.”
Y/N clutched the puppy protectively against her chest like a Victorian mother shielding her child from the horrors of the world.
The puppy blinked sleepily in her lap.
Then suddenly Y/N looked down at him very seriously.
“Don’t you love your name, Shamone?”
The dog barked.
Y/N’s jaw dropped dramatically before she whipped her head toward Michael with the most vindicated expression imaginable.
Michael stared back at her in complete disbelief.
“…What the schmuck?”
“See?!” Y/N screamed triumphantly. “He knows that’s his name.”
“That dog does not know his name!”
“He identified with it.”
“He barked!”
“Because he’s spiritually connected to me!”
Michael laughed hard while the camera shook violently in his hand.
The puppy barked again.
Y/N pointed at him accusingly.
“AND HE SAID IT TWICE.”
“You’re insane,” Michael wheezed.
“And yet our son agrees with me.”
“Our WHAT?”
Back in the studio present-day Michael had tears in the corners of his eyes from laughing.
“You traumatized that poor dog.”
“He loves me.”
“He fears you!”
The room dissolved into laughter again while onscreen younger Y/N continued crying over the dachshund like Michael had just gifted her the moon itself.
But slowly, as more tapes rolled, the atmosphere softened.
Because every clip carried the same feeling underneath the chaos.
Ease.
Safety.
Love without performance.
Then another clip appeared onscreen.
The lake again.
Sunset this time.
Michael sat wrapped in a blanket beside Y/N near the shore while she listened to him ramble quietly about something off-camera.
And the way she looked at him—
God.
Even the crew noticed it.
Patient.
Soft.
Completely focused.
Like listening to him was the easiest thing in the world.
Michael swallowed hard.
His eyes looked glassy suddenly.
Not crying. Just dangerously close to it.
The producer noticed immediately.
“What’s going through your mind?”
Michael didn’t answer at first.
The footage kept rolling silently.
Young Y/N laughing beside him.
Young Michael smiling without restraint.
No cameras they were aware of.
No performance.
Just happiness.
Finally Michael spoke quietly.
“I think people don’t realize how rare it is…”
His voice sounded softer now. Careful. “To have somebody around you who never wanted anything.”
The studio went completely silent.
Y/N looked up immediately from the couch.
Michael still hadn’t looked away from the screen.
“She never cared about any of this,” he continued softly, motioning vaguely around the studio. “Not the fame or the money or… any of it.”
Onscreen younger Y/N shoved him accidentally into the lake.
Michael’s younger voice screamed while she laughed so hard she almost fell in after him.
Studio Michael smiled watching it happen.
And suddenly he looked younger too somehow.
“She just loved me.”
Silence filled the room afterward.
Heavy silence.
The emotional kind.
One assistant discreetly wiped beneath her eyes.
Y/N looked down quickly trying not to cry herself.
Because Michael said it so simply. Like it still surprised him after all these years.
Like unconditional love still felt miraculous to him.
The producer cleared his throat softly after a moment.
“There’s… one more tape.”
Michael’s head snapped up immediately.
“No.”
The producer blinked.
“You did approve all the footage.”
“I know which one that is.” Suddenly Michael looked genuinely nervous for the first time all night.
Not playful nervous. Real nervous.
He turned immediately toward Y/N across the room.
And Y/N’s expression softened instantly.
Because she knew.
“Oh,” she whispered quietly.
The producer looked between them uncertainly.
“We don’t have to show it—”
“No,” Y/N interrupted gently.
Michael looked at her again.
Still hesitant.
Still protective.
Because this clip—this one had never been meant for anybody else.
No press.
No cameras.
No documentary.
Just him and her.
Private.
Sacred almost.
Y/N smiled softly.
“It’s okay.”
Michael searched her face carefully.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“Let them see.”
The studio had gone completely silent now.
Even the assistants stopped moving.
Then slowly, the final tape rolled.
The footage started shakily.
Clearly handheld.
Nighttime.
Soft golden lights glowing through Neverland’s gardens.
Candles everywhere. Hundreds of them. Wrapped carefully around trees. Floating beside pathways. Lighting the lake in warm reflections.
The camera moved slowly through the garden until Michael’s younger voice whispered nervously behind it:
“Okay… okay…”
The entire studio immediately melted.
Because Michael Jackson sounded terrified.
Then the camera tilted slightly and there was Y/N.
Standing near the lake in a soft yellow dress.
Completely unsuspecting.
The wind moved gently through her hair while she stared at the candles in confusion.
“Michael?” she called softly.
The camera shook because Michael’s hands were visibly trembling.
Studio Michael immediately buried his face in one hand.
“Oh my God…”
Onscreen younger Michael finally stepped into frame after setting the camera down carefully on a nearby table.
And somehow—
despite every stage he’d ever stood on—
despite millions of screaming fans—
he looked more nervous here than anywhere else in his life.
Y/N noticed instantly. She always did. Her smile softened.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael laughed nervously. “Everything.”
The studio laughed softly through the tension.
Then he walked closer slowly.
Close enough to hold her hands.
And immediately his entire expression changed, as if touching her grounded him.
“You know,” he started quietly, “I spent my whole life thinking love was something people earned.” Y/N’s eyes softened immediately. Michael kept going. “Like I had to perform for it. Or work for it. Or become something for people to stay.”
The studio had gone dead silent now.
Even the cameras felt still.
“But you…” Michael laughed shakily. “You loved me when I was annoying. And exhausted. And paranoid. And ridiculous.”
Y/N was fighting tears back already.
“You loved me before all this got…” He motioned vaguely around himself. “…heavy.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word. And instantly Y/N squeezed his hands tighter.
Michael looked down briefly trying to compose himself.
When he looked back up his eyes were glassy.
“I don’t think you understand what you did for me.”
Y/N covered her mouth as tears kept pooling around her eyes.
And Michael—sweet, impossible Michael—started crying too.
Not dramatic.
Not movie tears.
Real ones.
The kind he kept trying unsuccessfully to blink away.
“You made me feel safe,” he whispered.
That broke the entire room.
A producer wiped tears away.
One assistant outright started crying.
Onscreen Michael laughed shakily through tears.
“You’re my best friend.”
Y/N was fully sobbing now.
Michael reached up instinctively wiping beneath her eyes with both thumbs.
“And every good thing in my life somehow leads back to you.”
Then—
finally—
he dropped slowly to one knee.
The studio audibly gasped.
Y/N made the most heartbreaking sound imaginable.
“Oh my God…”
Michael looked up at her like she hung the moon itself.
Completely undone.
Completely in love.
“I don’t want another version of my life that doesn’t have you in it.”
His voice cracked again.
“I don’t care where we are. Or what happens. Or what people say about me tomorrow.”
Then he smiled through tears.
“As long as you’re there.”
Y/N was crying too hard to speak now.
Michael laughed softly.
Which only made him cry harder.
“So…” he whispered shakily. “Will you marry me?”
Y/N didn’t even let him finish fully before dropping to her knees with him.
“Yes.” Immediately. Without hesitation. “Yes, yes—”
She grabbed his face kissing him through tears while Michael laughed against her mouth so overwhelmed he could barely breathe.
The studio lost it.
People cried.
Laughed.
Covered their mouths.
Onscreen Y/N kept kissing his face over and over while Michael held her so tightly like he physically never wanted to let go again.
Then through tears she laughed shakily:
“You realize I’m gonna annoy you forever now.”
Michael laughed into her shoulder immediately. “Promise?”
And somehow—
somehow—
that hit even harder.
The footage ended shortly afterward with Michael forgetting the camera existed entirely.
Still kneeling beside the lake.
Still holding her face carefully.
Still staring at her with this expression like he genuinely could not believe she loved him back.
Then the screen went black.
Silence filled the studio.
Nobody moved.
Nobody even pretended not to cry anymore.
Present-day Michael sat quietly staring at the blank screen.
Eyes red.
Hands folded together tightly.
Y/N looked emotional too.
But calmer somehow.
Certain.
The producer spoke softly after a long moment.
“That might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Michael looked down shyly.
And Y/N just reached over quietly intertwining their fingers.
Because after all these years, after every headline and every tour and every interview and every lonely horrible thing fame had dragged through Michael’s life: their love had remained the truest thing in the room.
The BAU bullpen was, by most standards, not an appropriate place for a four-year-old.
Jack Hotchner, however, had never been consulted on that opinion. Today though, spencer and JJ were tasked to look after the toddler while his father was in a meeting until his babysitter came and took him home. JJ and Spencer loved Jack, he was a kind and smart toddler. So to say they were shocked at how he was acting today was an understatement.
Jack was sat on top of Spencer’s desk with his legs swinging — on it, not at it, because the chair was too big and he’d declared it “boring” — with his arms folded tight across his chest and his bottom lip pushed out far enough to cast a shadow. In front of him, spencers hand held a paper towel with genuine optimism, and on said paper towel, several offerings: half a granola bar, half a banana, and a neat pile of red apple slices that Spencer was still holding out at arm’s length like a peace treaty.
“Jack,” JJ tried, using the warm voice she reserved for Henry when he was being particularly unreasonable. “Buddy. They’re apple slices. You like apple slices.”
Jack looked at the apple slices.
Then he looked at JJ.
Then he stuck his tongue out at her.
JJ straightened up and looked at Spencer. Spencer looked back at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“I have a PhD,” Spencer said, mostly to himself. “Three of them.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Spencer crouched down slightly to be at eye level with Jack, tilting his head with the careful, methodical energy of someone approaching a problem they genuinely intended to solve. “Okay, Jack, did you know that apples contain something called quercetin? It’s an antioxidant that actually supports—”
Jack blew an m&m directly into Spencer’s face.
JJ covered her mouth. Spencer stood back up very slowly, blinking.
“I’m going to get him a juice box,” JJ announced, and she was absolutely laughing as she walked away.
Spencer sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and held the apple slices out again gamely. “Alright. New approach. What if—”
The elevator doors opened.
Jack’s entire demeanor transformed in under a second — the folded arms dropped, the pout dissolved, and he launched himself off the desk with the full confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of falling.
“Hey!”
Spencer looked down at the little toddler running towards the elevators, then he looked at what Jack was after.
You started babysitting Jack when he was only a year old, so Jack quickly bonded to you since he spent most of his time with you because his dad was too busy working, not that he minded it, Jack loved you, and you adored the little gremlin. You met Aaron Hotchner when you were serving him at a diner you worked at, that diner? worst place. Your manager was a sexist asshole who payed you less than the guys working there. You heard Aaron talking about how he needed to take jack with him to work since his babysitter canceled again. So when he called you over asking for some water, you couldn’t help but intrude a little. “Are you looking for a babysitter?”. And then that was that. Of course he didnt hire you right away, he sat u done on the chair infront of him and started asking questions. You told him you were in college, you lived on campus not far from here, youve loved babies and that youve babysat before. Even then he told you he wasnt sure yet and that hed call you back. It was only till after he made Garcia do a backround check on you that he called you back.
You caught him on instinct, one arm hooking under him as he collided with you, the other steadying his weight as he scrambled up onto your hip like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. You laughed, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head.
“Hey, you,” you said warmly. “You ready to—”
“They were so mean to me.”
You pulled back to look at his face. He was devastated. Genuinely, completely, dramatically devastated, both small hands fisted in the front of your jacket, his expression the particular flavor of betrayal usually reserved for Greek tragedy.
“Who was mean to you sweet boy?” you asked.
He pointed.
You followed the direction of his finger to find a blonde returning from the break room with a juice box, and a tall man — lanky, cardigan, slightly bewildered expression, still holding a paper towel of apple slices — standing by the desk. Your gaze settled on him for just a moment, the way you might clock a new variable in a familiar equation.
Spencer Reid, for his part, forgot how to do anything.
He was aware, distantly, that this was an embarrassing response to a person simply existing in his vicinity, but his brain, which usually had plenty to say about everything, went abruptly and completely offline. You were standing there with Jack on your hip and a slightly frowning look aimed in his direction and he could not locate a single word in any of the six languages he spoke. You looked breathtaking. This was your first time at the bau, yes, hed heard about you from jack and aaron but hed never actually seen you. It was clear you’d came from class, hence the books peaking out of your bag zipper.
You looked back at Jack, then at Spencer and JJ again, and the small frown deepened with theatrical suspicion. Slowly, you walked over to them,
“Were you two being mean to my favorite boy?”
“Yes,” Jack said firmly, before the two even had a chance to reply.
“We were trying to feed him,” the girl said, with the weariness of someone who had been through a minor military campaign. “He won’t eat anything.” You soon recognized her from the pictures in Aarons living room, this was JJ.
“They were gonna poison me,” Jack stage-whispered to you, as though this were classified.
“They were—” You blinked. Then you looked at JJ. Then at the tall, still-silent man beside her. He was wearing a thick brown sweater with designs all over it, god he looked cute. This was Spencer.
JJ glanced at Spencer, who appeared to be experiencing some kind of internal systems error, and made the executive decision to speak for both of them. “We gave him the apple slices from the break room. He’s been up on that desk for twenty-five minutes refusing everything we offer him and making faces at us.”
“I made one face,” Jack said primly.
You looked at him. He had the grace to amend: “Two faces.”
JJ shook her head with a small smile, glancing toward her own desk where papers waited. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said diplomatically, and retreated with the grace of someone who recognized a handoff when they saw one.
Which left you, and Jack, and Spencer, who was still holding the apple slices.
You looked at what was in his hand. Then you looked at Jack, hiking him a little higher on your hip so you were face to face with him, eyebrows raised.
“Jack. Honey.” You kept your voice gentle, even as the corner of your mouth twitched. “Red apples are your favorite. Why won’t you eat them?”
“Because they’ll poison me,” Jack repeated, with total sincerity.
“Sweetheart, they won’t poison you. They’ve been washed. They’re very clean.”
“No!” He shook his head, with the gravity of someone correcting a fundamental misunderstanding. “I’m not talking about the apples.” He pointed again at Spencer. “I’m talking about him. And JJ. They’re gonna poison me. That’s what I’m saying.”
You stared at him. “…You think they’re going to poison you.”
“Uncle Morgan said,” Jack said, with complete confidence, “that JJ and Spencer are aliens and they electrocute people who touch them.”
The silence lasted approximately one and a half seconds before you couldn’t hold it anymore.
The laugh came out startled and genuine, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. Jack watched you with a very serious expression, clearly not understanding what was funny about the very serious threat he’d just described.
You got yourself together. Mostly.
“Jack,” you managed. “Baby. Uncle Morgan was playing with you. I promise — I promise — they are not going to hurt you. They’re not aliens.”
“Yes they are.”
“They’re not.”
“They’re gonna electrocute me.”
“They’re—” You looked up at Spencer, who was watching this exchange with an expression you couldn’t quite read — somewhere between charmed and completely overwhelmed — and made a decision.
You reached out and poked him on the arm. The arm not holding the apple slices. Firmly, squarely, two fingers against the sleeve of his cardigan covering his bicep.
“See?” you told Jack, turning back to him. “I touched him. I’m okay.”
Jack looked at your arm. At Spencer’s arm. At you.
“That’s his sleeve,” Jack said, with devastating four-year-old logic. “You didn’t touch his skin. It’s the skin.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
He had a point.
You were aware, in some peripheral way, that what you did next was perhaps slightly beyond the normal bounds of meeting someone for the first time. You were also aware that you were being out-argued by a toddler in front of a stranger and that Jack would not eat his apple slices until this was resolved to his satisfaction.
You reached over and took Spencer’s hand.
Not his sleeve. His hand. You wrapped your fingers around his, spencers hand gripped yours and his thumb went to your knuckles, you held up his hand, clearly, visibly, between the three of you, and looked at Jack with raised eyebrows.
Spencer stopped breathing.
“See, baby?” Your voice was easy, unbothered, warm. “He’s not hurting me. Look. I’m holding his hand and I’m perfectly fine.”
Jack studied this with the intense scrutiny of a small scientist reviewing data. He looked at your joined hands. At Spencer’s face. At your face. Back at the apple slices.
And then, slowly, with the air of someone making a significant concession, he leaned forward and took an apple slice from Spencer’s paper towel.
You exhaled in quiet triumph.
Jack chewed. Reached for another slice. Then stopped.
“You have to keep holding it..” he announced.
“Jack—”
“Or he’ll electrocute me!”
You looked at Spencer. Spencer looked at you. Something almost like a smile was happening at the corner of his mouth — hesitant, a little undone — and up close his eyes were a very particular shade of brown that your brain filed away without your permission.
“Okay,” you said, and kept holding his hand while Jack methodically worked through the rest of the apple slices, unhurried, occasionally swinging his feet and humming something that might have been a cartoon theme song.
Spencer Reid stood very still and said nothing and was genuinely unsure if his heart was beating at a normal rate.
When the last slice was gone, Jack wiped his hands on his jeans with great satisfaction and announced, “Okay. I want to go home now.”
You laughed, shifting him back to a more secure position on your hip, and let go of Spencer’s hand. “What do you say Jack?” you nudged him, “Thank you!” jack beamed. You looked up at him, and there was something warm and a little amused in your expression.
“Sorry about him,” you said. “And — sorry about the, um.” A small gesture between the two of you. “I don’t usually just grab strangers’ hands. I’m—” you told him your name.
Spencer’s mouth opened. A sound came out that was not, technically, a word.
“Spencer,” he said, finally. Just his name. That was all he managed.
But you smiled at him like that was enough, and it kind of felt like it was.
“Bye Spencer” Your voice was like honey saying his name. You kissed Jacks cheek and told him to say bye.
“Bye, Spencer,” Jack said, pointing at him seriously. “Don’t electrocute anyone.”
“I’ll — do my best,” Spencer said.
You were still smiling as you turned toward the elevator, shifting Jack against your side, the two of you already deep in some murmured conversation about what he wanted for dinner. Spencer watched the elevator doors close.
“Looks like pretty boy found pretty girl.”
He didn’t have to turn around to know who that was.
Derek Morgan materialized at his shoulder with the energy of someone who had been watching this entire interaction from a safe distance and enjoying every second of it. He was grinning the way he grinned when he had something very good and intended to make it last.
“Couldn’t speak, huh.”
“I spoke,” Spencer said.
“You said your own name, man.”
“That’s — speaking.”
“Hotch’s kid’s babysitter.” Morgan shook his head slowly, savoring it. “You gonna be weird about this for a while, or—”
“I’m not going to be weird about anything. I don’t know her. I met her for four minutes.” Spencer quickly came to his own defense.
“She held your hand.”
“For Jack. She held my hand for Jack, it was a child-management strategy—”
“You watched her walk to the elevator.”
“I was just—”
“Spencer.”
“I don’t know her,” Spencer repeated, with slightly less conviction than the first time.
Morgan looked at him for a long moment with the particular expression of a man who had just filed something away for future use, extensive future use, possibly for years. Then he clapped Spencer on the shoulder and walked away, still grinning.
Spencer stood where he was.
The bullpen hummed around him — keyboards, phones, Garcia’s distant laugh from the break room, maybe she was talking to Emily. Normal. All completely normal.
He looked down at his hand.
The paper towel was still in it, empty now, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking at the other hand. He turned it over once, a slow, slightly disbelieving motion, the way you might look at something that had been briefly, unexpectedly extraordinary and was now just ordinary again.
His hand, which was also just his hand.
He stood there looking at it for probably too long.
Then he folded the paper towel very carefully and went back to work. But that was the day that Spencer made a mental note to thank Derek for calling him an alien infront of Jack. One day.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
Summary: When a case in New York drags you back to a place you’d rather forget, you find yourself pulled in two directions— face your truth, or continue to live in your lie.
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Mutant!Male!Reader
Word Count: 21.4k
Tags/Warnings: canon-level violence, anti-mutant sentiment, sexual talks, theme of sibling loss, unresolved trauma, Charles Xavier Slander, canon-level cases, I make my own canon. friends-to-lovers.
A/n: in honor of turning 21, here’s a 21k word fic and this is a part 1
PART 2
Close. Close to catching the killer. Close to getting on that jet and returning home. Close to putting this case behind you. Close to having the families get some type of closure.
And close to losing your shit.
You hated many things; your mother would often say you were the cynic of her three kids. But one of the things you really hated was fucking Nebraska. Known for Warren Buffett (an old white billionaire), Arbor Day, and carhenge; Nebraska wasn’t high on your favorite states list. It was definitely a state you could cross off on your map and be glad to never return to.
The case was beyond yourself, another stupid white male, between 25-35, probably blends into the crowd, has a car big enough to hold a body— which is every fucking car, mind you because they’re meant to hold bodies— and who got his motivation because of his crush rejecting him. It, of course, was the man who worked random odd jobs and lived between homes. It was nothing absolutely anyone could’ve guessed, as if the past ten cases didn’t have the same exact profile.
Emily and Spencer went to check his mother's house, Hotch and Rossi went to check at his grandmother's house while you and Derek went to his aunt’s house. JJ was back at the precinct, double-checking the facts and ready to dispatch units to whoever’s location with Penelope.
Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. The drive had gotten impossibly quiet after everyone had stopped talking and planning. Your earpieces were still on but there wasn’t much to say while everyone was still driving to their locations.
It’s not awkward by any means; you’ve known Derek since you joined the BAU, so around eight years now. But it’s just hard to find conversation as you’re double-checking your gun and handcuffs, then doing the same for his gear. His vest was a little loose so he doesn’t mind when at a red light, you quickly adjust the straps and then pat his chest. Although he takes a second to remember the fact that you’ve done the same thing every single time someone on the team wears a vest. Since your first case, really. It’s become second nature to let you adjust the team's vests.
At the aunt's house, it’s decided that Derek goes first. He’s the more approachable one of the two of you. He knocks on the door to the apartment while you stand behind him, looking up and down the hallway. The air feels stale, not many people walk around and judging by the floor being damn near spotless, you assume the building is new or for rich people who never actually step foot inside.
The door opens just a crack and you see the blue eye of the aunt. She looks between the two of you, her eyes settling on your vests before she huffs and closes the door. The chain drops from the door and she opens it up.
When she does, you both turn your heads and you wipe your nose.
“Oh,” She says as she slowly closes the door again. “You aren’t here for the… ah… erm…” She laughs. “Party?”
“No, ma’am,” You say and look back at her. She apologizes and grabs a robe from behind the door and tosses it on. “We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit—FBI, looking for your nephew? Westly Vel, is he here?” She makes a face, thinking before shaking her head.
“No,” She finally answers. She looks at Derek and smiles, as if she’s only addressing him now. “I haven’t seen West in a month or two, why?” He’s there, or at the very least, she knows where he is. Penelope has doorbell footage of West at her apartment the week prior.
“Just wanna ask him some questions, ma’am.” Derek lies and you nod. “Do you mind if we take a look around?”
“Let me ask everyone to get decent,” She disappears into the apartment and you squint at the door. Derek makes some comment about swingers because of the upside-down pineapple mat. Something he learned about on a cruise. You just snort and wait for the door to open.
“Stay here,” You tell him as you step inside the apartment. He nods, waiting in front of the door while the aunt walks after you. As you venture into the apartment you see people, they’re sitting and talking. Fully clothed. Nothing is messed up, there’s no fluids on the floor.
The apartment smells… sterile almost. It’s this medical sort of smell. Definitely no smells akin to a sex party.
There’s someone standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, the sun cast straight down on them but as you look away you can’t help but notice there’s no shadow attached to them. And it does nothing but confirm your suspicions.
There aren’t many doors to the apartment, but there’s one that’s closed and you head towards it.
“That’s just a closet,” The aunt says, her voice catching up to her as she walks behind you. You raise an eyebrow, feeling something more than a closet behind the door. “Can I see some—“ Throwing the door open, you see what you had honestly expected.
The aunt, the actual aunt, is lying on her bed. Her throat is cut and judging by the color of the wound and the blood-soaked sheets, she’s been dead for a day.
“C'mon man,” Westly says as his skin twists and shifts until you see the man you’ve been looking for. “You really shouldn’t have looked inside.” As he talks, you notice the sounds of the ‘party’ completely disappear. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a gun, pointing it at you. He flicks his hand, motioning for you to raise yours and you do.
“What gave it away?” He asks, backing you into the room and then closes the door with his foot.
“No shadows,” You shrug. “And it didn’t smell like a group of people who just fucked. Guessing you wouldn’t know that smell since…” Making a motion to his crotch, he grits his teeth and flexes his fingers.
“I fuck,” He swears and you just give a noncommittal nod. “I do!” He shouts and stomps his foot. Hmm. Childishness definitely wasn’t in the profile. As he stomps his foot a second time, again swearing that he gets laid, the door slams open and he’s knocked forward. Accidentally pressing the trigger, you duck and quickly pin him while he’s already on the floor.
“You definitely don’t,” You laugh, pinning his arms behind him with one hand while grabbing your cuffs with the other.
“We got him,” Derek tells the others as you’re cuffing him. “He killed his aunt…” He pauses as he looks at you, bringing the man to his feet. He’s shifting between forms, trying to find one that makes your grip loosen. “…and tell the PD they’re going to need the power collar.”
“Mutant?” Emily asks and Derek confirms.
—
A celebration is in order following the case. It’s the team's first mutant case in three years and this time no one got away from it with any injuries. The last time Derek walked away with a scar on his back but he says it helps him with the ladies so he doesn’t mind it anymore.
The actual celebration happens the day after you land back in DC. And of course, you’re going straight to the bar. Penelope asks for all the details, minus the blood and death. So not many details, just the action and Derek is more than willing to tell her as you’re ordering a second glass of vodka party punch. It’s heaven in a drink; vodka, Hawaiian punch, ginger ale, pineapple juice, and orange juice. With an orange slice.
Squeezing the juice into the cup, you put the slice into your mouth and listen to them talk, enjoying the slice as Spencer slides you his own lemon slice. He’s in the middle of his own conversation but he doesn’t miss a beat as he passes it over.
He doesn’t drink all that much; there’s mostly soda in his drink with maybe a hint of alcohol. If you ask him, he’d probably say something about not liking being inebriated, which is valid and definitely one of the reasons. But you think he’s read about the side effects, he’s afraid that too much alcohol will raise his chances of… well, becoming his mother.
So it’s incredibly rare for him to drink, aside from a shot every other bar trip, you’ve never seen him drink. Except that one time he said fuck it and did a line of shots with the team. He did end up throwing up after ten minutes, but he did it.
Putting the orange slice on the napkin, you take a slow sip of your drink before picking up the lemon. It’s not overly juicy, you think the salt on the rim of his glass had taken most of it away but it’s still sour.
“You look like a child,” Emily notes as she stares at you, the lemon wedge between your lips and you’re messing with the mini umbrella that came with your drink. You frown and it’s big and exaggerated due to the lemon slice. “How did you make it into the FBI again?” She jokes. Rolling your eyes, you lean back in the booth and look around the bar.
It’s a Saturday, so there’s a ton of people inside. You can see countless people bordering on blackout drunk, another person who’s definitely already thrown up, and a bachelorette party. The bride-to-be is wearing a large plastic crown and a white sash while the others wear black sashes. With matching outfits, you see the maid of honor walk up to the soon-to-be bride. She’s wearing a bronze sash and you make eye contact for a second.
She laughs and you remember the lemon slice and smile. It only makes her laugh harder and you chuckle, leaning forward to spit it out.
She’s cute, sure, but you’re not one for flings. Plus, you doubt you’ll meet anyone worthwhile at a bar, nothing against them. It’s just that you only ever go there for work. They’re at the bar for fun.
“Go and say hi,” Derek encourages as you’re wiping spit from the corner of your mouth. You hum and then shake your head. He makes a noise and pushes your shoulder. “You caught a mutant yesterday, I think you deserve to get laid.” He adds and your face scrunches.
“Whaddya mean?” You ask to which Derek gives a noncommittal shrug and rolls his hand.
“It could’ve gone real bad.” He explains. “I heard of a squad going up against a woman who controls blood. None of them survived.” He sighs and leans over to knock his knuckle against your forehead. “Luckily that dude only had shape-shifting powers.” Nodding, you rub the spot and look back to the other patrons of the bar.
The bridal party is gone, bar hopping no doubt. In the spot they once stood at, you see some college students. Looking away, you reach for your drink and take slow sips as the conversations around you merge into talks about mutants.
They all talk, giving their opinions. You try not to care, to act as if you’ve thought about mutants from a normie perspective but you can’t. God, you wish you could. But you can’t and all you can do is down the rest of your drink before the need to speak overcomes your need to not tell government workers you’re a mutant.
Sometimes you wish there were different work events. Like renting out a hall or going out to eat. That way you won’t go home with a headache from the music or an empty stomach because you’d forgotten to get food and smacked on the free peanuts at the table.
With no one sober, everyone stands a distance away from the bar waiting for their respective Uber. Everyone is a good couple of feet away from one another, something you’ve learned over the years. Drivers tend to think you’re all trying to ride together and cancel it. But you and Penelope always split one, considering you’re neighbors it saves money and time.
“This is us,” Pen tells you as a silver car rolls up to your location. Nearly everyone else is gone. Rossi had actually called up a taxi company, which you had forgotten were still around. It was a little weird.
“You sure you don’t wanna come?” You ask Spencer as he’s the last one there. His plan is waiting for an actual taxi, considering he doesn’t have any ride app on his phone and got the number from Rossi.
He shakes his head but you sigh and tug him along. He lets you, stumbling over his feet before you have him slide in after Penelope. Awkwardly sitting with his knees high up, you follow after him and make sure everyone else is comfortable. You don’t mind sitting up front if need be.
Glancing at Spencer, you find him twiddling with his thumbs and eyes forward on the road. You wonder what he’s thinking, maybe if you’d been a telepath, you would’ve figured out ages ago just which thoughts race through his mind the most. But no, you can just tell that your driver really needs to pee but the apartment building is still another ten-minute drive.
He glances at you as you look away. His mind flashing the way you smile with the lemon slice, how Derek describes the take down with the mutant. God, he wishes Derek hadn’t gone into so much detail because Spencer has never wanted to be an UnSub more in his life.
His eyes flutter back to the road as he tries to get the pictures out of his mind. Facts, he thinks of every single fact he can. Anything to distract him. His mind wanders to cases but he finds you in all of them. It wanders to Doctor Who but he finds you in those, too. And he doesn’t even know how or why. You’ve never spoken about the show!
“Hunky,” Penelope calls, leaning forward to look past Spencer and at you. You hum, looking at her with a smile. “Do you think you could check on my sink? It’s been making this noise and you know I hate to ask Josh—“
“Course,” You nod. “Give me an hour to wash off bar germs and I’m all yours.” She smiles and looks at Spencer. He’s trying not to get in either of your views, pressing himself impossibly close to the faux leather seats.
“Who’s Josh?” He asks and she groans, pushing herself back into the seat.
“He’s one of the maintenance workers. He lives in the building so he’s always on call. But he sorta hates Pennie,” You explain with a huff. Spencer almost laughs, he can’t imagine someone not liking her. She’s like the most lovable person alive! He asks why and you snort while she reaches over to slap your leg. “He found out she’s a hacker and said that’s not a real job, so she ‘accidentally’ flashed her badge.”
“Ah,” He nods. He knows well enough how fragile men’s egos are and a part of him worries that she isn’t safe. Shit, Pen couldn’t go through another crime happening in her apartment. She only moved into your apartment building following her getting shot and he’d hate for it to happen again.
“He’s harmless, though,” You reassure him. “He’s more of the passive-aggressive type. He’ll talk shit about her decor or won’t answer calls until a week later.” But how many times had you heard that same exact phrase? How many times did no one expect the killer to be the killer? “And I know him. He’s sorta afraid of blood.” Ah. Okay, that’s better.
“He fainted once,” Penelope laughs at the memory.
“He faints every time,” You correct with a snort.
Soon enough the three of you are piling out of the car and you’re in the middle of unlocking the front door when you turn to Spencer.
“You want to spend the night? Or I could get you an Uber… if you want.” Checking the time, he purses his lips and thinks about it.
“You don’t mind?” He asks and you shake your head.
“I have some clothes that would fit you and a guest bedroom.”
“After my sink gets fixed.”
—
Awkwardly standing in your doorway, Spencer watches as you toss your shoes into a rack. There are about seven pairs, various shoes he’s seen you wear to work before along with a pair of house slippers that you immediately put on. He looks at the walls where there are framed pictures of the team together. Nothing predating you joining the team, he quickly notes.
“Come in,” You beckon him. He listens as you venture further into the apartment, now standing in your living room. For some reason, whenever he imagined your home, Spencer pictured something more… masculine? He pictured weights and exercise equipment lying around. Protein powder jugs on the kitchen island. Some sort of apartment from those fitness men online.
But no, it’s a normal apartment. You decorate it pretty frugally. A sofa and two chairs, a coffee table, tv, and lamp. No rug, though. Each piece is different: the leather chair, the velvet chair, and the cotton sofa. A second-hand coffee table, he figures, has several different items scattered about. It almost makes him nauseous with how much stuff is on there.
“I put some clothes in the guest bed. Feel free to pick whatever or go into my closet,” You tell him as you lean against a wall. There’s a towel over your shoulder and your shirt is a little unbuttoned. Not to mention the pants are already undone and he sees your boxers peeking out. “There’s a bathroom across from the guest bedroom. Feel free, again.” You tell him and start to walk away before you turn around.
“And a closet with towels and rags, it’s to the right of the bedroom.”
“Thanks,” He nods, unable to say anything more than that until you’re away.
Mentally, Spencer strangles himself on the way to the guest bedroom. With an IQ as high as his, he should be able to form proper sentences. A proper thank you at least. But no, he gets thrown off by a little bit of skin like a teenager.
As he’s sorting through the clothes you’d given him, he hears you walk down the apartment again.
“There’s also a washer and dryer. It’s in the room that has a frosted glass door.” You explain, vaguely pointing down the hallway.
Rich. He wants to say, to tease but he just nods and thanks you again. But he can’t imagine having a washer and dryer inside of his one-bedroom apartment. Hell, he doesn’t even have an elevator! Old buildings are good, though. They’re more structurally sound and last longer than the more modern apartments.
Not that he minds your apartment. He likes it… he’d live there if he could.
Twenty minutes comes and passes and Spencer is fresh out of the shower, moving his clothes into the dryer while you’re still in the shower. He doesn’t know what to do while he waits.
It would feel a little invasive to explore but he doesn’t want to just sit on the guest bed until you’re done.
He ends up venturing into the living room again, this time he settles onto the couch. As he sits there in a pair of blue sweatpants and one of your old band t-shirts, he finds a small library on a wall. There’s ten or so books and it all but draws him closer. Luring him in like a siren's song he picks up the first book he can and goes to sit down.
Another five minutes pass before he hears the shower stop. It had become background noise in the otherwise silent apartment that it nearly scared him when it turned off. He tries not to listen as the glass door slides open and instead he rereads the book, the voice in his head filling the space the shower had left.
“Heading to Pen’s, wanna join?” You ask, fixing your shirt over your sweats. Spencer looks up from the book and you see him physically pause at the shirt. It’s a yellow star under the words My Tummy Hurts in various bright colors. Then he sees the pants and has to look away for a moment, minion sweatpants. “Not too much on my outfit.” You warn.
“Didn’t say anything,” He says as he sets the book on the spot next to him. You just wave him after you and head across the hall in your house slippers. He follows, hurriedly putting his converse back on as you knock on the door.
“Just in time,” Penelope whines as she pulls the two of you inside of her apartment. She’s watching music videos, her way of winding down for the night. Spencer feels more at ease in her apartment; he’s been in her old one a handful of times.
They chat as you grab the tools from under Penelope’s kitchen sink. She laughs at your pajamas, telling him about the others you have. The Hello Kitty fluffy pants, the Scrooge gown, the Cookie Monster sweats, and, most infamous your Sugar Daddy crop top.
“I’m a little surprised he had those,” She admits, referencing the outfit you’d given Spencer while the three of you head to her bathroom.
“I have normal night clothes,” You defend. They share a look and then stare at you. Clearly, your track record shows a different story. Rolling your eyes, you get to work under the sink.
Spencer watches as you unscrew various parts of the pipe and grab a long, metal pipe cleaner and swirl it. All the while you and Penelope talk, she offhandedly mentions a girl visiting your place the day before the team left for the case and you brush it off. He thinks that’s a tell, that maybe you like the girl. Maybe you’re already dating and by the way she describes the mystery girl, he’s sure you are.
Nearly sighing, he watches as you remove the cleaner and flick the hair clumps into a plastic bag and push it back into the pipe. He almost gags and has to look away from the damp drain hair. You’re sure it’s clear by that point and re-screw everything into place. And with a quick water test, her sink is fixed.
The whole thing lasted less than five minutes and he now knows who to call if he needs household repairs. Unintentionally, his mind wanders, imagining you at his door with a white tank, a tool belt, baggy jeans and heavy boots. He’s probably ill-dressed, just his pants, because his landlord likes turning the heat up—
He stops himself, focusing back on the conversation as you’re checking Penelope’s windows and locks. He assumes it’s some sort of tradition, since it’s like clockwork for the two of you.
Once every nook and cranny is checked, you head out and back into your apartment, where you immediately check your own windows. He doesn’t miss the three locks on the front door, although only two are locked. On purpose, he notes. He’s unsure of what to do with himself, if he should help or stay out of the way. If he should even speak at all, he honestly hasn’t spoken much the entire night.
“I’m going to bed,” You tell him in a soft tone, dimming the hallway lights. Damn, you have a washer and dryer and a light dimmer. “You can stay up, eat, drink, whatever. Just clean up, yeah?” You smile at him and then offhandedly look towards the kitchen. “Cups and plates are in the cabinet labeled cups and plates.” You add with a small laugh.
“Thank you,” He says and you nod before walking away. He doesn’t miss the fact that as you’re closing your bedroom door, you’re already discarding your shirt.
Mystery girl sure is lucky.
—
You loved your job, you truly and wholeheartedly did. But you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the fear that, as you’re sitting at your desk, someone is getting murdered. The fear that you’re never going to be fast enough, there’s always going to be serial killers and kidnappers and rapists. And you won’t always catch them.
But you loved your job, you loved the closure, you loved the sense of family the team had. You loved that no matter how late you were, there would always be one less killer on the streets thanks to you.
And yet, sometimes you find yourself drifting to the paperwork to quit. You can’t help but wonder if this job, doing this is what you want to do. If it’s where your skills are being used to their best. There are several things that keep you at your desk, keep you on the BAU’s payroll and on that jet.
One of them is Spencer.
You like him more than you’d admit; he’s your closest friend aside from Derek. You joined with Derek, the two of you were basically brothers by the time Spencer joined and found a quick friendship with him. Both are special in their own way.
Emily liked to joke that the two of you were Spencer's bodyguards, and you’d never be too far from the doctor.
Maybe that’s why you stayed. Maybe it wasn’t for him specifically, maybe it was that you couldn’t leave him behind. His head was too big to worry about getting hurt, but yours had more than enough space to worry about you and him.
Maybe not, maybe so. You didn’t care; all that mattered was getting your work done faster so you could relax. You do end up finishing your files in record time and spend a second thinking of something to do. There’s not much, aside from making something to drink.
“Spence,” You call and he looks up from his book. “Why can’t we stop inflation if it’s made up?” He grins, setting the book down and you know you had his full attention.
That’s his favorite type of question.
Spencer, as he’s most known for, houses a ton of information in his head. He loves information, in some ways he’s a glutton for information. He digests information at the same rate that he breathes and he loves it. But something that he loves more is sharing that information, he spills and spills the words laying dormant in his head. They beg to be heard, flying out of his mouth faster than he can process that the person has checked out.
But not with you.
They never fly, he never loses that focus a person first has when they ask him a question.
You’ve always engaged with him, you nod and you ask questions. What he loves the most is when you remember what he said. He loves that feeling more than anything he’s felt before. That feeling of teaching— someone has learned something because of him, sometimes he wishes he’d become a teacher just to experience that. Give his never-ending wisdom to the youth or even college students.
Spencer loves your questions almost as much as you love hearing him talk. He learns a bunch of random facts, knowing sometimes your questions aren’t about anything in particular. Sometimes they’re about history or a college sort of science but he likes the random questions. It makes him feel less like a robot.
He explains, watching as you let out a great big exaggerated huff before returning back to him. It's confusing, but he explains it as many times as you need. With no secret frustration.
He smiles, the corners of his lips reaching his nose when you finally get it; explaining it back to him just to ensure you’ve understood him correctly.
“Still stupid,” You mutter and he nods.
Spencer watches you with barely hidden heart eyes, he commits you to memory every time he sees you. His… crush of sorts has only gotten worse since the impromptu sleepover the week prior. Never had he woken up to breakfast being made, freshly squeezed orange juice, and soft music coming from a hidden record player he’d yet to find.
Penelope didn’t join, which you said was normal. She tended to take longer to get ready so you prepared a separate bowl for her, for while she’s on the road. So for the entirety of his morning, it was just the two of you. Hanging around… talking, eating… it was nice. Too nice. The poor kid didn’t know how to act, choosing the yes and approach to nearly all the conversations.
You’d even gotten him a toothbrush!
Derek snickers from behind him and he huffs, rolling his chair so he was facing Derek and not you. Derek just makes a kissing motion with his hands before messing with Spencer’s hair and walking away.
He shakes his head and quietly fixes his hair as you and Derek walk to the exit of the bullpen to grab lunch for the team. He would’ve joined but he’s needed by another team, requested to have the infamous Spencer Reid look over their case files.
Inside Derek's car, the two of you listen to the radio, mindlessly rocking your head to the beats until he lowers the music at a red light.
“So,” He starts, looking at you with a wide grin. “You and Pretty boy.” You roll your eyes and look forward. There’s a black SUV in front of you, the back window has those family stickers and there’s about seven kids and a pregnant woman sticker. “Don’t give me that look,” He laughs, pushing your shoulder. You just look at him, unamused.
“So, you’re telling me that nothing happened between the two of you?” He asks, now looking forward. Chuckling as you see his eyes widen at the number of children.
“Nope,” You shrug. “It’s almost as if I can take someone home and not sleep with them.” Rolling his eyes, he inches the car forward when the light switches.
“I’m just saying, you two have a lot of chemistry.” He shrugs back. Pursuing your lips, you sigh. “What? You don’t like Spencer?” Glancing at you, Derek’s eyebrows furrow.
“It’s not that,” Shaking your head, you change the station as Taylor Swift plays. “It’s just… I dunno. I don’t really think about dating,” Dating normies, at least.
“You’ve never dated?” He asks, his voice thick with what you can only assume is disbelief.
“I have. Just— I mean, Spencer is great. He’s funny, smart, he has goals, he has hobbies, definitely not a serial killer, and he’s shown he can be committed.”
“But?” Derek urges.
The silence following his question is thick.
You sit in your seat, thinking about the negatives that would come from dating Spencer. If you even liked him romantically. You think about it and dating Spencer seems nice in your head. Waking up next to him, date nights with him. But it wouldn’t be a dream and there would be actual issues with dating him. There's paperwork, no doubt. If either one of you progressed to unit chief then you’d be transferred to another team or branch entirely. If you can even keep your job. If things lasted, then you’d have to tell him you’re a mutant. He’d meet your family, know the truth.
It’s not worth it. You decide. You can’t trust someone to that degree, not even if you’re dating them.
“It’s complicated.” You finally tell him. “I think… I do like him. But,” Shaking your head, you almost groan as there’s another red light. “I know I couldn’t date him.”
“It’s not because of some hidden homophobia, right?” Derek laughs and you laugh back, shaking your head.
“Please, I’ve sucked too much dick and fucked too many men to be ashamed of being bi.” He holds his hands up, playfully surrendering before he looks at you.
“What’s the worst that could happen? Honestly,”
“One of us dies and the other has to deal with the grief.” He kills you for being a mutant or gets killed trying to protect you. The first one just seems highly unlikely.
“Oh,” Licking his teeth, you nod. “Well, what’s the best that could happen?”
“Nothing bad happens and we get married and adopt two kids. Maybe a cat. Definitely a cat.” He accepts you for being a mutant and doesn’t kill you.
“And what most likely will happen?” He asks and you think about it.
“We date, test the waters and see what happens from there, probably come to the mutual understanding that while we do have feelings for each other our careers come first and end things.”
“God, you’re sad.” Morgan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m realistic about the negative sides of life.”
—
For the first time ever, it’s your turn to host the team's movie night. Truthfully, you don’t know how you’ve managed to evade it for three years, but it’s caught up to you. You think because Spencer had mentioned your apartment to Derek and Emil,y causing them to think if they’ve ever been. Which led to you opening your door to the team.
You’d gone all out, truthfully, you’d been nervous and made snacks to calm yourself down. It didn’t fill all of your time so you even steam cleaned your couches— it wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Just a little murky.
Normall,y you’re not such a worrier but this was a momentous occasion. It was a tradition you had avidly avoided for nearly four years without getting caught and now, oh lord, now they were aware of it.
“Hey, guys,” You greeted them after Penelope had knocked on your door for a minute straight. To think you would’ve gotten there in the same amount of time if she’d knocked once.
“This was on your door?” Emily hands you a paper and you take it while letting them inside. It’s a note, written in a language you’re all too familiar with.
Krakoan.
You don’t read it yet, if it was an emergency, you would know. Rather, you lock the door and put the note on your bed for later.
“You have a nice place,” Derek comments when you return.
“Thank you,” You smile. “What movie are we watching? I have like all the movie apps,”
Everyone settles on a movie: The X trilogy. While searching for it, you and Spencer get up to serve everyone. It’s really just moving everything from the kitchen into the living room, everyone self serves during movie nights.
“I didn’t know you baked,” He admits, eyeing the cookies he knew for a fact weren’t store-bought.
“I stopped some time ago,” You sigh, staring at the cookies, a recipe your younger sister had created. “But I might start back up, I missed making them.”
“They smell amazing,” It’s true, he swears he’s not just saying that. The cinnamon and white chocolate smell from the cookies makes his stomach rumble a bit. They look even better, large cookies with crispy edges.
“Thank you,” Guiding him back to the others, you move to turn down the lights and double-check that everything is going according to plan.
The girls all share a couch and a blanket, knees knocking together and sharing shoulders. Hotch and Rossi had taken the chairs on either side so that left you, Derek, and Spencer on the floor. Not that any of you minded, the girls definitely didn’t mind messing with you and Spencer’s hair every so often.
Derek made it a point to have Spencer next to you, even claiming that he didn’t want the blanket so the two of you were forced to share it. Spencer wasn’t as uncomfortable as he thought he’d be, especially sitting on the floor that he didn’t clean himself or see get cleaned, but your floor had this smell to it. An almost jasmine scent that didn’t linger for long, so you obviously cleaned.
Plus he saw the couch cleaner when he was helping you bring the food.
His hand brushes yours under the cover, an honest accident because the glass of soda had made his hands ridiculously cold. He flinched away but you didn’t even acknowledge it, so he tested the waters and put his hand back. With his heart racing, his hand finds yours and you turned your palm up, holding his hand.
You can feel his blood rushing, feel the air in his lungs rush out and rush in before they slowly calm down. You don’t think the movie is scary, shocking for sure. But Pearl definitely isn’t scary. Side glancing at Spencer, you find he’s biting his thumbnail before he drops it and messes with the fabric of the blanket.
Weird.
Spencer can’t even focus on the movie anymore; your hand is so warm against his. Your thumb is gently caressing against his hand and he can smell your hair. He gulps, blinking to try and focus on the movie. She’s chasing the neighbor girl; why?
A knock on the door startles him and Penelope. It’s two sharp knocks and you excuse yourself, the warmth from your hand makes Spencer frown, his hand now feeling incredibly empty.
Checking the peephole, you glance back at the others before exiting the apartment with the lock out so it wouldn’t lock on you.
“Did someone leave a note on your door?” Josh asks while messing with his nails. They’re dirty, he’s undoubtedly been digging in the dirt again.
“Yeah, why?” Moving him away from the door, he messes with his hair. The long blonde strands fall in front of his face before he sweeps them away. You can see bits of dried blood on his roots and squint. “You’re hurt.”
“Yeah,” He stutters out a nod. “I think there's a mutant hunter in the building,” He says and looks around, you know there’s no one else in the hallway so you don’t look with him. “I-I had a note on my door. In Krakoan, was yours also…?”
“It was. I haven’t read it yet, I have friends over,” He nods and continues to pick at his nails.
“I just wanted to let you know, cause I’m heading to the school in ten minutes. Yeah, so, stay safe. Hank already knows and he’s sending a temp super for the building.”
“Okay, do you want help with anything?”
“Mm-mm, I got everything packed and ready to go. I’m just really shaken, y’know. After the sentinels ‘n’ shit we dealt with.”
“Yeah, no, I get it, J.” He smiles but looks up and down the hallway again. “Stay safe, remember there’s a couple of safe houses between here and the school.”
“I have them in my GPS— you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, haven’t sensed anything wrong.” He nods and then takes a step back.
“Well, I’ll see you. Maybe in a week, hopefully this place is still standing.” You laugh to calm his nerves and watch as he leaves before going back into the apartment.
Josh isn’t a paranoid man; maybe he does hate technology but that’s not because of the government or anything. You try being stuck in a computer for a year and see if you wanna use one again. But you’re not worried about mutant-hunters, you would be able to tell if someone was sneaking up on you. Not to mention they were rarely ever quiet or hush-hush about what they did.
Going back into your apartment, you lock the door and rejoin Spencer. The movie has since ended and everyone is waiting for you to return.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Derek asks once you’re on your way back.
“Down the hall to the right, the door is open.” He thanks you and gets up, his feet echoing in the empty hallway. “How’d the movie end?” Settling back down next to Spencer, you grab a cookie.
“She killed Mitsy, lays down with her mother before posing her parents dead bodies for one last dinner. Howard returns from the war and finds them,” Emily explains.
“Pretty sure we had a case like that,” You muse and Penelope gags. How she agreed to watch a scary movie is beyond you, not to mention she’s queuing up the next movie.
Derek returns from the bathroom soon after and she plays the movie. Your hand ends up under the blanket again, unable to focus on the movie as you think about Josh. You should’ve used the bathroom break to read the note— or read it once Emily gave you the damn paper.
Spencer’s hand finds yours again in the middle of a sex scene. It’s awkward, watching a sex scene with your boss in the room. Derek makes jokes, of course he does, and Emily makes counter-jokes.
“I bet (Y/n) made more girls scream than you,” Emily chuckles and you look back at her, mouth agape.
“Is that some type of insult?” You squint and she covers her mouth.
“Oh, please, how many women have you been with?” Derek rolls his eyes.
“Two,” You shrug and he hollers, clapping his hands as if that proves his point. “I’ve been told I’m an amazing lover— besides, you’ve been a hundred women for one night, I was with two women for three years.” There’s some ohhhs from the girls and you laugh.
“Let’s watch the damn movie,” Derek grumbles.
When the movie is over, everyone agrees it’s late and starts heading home. Spencer is the last one out, helping you clean up the little things that the others hadn’t. The lights are turned up, not by too much, but enough that you can see what you’re sweeping up.
He’s wiping down the counters, chewing on his bottom lip.
“(Y/n)?” He calls and you look over. He blinks and thinks for a moment; he didn’t even mean to call you. “Are there any more cookies?”
“Yeah, should be.” Setting the broom against the wall, you head over to the kitchen and grab a Tupperware from the fridge. There are five left and you hand him the container. He thanks you and takes one, you grab one too and a napkin to catch anything that falls. He stands across from you, holding a hand under the cookie to catch the crumbs.
He’s nervous again, for some reason. His heart is racing and he’s sweating. Especially on his hands.
It’s clearly because you’re staring at him with a twinkle in your eyes; something you’re not aware of. You finish the cookie and toss the napkin into the trash before relaxing against the counter.
“You wanna spend the night again?” You grin, head tilted to the side. He’s probably worried about going home or something.
“Sure,” He nods and you smile wider. Clearly, you can read him like an open book.
“I’ll get you some clothes. Come,”
He follows you into your bedroom, taking it in. There’s a smaller dresser next to the closet, your bed is in the middle of the room, big enough for three people with large blankets and pillows. There are a lot of decorations, too. Trinkets, pictures, books, journals, posters, records— he still hasn’t found the player. You take the time he’s distracted to hide the note inside your dresser.
“Pick whatever, I don’t mind.” You tell him while finding your own night clothes. He nods and follows after you, picking up the first shirt he finds. A yellow and blue shirt with frayed edges and a pair of red pants with two white stripes going down the outer side. You omit a shirt, grab a pair of baggy shorts and head into your bathroom.
Spencer gets changed in the other bathroom and waits in the hallway. Was this an invitation into your room? He’s not sure yet again. He really should speak up.
“Was the movie too scary?” You joke when you exit the bathroom. “We can share a bed, if you’d like,”
“Sure,” Like an excited puppy, he rushes into the room and you turn the lights off with a yawn. You lay down first, placing yourself closer to the door and then pat the bed. Spencer joins and stares at you for a second before he gets comfortable.
“G’night, Spence,”
“Goodnight,”
—
It’s shocking that there’s another case only two weeks after the first one. There are typically three and a half weeks of downtime between cases but everyone is called into the meeting room by Hotch. Penelope rushes in, her kitten heels loudly echoing on the concrete path.
“Today's case,” Penelope sighs as she taps on her tablet. “The Big Apple, we’ve been called in by um…” She trails off, her eyes darting to Hotch for a little assistance.
“Professor Charles Xavier.” He finishes and it just feels as if the word is collapsing on you. It feels like the life you’ve built up is coming down without leaving you any time to save it. Never has Charles asked for the FBI to help him; Erik sure as hell wouldn’t let him do that, either. You’ve never taken a mutant case in New York either, he handles those personally.
“Like the leader of the X-men?” Rossi asks, and god, you’re praying there’s a difference, Charles Xavier in New York. That this professor is like Spencer, a really smart cop in Brooklyn or something. Anything but the rich, bald man you’re imagining sent in this request to JJ. He probably bypassed her altogether, now that you think about. Telepathically spoke to Hotch and convinced him to take the case.
That's so something he would do.
“Yes.” Hotch confirms.
After that you space out, you can’t bring yourself to focus on the details. Not when your head is spinning and it sounds like you’re underwater, struggling to get to the surface as your hearing goes in and out. You stare at nothing but the table, unable to feel a single emotion. Or maybe you’re feeling them all at once, you can’t tell.
Your lack of mental attendance is noticeable to everyone else since you normally love going to New York for cases. You get to visit family and check out your old neighborhood. It’s odd, they don’t know why this is any different from the others until it clicks. There’s only one real difference between this case and the others.
Mutants.
“Wheels up,” Hotch says, eyeing you as you’re the first to stand up and grab your stuff. Spencer looks at Derek, confused but Derek is just as confused as he is. They give each other a nod and go to collect their to-go bags before heading to the airstrip. You’re already there, sunglasses on and you’d thrown a sweater on. Which is even more strange, since you never seemed affected by the weather before.
Spencer tried to speak to you, but you’re gone. Your head is somewhere so far even with him standing in front of you, you don’t acknowledge him. You head onto the jet last, despite being the first one there. You check your phone, nervously looking at the empty notification bar until you decide to put it face down on the table.
The jet is a little tense during take off, but it’s broken by Garica who’s been asked to join the others. She’s so excited to see the school for gifted youngsters, even more to see Wolverine who she says is her absolute dreamboat.
Everyone hears you try and silently snicker, sinking yourself into your seat when she says that.
Derek’s eyebrows knit together. He’s known you for a decade and he’d never thought you were a bigot before. Hell, he’d never seen you angry before. Not when someone spilt red wine on a brand new, very expensive shirt. Not when a family member of a victim had sucker punched you because they weren’t believing what you said. Not when you were being chewed out by Hotch or Strauss.
No one had ever seen you so much as frown, not seriously anyway. The wrinkles on your forehead were new despite how deep and prominent they looked.
You sigh, deep and heavy as you look out the window of the jet. There’s nothing some fucking BAU agents can do that a team filled with telepaths can’t. This is just some stupid ass plan by Charles, you know it.
Grabbing one of the files from the table, you look them over.
The case isn’t anything new, by any means. Aside from the fact that they’re mutants, it’s pretty identical to certain cases you’ve had before. A kidnapping followed by a three-day wait before their body is found dumped in Central Park with the Genovia Act stuffed in their mouths. Why this was hard for Charles to figure out, you don’t know. You’re sure there’s someone who can talk to the dead, or have Wanda talk to her husband and they do some magic and figure it out.
You don’t know any of the victims, you haven’t been back to that mansion since you left so you’re not all that caught up with who lives inside of there. You wish you could keep it that way but the plane lands and you’re all shuffled into government issued SUV cars.
Inside, you’re given the news that makes you want to kill yourself.
Your accommodations for the stay are at the school.
The large, older than anyone you knew mansion was something you honestly never wanted to see again. In your opinion, it would do the world a lotta good if it was gone. The only good thing about it were the open fields and woods surrounding it and if you focus you can feel the lake to the east of the mansion.
It’s calm, there’s no one around it, you guess it’s too cold this time of year to go for lake swims. You feel the wind flow back to the mansion, there are several dozen kids hanging about. Playing sports or sitting in the grass, they’re all scattered across the acres of land. There’s more inside the mansion, since it is a weekday, afterall and they still had school.
Pulling yourself out of the wind, you find that the car is rounding a corner and the Professor is waiting at the entrance. He’s different from the last time you’d seen him, most notably is that he’s back in his wheelchair with Cerebro nowhere in sight, but you still feel the same burning hatred for him as he sits there. To his left is Erik, and to his right is Logan.
“One hell of a welcome wagon…” Derek trails. You silently agree, waiting until the car comes to a stop before leaving the SUV.
“Greetings, BAU.” The professor presses his fingers to his temple and the bags float out from the car before anyone could move to grab them. He looks incredibly stupid, in your humble opinion. “Erik will show you to your rooms,” He lifts the bags after him as he enters the school, Logan following behind him.
“Our rooms?” Penelope gasps, buzzing in her shoes. She hadn’t been in the car when Hotch had explained that small, tiny little fact for the case. You swallow whatever you were wanting to say and your eyes flicker over to Logan. He greets you, silently and in a way only the two of you understand.
“To keep everyone safe, the team will be staying here.” Hotch explains. “Remember to be on your best behavior.” It feels targeted to you, but you don’t seem to care as you stare at Erik. You smile at him and he smiles back, his silver hair moving with the tentative breeze that blows past.
“Follow me,” He nods to the team and steps inside. You follow after, seeing the familiar halls of the school. You can hear the classes happening around you, you can feel the potential of young mutants. You feel everything around you, how the wood creaks and how there’s a single wooden panel that’s rotten and about to fall on someone’s head. You feel how people move around, using their powers and writing their essays.
You sigh, looking at the portraits on the walls and the way they once felt filled with hope. They feel like a painful reminder now. You see your old team, you see you, standing in that stupid suit with a half-face mask. With that stupid grin.
The steps aren’t covered in carpet anymore; they’re a glossy wood and you can only imagine it’s because speedsters and cloth don’t exactly mix.
“Your rooms.” Erik stops at the entrance to the East Wing dorms. You hadn’t even realized where he was taking you. But you can’t exactly say you didn’t expect this, of course, Charles would do this. “Your bags are in front of your doors. When you’re done, head down to the study.” He slips past everyone, his hand gently squeezing your arm as he passes by without another word.
“This is so cool!” Emily says, seeing her bag at the end of the hall. “God, I hope Storm is here!” The others chime in about their favorite mutant heroes, all of them finding their bags in front of a door.
You don’t need to look to see yours, you know your room.
Standing in front of it, you feel your eyes sting with tears. You can’t bring yourself to twist the golden knob. It’s gotten that dirty copper look after not being used for so long.
“Kid, you okay?” Morgan asks, suddenly behind you with a hand on your shoulder. “I know the rooms are kinda plain but you’ll live.” He reaches over you and opens the door. It swings open and you shudder at the sight.
“How come he gets a decorated room?” Morgan groans and everyone flocks to your room. They take in the room you’d grown up in, not a single part of it has changed. Your lip quivers as you remember what happened and that’s enough for you.
Snatching your bag from the floor, you toss it inside before slamming the door shut and heading downstairs. The others follow, a little concerned but also they don’t want to get lost in the huge school.
Emily notices how you move through the halls with ease, as if it’s muscle memory. How you know to be careful on the second to last step and walk with this vigor you never used to have. Spencer frowns, watching as you throw open a set of doors. He’s not too far behind, so when he reaches the door he sees the Professor sitting at the table.
“I need a different room.” You demand, walking past him to find a seat. Your seat, you’ve always sat in the seat closest to the window that overlooks the pond.
“I’m afraid they’re all occupied. Unless you’re willing to switch with one of your friends,” He says and glances at the others before his eyes settle back to you. He’s almost daring you, egging you on. He sighs and you concede. You know he’s lying, there are a dozen of empty rooms in the school.
“Fine.” You grit. “Let’s talk about the case, then.”
—
“How could you let him call us?” You whine to Erik, sitting on his desk as he cleans the books lining the walls. It’s lunchtime and the others were scattered about. Hotch had gone out for lunch, despite Charles's insistence that there was plenty of food for the team. “I can’t sleep in that room, Erik. I can’t.” Pulling your feet to the edge of the desk, you lay your head on your knees.
“I’m truly sorry,” He shakes his head, setting the feather duster on the shelf. “I wasn’t aware of his intentions until I saw the cars pulling up. I would’ve stopped him had I known.” He stalks over to you, caressing the top of your head before his hand reaches your back.
“I know,” You mutter. “I feel so angry now that I’m here. My team— my friends have noticed. They think I hate mutants,”
“I assume they don’t know.” Nodding, he sighs and takes his seat in front of you. “Why haven’t you told them?” Looking at him through your lashes, he raises an eyebrow, encouraging you to talk.
“I’m afraid,” You stress, dropping your legs. “They’re government agents and you know how much they like us! Hotch knows… kind of. He knows Bug is a mutant but that’s because they had a fling in law school,” Rubbing your head, you look at him. “I’m so afraid, Erik. I’m this…”
“Mutant?” He finishes but you shake your head.
“I’m Derek and Spencer’s best friend, I make sure Penelope’s house is safe because she got shot in her last apartment and she’s terrified of it happening again, I have monthly movie nights with the others. I’ve met their kids. They know that I cry when I watch Cujo because he didn’t deserve that. They know I have to eat my eggs with ketchup because otherwise they taste like too much egg. But I-I can’t even think about telling them this!” You ramble.
“You’ve adopted a normie life,” You nod and he continues. “Why? You’re an omega-level mutant, you could be so much more than an agent.”
“It’s better than that,” You shrug, gesturing to the picture of your old team hanging behind his head. His children were on your team, too. Polaris and Pierto at least. “My current team doesn’t worry about being attacked because they were born with the X gene or some world-ending event anymore. I don’t cradle their dying bodies, pushing their blood back into their system, and I’m not pulling the toxic gas from their lungs. I don’t get buried alive anymore! I can live a life!”
“Are you happy?”
“Am I happy? I’m safe!” You shout and immediately cover your mouth. He frowns and you can’t meet his face, your eyes staying on the floor.
“But are you happy? I’ve seen you online, you’re hiding. I know your smile,” He grabs your hand but you stand up and move away, holding yourself. “(Y/n),” He sighs. Your lips purse and you shake your head. “Are you even allowing yourself to love? To connect to someone romantically?”
“No.” Licking your lips, you stare at the door. “I can’t.”
“You cannot continue down this path, Charles mentioned feeling your affection towards Dr. Reid. Why not pursue him?”
“Man,” You scoff. “Tell your bald ass husband to stay out of my head!” He chuckles and lays his hand flat on your head. He’s going to let you avoid talking about Spencer for now; but not forever.
“He was concerned for you, he’d seen the news of your latest case. And you’ve ignored his calls,”
“I don’t want to talk to that British fuck.”
“Understandable,” He laughs. “Come on, your friends are waiting in the lounge for you.”
The lounge is a room that was originally meant to talk about missions before it was moved down to the basement. Nowadays it’s filled with arcade games and a pool table. Not to mention various seats in various states. The team is crowded around one of the tables, grabbing their food when you walk inside.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Erik says as he closes the door behind you.
“Er, this one is yours!” Penelope says, holding out your food. Thanking her, you take it and settle on one of the recliner chairs. It’s the funky one with the handle you have to jiggle five times up and then down once to make it leanback, you don’t, despite the urge to.
“Hey, kid,” Derek says, his voice barely hiding the tension he wants to push down. He sits on the couch that’s had enough blood on it to fill an Olympic-sized pool, but you can’t tell him that. Plus, it’s been cleaned well enough that you can’t even tell. You greet him back while ripping open the tissue paper, keeping the sandwich together. “You okay? You’ve been… off since Hotch said we’d be working this case.” It’s hard to miss the ears that tune in to the conversation, the not so sutble conversation quieting until it’s nonexistent.
“I’m fine,” You look at him and then Spencer. He tucks his hair behind his ear when your eyes meet before he looks down at his sandwich. “Just tired.” He nods, pretending to understand.
“Because I’m here if you want to talk, get something off your chest.” He adds and you nod into your sandwich.
“I’m good, trust.”
—
It’s late. You’ve gone into the city and spoken to the witnesses who found the victims, you’ve gone through all the evidence and begrudgingly worked with Charles to try and find a necromancer who wasn’t away or evil. Which is harder than you expected it to be. He could also be lying.
But, the moon was rising and it was time to turn in for the night. Everyone had gone upstairs to their room but you made the excuse that you were fixing up the paperwork to stay down longer. Instead, you ventured outside and sat in front of the pond.
The water is deeper than most expect it to be, it connects to a secret room the water mutants use from time to time. You dip your hand inside the water, feeling the fish dart away from the sudden movement and the plants move with the soft ripple of water. Your hand travels to the mud and you find the earthworms eating away, the air moving through the roots of trees and flowers. You find the animals making their homes underground before your hands touch the grass. The snails and ants crawl on blades, one is strangely close to you and you find it.
The snail glides on your finger, moving up your hand before it settles on your knuckle. It’s tiny, barely the size of your fingernail, and stares at you before it turns around. It goes back onto the grass and disappears from sight.
Laying flat on your back, you close your eyes and imagine yourself anywhere but there.
“Get your ass inside,” Logan says from above you. Cracking your eyes open, you stare up at him.
“Your tits are blocking the moon,” You tell him. He growls, flexing his hands. “Oh, please stab me. I want to go home.” He sighs, it’s deep and heavy and then he moves so he’s opposite to the moon.
“You can’t sleep out here,” He says and you shrug. “You have to go inside.” He urges again. Logan doesn’t try to sound convincing, despite his words. It’s oddly void of any concern and it’s mainly annoyance in his tone.
“I don’t have to do anything but die.” You correct him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily.
“Fine,” He grunts. “When Ororo drags you inside, don’t say I ain’t warn you.” He walks away and you close your eyes again. It’s some time before the moonlight is blocked again and you crack your eyes open, half expecting it to be Erik.
“Spence,” You blink, sitting up. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and looks back at the school. “What’s up?” Nervously, he gives a half smile and points his thumb back to the school.
“It’s late and it’s not good to sleep outside without the proper equipment,” He says. “I can see you from my window. It’s expected to get colder and possibly drizzle, so you’re more likely to catch a cold if you stay out here.” Looking towards the East Wing windows, you see Emily sitting on her windowsill, watching you. Hotch is at his, too.
“Okay,” You sigh, standing up. He nods and follows after you while staring at the grass stains on your shirt and pants. There’s bits of grass in your hair and he thinks there’s a snail on one of them but he’s not too sure about that last bit. You remove it with ease as you walk up the stairs, setting the grass on the banister and dusting yourself off.
“Do you want to switch rooms?” He asks once you’re at your door. “Or-or share?” He adds when you look at him, eyes heavy with regret.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” He doesn’t miss the deep breath you take as you push into the room. The knob feels impossibly cold in your grip and the door is heavy as you push it open and close. Thankfully, all the lights are off and the curtain is drawn so you can’t see anything. It’s muscle memory as you strip out of your dirty clothes and climb into the bed.
The covers are the same, it’s still so warm as you pull them up to your chest and imagine you’re home. Anywhere but in that room.
That night, for the first time in eight years, you have a nightmare. You don’t remember it when you wake up at five in the morning, you just feel the heavy beating of your heart, the sweat building on your forehead and the tears falling from your face. You see it in the fire burning in the center of the room, the small flame in the exact position you’d been all those years ago. You see it in the way the blanket is pulled taught, holding you safely to the bed.
The fire snuffs out and the blanket loosens so you can leave the bed and head into the bathroom. You just stand under the water, not bothering to get undressed or even turn the light on. It’s blistering hot but you can’t tell, it just feels wet. The temperature is nothing on your skin, not as the water goes arctic cold just as you’re taking your boxers off.
Grabbing the fresh washcloth from the sink, you wash yourself for what feels like an hour. The familiar-smelling soap does nothing to calm your nerves and you get out, feeling the water slip from your body and go down the drain.
You don’t know where to go as you’re getting dressed, but you know you can’t stay in your childhood room any longer than needed. You grab your phone, badge, and necessary items before leaving the room. Spencer is awake and exits his room at the same time you do, you acknowledge him with a glance and keep it pushing.
Your feet bang against the wooden floors while he barely leaves a sound. He follows you down the stairs, through the empty corridors until you enter the kitchen.
“(Y/n)?” He softly calls as you open the fridge. “The Professor didn’t say we could eat whenever…”
“That rich asshole can deal,” You grumble, stealing some eggs and cheese. “You hungry, Spence?” He hesitates but eventually nods. You nod back, pointing an egg at him. He goes to take it but you place them on the counter and check the cabinets for bowls. Finding one large enough, you throw it onto the counter and dip into the freezer for some frozen waffles. “Blueberry or chocolate?”
“Blueberry is fine,” Tossing the blueberry eggos next to the bowl, you flick the pilots on and start whisking the eggs. Spencer doesn’t like his eggs with anything, no salt or pepper, no adobo either. And you don’t feel like making two batches either.
“Wanna make me an omelet?” Scott grins and you nod, pointing to the fridge. He grabs three eggs and butter and you set them aside, throwing some butter onto the pan. “I’m Scott, by the way.” He introduces himself to Spencer.
“Spencer,” He dips his head down, trying to avoid looking at Scott’s glasses.
“He’s a doctor,” You grin, tossing four eggos into the toaster. Leaning against the counter, you grab an apple and hold it between your fingers. “Peppers in the omelet or plain?” Scott takes the apple and bites into it.
“Impressive,” He pats Spencer’s back. “And plain. I’m bulking.” Nodding, you pour yours and Spencer’s eggs into the pan.
“Twink death, I suppose.” With a large, exaggerated sigh you lean against the counter again, fanning yourself.
“Because you know all about that, right?” The two of you laugh, like really laugh and Spencer looks between the two of you. You’re loose, compared to yesterday. You’re smiling and happily engaging with Scott, you’re even making him food. Willingly. He doesn’t look past the clear history either and chews on his lip.
What type of history could the two of you possibly share?
“So,” Scott clears his throat. “You’re a doctor?” His eyes (Spencer thinks, he can’t tell) flicker to Spencer while you tend to the eggs.
“I have several PhDs, I’m not a medical doctor,” He explains and clears his throat. “So, technically, I am a doctor, just not a medical professional. But I am EMT certified as per the FBI guidelines.” Scott looks at you, eyebrow raised and you smile, looking away.
“That’s cool, I have red beam eyes.” He shrugs, lowering the glasses and blasts the apple. It sprays everywhere and one chunk hits you square in the forehead.
“I’m not cleaning that.” Scrambling the eggs, you move apple guts off of the stove while Scott grabs a paper towel.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Spencer asks and Scott points him in the direction. He thanks him and leaves while Scott throws away the paper towels. Once he's gone, Scott leans against the counter with his arms crossed.
“What?” You sigh, piling the eggs onto the plate.
“You always like the chatty ones,” He grins. “Wade, Tony for a week, Pierto, Jenn, and what was her name?” He snaps his fingers and you hush him.
“Misty and she was not chatty!”
“Mmhm,” He looks forward, his ankles now crossed. “You should date him.” He mutters. “You’d make a cute couple. A cute little FBI, mutie couple.” His nose crinkles and you roll your eyes.
“He’s not a mutant,”
“But you like him.” He tilts his head closer to yours and you push him away from you. Focusing on the omelet, you peel the sides and check to see if it’s ready to flip.
“Did Charles or Erik tell you to do this?”
“They talked about it,” He shrugs, pushing himself away from the counter. He walks over towards the kitchen island and sits down. “And I agree. You don’t have to only date other mutants. Your track record shows you mostly date normies.”
“My longest relationships were with mutants, though.” You add, looking back at him. “That track record says I should only date mutants.”
“Maybe he is,” Scott grins. “Like a super smart mutant. What then?”
“Then I’d jump his bones— I’m joking!” You shout as Scott cackles. “Nothing changes. I don’t date anymore.”
“Ah, straight to marriage.”
“Scott,” Adding cheese into his omelet, you blink. “Im good being single.”
“Sure, but you’re pushing forty and still single…” Scoffing, you face him and point the spatula towards Charlie’s office.
“Charles is like a hundred and still won’t admit he loves Erik. I feel like there are bigger issues than me not dating!” He waves his hand, dismissing your entire statement. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to date someone. I’m happy being single,”
“I know aromantics and asexuals— you’re not one of them. That’s sexual frustration speaking. All that anger and libido built up isn’t good,” Flinging his eggs at him, he grabs the plate and manages to catch all of it. “See. Someone who’s happy doesn’t do that to breakfast.”
“I really want Jean to divorce you.”
Spencer walks back into the kitchen soon after and Scott motions his head towards him as he leaves with his food.
—
The case is going… not horribly. But not good, either. Another two mutants have been found and you’re sure you’re going to strangle Charles soon. Your latest theory is that he’s faking the deaths, they’re clones or something. You don’t know. But you think all of this is hocus pocus.
You’re three days in now, talking with the others about possible suspects and trying to find some type of rhyme or reason to how they’re picking out the mutants. (It’s Charles, duh.)
“Crossing every possible line- race, gender, age, type of mutant,” Derek lists through a frustrated sigh.
“Were they runaways? Had loving parents?” You ask, only to humor Charles into believing this was a real case and not some weird ploy. The man in question thinks for a second before flipping through the pictures again. Of course you’d find some missing link in this case.
“I’ve met all of their parents, they’re from mutant families.” He lists off their families, naming the mutants they’re related to. Some of them aren’t well known to people, even heavily tied with the mutant community. You doubt most of the people in the mansion had heard of them— hell, you hadn’t.
“We need to talk to the families,” Hotch surmises.
“I fear it won’t be possible. Most of them are under the mutant protection act and cannot be contacted.” That’s not real. That’s something he just made up, but hey. Leave it to the telepath to lie. Charles sighs as he looks at you. Shrugging, you watch as they believe the lie with a little influence from the professor. “I can gather all the mutant families I know and have them know about this threat, though.” Your eye twitched as what he said sunk in.
This fucking asshole.
“Until then, we need to work on the profile.” Hotch says. “The geographical profile won’t be of any help, considering the dump sites are all within Central Park and victims go as far as Queens.”
“It’s likely the Unsub is a mutant himself,” Reid speaks up while fiddling with his pen. “He probably comes from an unsupportive family and envies those who have familial support or understanding.”
“Teleportation mutant isn’t uncommon,” Emily adds. “It would explain how he’s getting the bodies into the park without being noticed.”
“But the placement of the Accords wouldn’t make sense.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Throws us off the trail,” Hotch explains. “Professor, can you create a list of mutants with teleportation powers and narrow it based on who has an unsupportive family? Garcia, I want you to pull up all the footage from the area where the victims were taken, review it with Reid frame by frame.”
“Yes, sir,” She nods and the two of them head over to her station. It’s in the room, which is strange considering how many rooms the mansion has but this is a fake case, you don’t expect much.
Looking over the files, your leg continues to bounce. It’s a matter of time before Charles mentions your family. Hotch will if he doesn’t. You know him, he’s not going to keep something so important to the case a secret. Raking your hand through your hair, you shudder and lean back in your seat. This isn’t going how you wanted it to. You never wanted them to find out.
You’re fine having feelings for Spencer in private. You don’t care if he never knows, you don’t care. This part of your life was buried for a reason and you didn’t need to uncover it for the sake of a fake fucking case.
Looking around the room, you see Erik standing at the door. You think him and Charles are having a telepathic conversation by the way his face keeps switching emotions. He looks at you and offers a sympathetic smile before glaring at Charles and leaving. They’re back to the divorce stage, then. Great.
You wonder what the team will think. It’s been eight years of knowing them, eight years of working together so well you consider them family. A family that hates secrets, especially giant ones. They’ll view this as you not trusting them, that you’ve been lying for almost a decade. They’ll hate you.
“I found a possible victim,” Derek calls and you pull yourself together. “Nine years ago, a teenage girl was killed in Central Park by her boyfriend.” Your eyes widen as he says that, snapping to the professors while he just sits there. “Danella Harkens, she was a student here. Her parents were in the original X-men.” He nods, as though he’d just remembered her.
You feel sick to your stomach as all of this settles in. Your sister's death has been something you tried to warn him about— you knew her boyfriend wasn’t any good but she was a rebellious teenager who didn’t want to listen to anyone. You begged him to make her stop, you were away on a mission, you couldn’t do anything. He could’ve. And he didn’t.
“I remember her,” He turns to Derek while you’re breathing hard. “She was a lovely student. It’s a shame—“ He stops, holding his throat as the air in his lungs is removed. Quickly, his face starts turning shades of red and the others scramble to help him. They don’t know what’s wrong, how could they? You walk to the middle of the room, staring at him as he loses more and more air. He silently pleads to you to stop but you don’t. You like it. Watching him suffer.
“Stop it,” Scott whispers, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shake your head, face tight. “(Y/n), let him go.” He urges.
“He killed her,” You whisper.
“Let him go.” Closing your eyes, you push the air back into his lungs. Charles gasps, holding onto the chair for support while you’re pulled out of the room. No one notices, busy attending to Charles.
Scott takes you to the training simulation room, something he used to do when you still lived there. He clears out the class who don’t hesitate to leave, loving the free period they’ve been provided. He boots up some of the harder simulations, watching as you quite literally burn through them. The fire burns a powerful blue, turning the (holographic) metal into (holographic) puddles. It doesn’t matter that they’re fake, the programming feels so real that there are phantom injuries whenever someone gets attacked by one.
He watches the sweat build on your face and then get turned into tiny knives that fly through the air.
“What’s the Avatar doing?” Emma asks, standing next to Scott with her arms crossed.
“Blowing off steam,” He cringes when your fire fills up the entire room, leaving scorch marks along the wall. “The Professor brought up Ella and he thinks it’s a fake case.” She hums, tilting her head as you suck the fire back in and form a fire sword with it.
“Is it?” She asks. She wouldn’t put it past Charles to do some fucked up shit like that.
“No,” He shakes his head. “It’s very real.”
—
Danella Harkness, a name she’s given herself because she fell in love with the book character with her first name. Danella (L/n) is your younger sister, she was several years younger than you, fifteen when she died. She wasn’t the strongest mutant ever; she didn’t have much control over her power. It wasn’t anything crazy or new, controlling light. You’ve seen it used in amazing ways but she never got the hang of it.
It wasn’t often that a mutant family all had similar powers. The X gene didn’t carry what type of powers someone got. At least to your knowledge. But your mother has moon powers, your father has the wildest energy powers you’ve seen in a long time, your older sister controls gravity, and you have the most basic, elemental powers.
You stare at the family portrait inside one of the common areas, you’re all in your suits, smiling and alive. It was painted four weeks before Ella died. You’re thankful that she’s been immortalized in such a happy state but it still aches you to your core. She would’ve been twenty-four this year. It's been nine years since she’s died, nine years since you’ve been angry with the world.
You’ve been angry with Charles since you could be angry— he’s a shit person in general.
“There you are,” Spencer gasps, clearly out of breath as you sit with your back to the door. “Hotch is calling us, it’s dinner time.”
“I’m not hungry,” You respond and the doors close. Sinking into the seat, you stare at a nineteen-year-old you. You’re hardly smiling in that picture, but you’re happy. You can tell. You’ve never liked your smile all that much so you faked a nicer one for the painting. Your parents didn’t like that, they always wanted it redone to get your true smile but…
“Are you okay?” Spencer settles next to you. You scoot over, making room for him. His eyes follow yours, finding the painting. “Is that Danella?” He knows her face, of course, he does, he’s seen it once. He knows the slope of her nose, he knows how she had gotten a messy lip ring but he doesn’t know that she ran her finger along her nose to calm her down or that she’d gotten the lip ring because your older sister had gotten one.
“Yeah,” You bite without meaning to. “Yes,” You say in a calmer tone, silently apologizing.
“We didn’t get a file on the rest of her family,” He points out, a sense of urgency growing in his voice. “The sister and the brother could be in danger.” Your sister is flying in from her latest mission, according to Jean tells you. She’ll be back within the hour. You don’t know what you’re going to do. You don’t know what your life is going to look like after today.
“Who said danger?” A shrill voice says as the doors to the room slam open. You close your eyes, knowing the voice, while Spencer jumps.
“Excuse me?” He stutters, watching as Wade rushes across the room and flings himself onto the couch. His knee hits your head and you groan, holding the side of your head while he scrambles to sit down properly, squishing himself between you and Spencer. To Spencer’s credit, he moves over to give more space before eventually giving up and standing instead.
“Y’know, this is a niche crossover,” Wade sighs while looking at a wall. “I’ve only ever read beanstalk over here and Gambit boning for this crossover.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” You groan, checking your hand. There isn’t any blood, of course there wouldn’t be. But you felt that you should still check.
“Nothing.” He quickly says and then sighs dramatically and crosses his legs. “What were you two talking about?” He plays with the ends of your hair, smiling under his mask as you glare at him.
“None of your business,” Smacking his hand away, he hisses and blows on his hand. “God! Kill me!” Standing up, you circle around the couch to grab your sweater and gun holster when the others walk inside.
“We’ve been looking for you two!” JJ sighs, tucking some hair behind her ear. “The Professor wants to talk about the case, something about the Danella’s girls family.” Your eye twitches again, you never thought that was a real thing but leave it to Charles.
“Oh,” Wade drags out before he jumps over the couch and spins you into his chest. “And here I thought you were here for little ole moi,” He frowns as you push yourself away from him, angrily fixing your hair. “You used to like that.” He says while staring at the wall again.
“Do you ever shut up?” You seethe, looking for your gun holster. You were sure it was next to your sweater. Scanning the room, you find it next to the fireplace and squint. How the fuck?
“You know a couple ways to shut me up,” Wade sings, following after you. “Wink wink.” Grabbing your gun, you check the weight and then stare at Wade. “Wink.” His head moves as though he’s making an exaggerated wink.
“You two know each other?” Derek slowly asks.
“No.”
“We used to fuck raw.” Wade grins and you shout, ripping his mask off and shoving the barrel of your gun into his mouth. He moans, eyes shut while you can feel his tongue licking along the gun.
“You freak,” You spit, taking the gun off of safety. The others shout, begging you to stop but Wade pulls the trigger with a loud moan, his eyes rolling back. He drops to the floor without a sound, blood and oddly enough his teeth land on your face. “Some fucking peace and quiet!” You groan, wiping your face before you put the gun's safety back on.
“You just killed a man.” Penelope whispers, her eyes trained on the wall. Her eyes are red and there are already free flowing tears running down her face.
“Look man,” Derek takes a hesitant step forward. “We know you hate mutants but this is too far!”
“What?” You ask, hands on your hips.
“You killed him!” He shouts, a vein bulging out of his forehead.
“Do you guys know who that is?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Hotch pulls himself together, blinking away from Wades ‘dead’ body. You can see his head reforming already, steadily breathing again. “You killed a man.” Blinking, you turn to face your family painting. Thankfully, there’s no blood on it, protected by a thick bulletproof glass, considering how many different accidents happen in the school.
“He’s not— I’m so going to kill myself.” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you let out a loud sigh and turn around again. Charles and Logan stand at the door, slowly letting themselves in.
“Professor, I am… there’s no words to describe how sorry I am.” Hotch stumbles over his words. Xavier holds his hand up, staring at you as him and Logan move closer to you and Wade.
“You had to make it messy?” Logan grits, staring at the blood-soaked rug and the brains on the wall.
“He’s being a little bitch!” You defend, pointing your gun at him. “‘Sides he pulled the trigger this time.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
“Course he did,” He puts a cigar between his lips and leans over expectantly. Taking it, you hover it over the fireplace and put it between his lips. “Not what I wanted.” He mutters but takes a long drag from the cigar.
“Suck a dick.” Scrunching your nose as he blows smoke towards you, Logan rolls his eyes.
“I hope that got everything out of your system.” Charles sighs, watching as Wade starts to breathe again.
“If you weren’t in a wheelchair, I would’ve thrown you off of the Empire State Building by this point.” You admit, low enough that only the three of you hear.
“You should still do it,”
“Logan.” Charles blinks.
“My God, that was hot!” Wade shouts as he jumps up, his face still molding itself together. The others scream and you blink, you’ve never heard Hotch scream before. It’s strange. “Do it again.”
“No, you freak!” You spit. “You nearly got me locked up!”
“Bet you’d like that,”
“Wade,” Closing your eyes, you step away from him.
“My apologies for not explaining the situation earlier, Wade here has a mutation that rapidly grows his cells, a regeneration mutation.” Charles explains. “Simply put, Wade is impossible to kill by normal means.”
“I know how,” Logan offers.
“How did you know that?” Spencer asks you.
“Because,” You shrug.
“They used to date.” Logan blows out another puff of smoke.
“I’d rather not tell people that, I was desperate.” You blink, unable to look at the team.
“To a cancer patient,” Wade gasps, hand on his chest. “You know i’m sensitive about my skin.”
“I preferred you without a mask and gagged, I think we know why the relationship didn’t last.” You bite without meaning to.
“You gagged him?” Emily stares and you close your eyes. Unsure of what was worse, admitting to your sexual escapades in front of your crush and boss or nearly spilling your own secret for the sake of killing Wade.
“Can we not? There’s a case.” You mumble.
“Right,” Charles clears his throat and you side glance at him. “Daniella’s family is here.”
The sentence feels like the end of the world. And you’ve experienced the end of the world before. Several times in fact. And those have never left this type of pit in your stomach, this type of dryness to your mouth that you’re sure drinking all of the world's clean water could hydrate. It makes your head spin and your knees are about three seconds from buckling.
So many years, so many memories and shared with the team, and so— so— much love was about to be put to the test.
You crumble with each step, feeling as if you’re being walked to your public execution of your own making. Your neck is burning from the inevitable blade coming down and you just hope it’s as swift as a guillotine was.
You never should’ve taken this job. You never should’ve lied to them. You never should’ve gotten so close to them. You should’ve been more open with them.
You don’t know which never is right and you suppose you never will. You’ve made your bed and it’s time to lay in it.
The team is guided to the elevator that leads down to the basement. No one really talks, still shocked and trying to piece together the last three minutes. Spencer is especially quiet, his eyes are traveling with each of his thoughts and he’s picking at the end of his vest. It must be hard, he has a million and five questions and yet, he can’t ask them. He won’t get the answers fast enough and you don’t know if you’ll be around to ever give them to him.
Logan opens the door to the hanger, it hisses as the seal breaks before it slides open without making a sound. The jet is parked and the door is open, three pairs of footsteps echo through the bay and Hotch is the first to react.
He turns to you.
That’s the first thing he does when he sees them.
His head snaps to you, his eyes wide as his mouth is pressed into a thin line. A knowing line. You avoid his gaze, staring down at the floor as your chest tightens again. Your lips curl into an emotion you can’t place just yet. Because just like that, just by seeing your family Aaron Hotchner is the first to figure out that you're a mutant.
He knows because he knows your sister. He could have never forgotten her— he’s only ever been with two people.
Your family stands in front of the BAU, their careful eyes scanning over the team and when your sister sees Hotch, she gives a small smile. Nothing more, nothing less. He gives an even smaller one back, a mental dilemma clearly written over his face.
“So, we’re all here?” Your mother nods towards Charles.
“We’re still waiting on your son, ma’am,” Derek eyes, as if it was obvious. Charles had said everyone from the family was flying in but, clearly, they were down a person.
“My son?” Your mother blinks from him and then to you. She frowns, her crescent-shaped lips almost unnatural-looking as they pout. Emily pauses, tilting her head ever so slightly as the pieces fall into place for her. Her eyes shift to you and she makes a small expression. Barely visible but it lets you know everything.
Two people.
Inhaling, you turn towards Logan. Begging him, pleading with him to do something. Anything. Logan isn’t one for pity but he’s not exactly an asshole. He grunts, feigning boredom and ushers everyone back upstairs. Into the meeting room you’d been working out of.
“We believe that your daughter was the first victim for our UnSub,” Rossi starts the conversation as everyone settles down. You’re still at your seat, your sister to your left, Spencer to your right. In front of you are your parents. “Can you tell us about Daniella’s death?”
“We were gone,” Your mother starts, her eyes drifting as her mind does. “A mission to take down a factory creating Sentinels. She couldn’t go, I didn’t want her getting hurt and she found no issue, they were having a trip that day. But the kids,” She looks at your sister and then you. Spencer tenses for a moment and you can feel the air push from his lungs as he tries not to stare at you.
Three people.
“They begged me not to, not to leave her or not to go. Begged Charles. We returned to the news, her boyfriend. A secret boyfriend. He’d stabbed her in Central Park because he found out she was a mutant.”
“You knew?” Derek’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at your sister. “How?”
“We— me and my brother, we knew the kid. His dad, at the time, was working for the government. Working on legalizing sentinels again. She didn’t believe us and then she said he wasn’t like his father. She trusted him,” She explains and you swear it’s like you’re back there again. That you're pleading with everyone to do something, to save your sister from the fate you know she’s about to walk into.
No one did. No one helped. And you lost yourself that day, you lost your baby sister, your parents, and you lost your trust with the older generation of X-men.
“Can you think of a reason why someone is copying Danella’s murder?” JJ softly asks as if her tone would cushion her words. You lower your head a little while your hands reach up to massage your neck and then the sides of your head. Your fear is turning into anger and soon enough, if—when someone says the wrong thing you’re going to explode.
“No,” She shakes her head. “He’s an only child, his mother is alive and his father died four years ago.”
“I…” Your dad starts, his voice sounding like he’s afraid to say what’s on his mind. Which is unusual. “I can. It’s a strange reason but…” His lips purse and your mother shakes her head, silently telling him no. Slightly, you perk
up while your eyes narrow.
“Anything is helpful,” Rossi nods, leaning forward in his seat. “Even if it doesn’t seem that way.” Your dad nods and looks at your mother, waiting for her to concede. She does and exhales slowly as he speaks.
“We moved her grave recently.” He finally says. “We moved her here.” It’s like time froze, like you could finally feel the temperature around you, the chill in the air rushing through your lungs, your veins, and into that well of emotions you’ve kept under lock and key for nearly a decade. You’re not thinking straight, not thinking of the consequences as your voice fills the room faster than your mind can catch it.
“You what?” You shuddered, looking between the two of them. They avoid your betrayed gaze until you stand from the table, your fist clenched at your side as the chair nearly falls down. “You fucking moved her?” You shout, face twisted with fury that grows with their silence. “Answer me— what the fuck did you do?”
“This is why we didn’t tell you,” Your mother's voice is almost a plea as she looks at you. “Look at you, (Y/n).”
You grit, shaking your head. “Don’t spin this back to me,” You tell her, trying to keep your voice steady. “My sister was murdered and we laid her to rest next to her favorite park. And you two moved her back to the place she hated.”
“You hate it here,” Your father softly corrects as if he’s talking down one of his patients. “Ella loved it here.”
Lifting your chin, you stare down at him. “Ella hates the X-men. She hates missions, she hates living in this school—“
“Ella is dead.” Your mother reminds you, looking away as the words formed a bitter taste on her tongue.
“Fuck you.” You spit, nearly enjoying the hurt that flickers across her face, like the air was sucked out of her lungs. “Y’know what? Fine. Ella hated the X-men. She hated how Charles treated us like show ponies. She hated living in a dorm instead of an apartment. She hated how you made us go to courts to watch as people called us cruel words as they treated us like we weren’t people. She didn’t go on that mission because she was tired of being reminded that the world fucking hated her. She was never mutant and proud. She didn’t get a hang on her powers because she didn’t want to.”
“(Y/n),” Your sister looks up at you, eyes bleary. “Stop.”
“What?” You laugh this bitter laugh that feels like it scrapes against your throat. “We’re just being honest, aren’t we? Ella told us how much she hated this place but she wanted to make them proud.” Lamely, you gesture to your parents. “You would’ve known that, had you stopped to think of us outside of being legacy mutants.”
“We never did,” Your mother stands up, hurt written clearly on her face. “(Y/n), you need therapy. This—this isn’t healthy, you’re still so angry,”
“I’m not angry.” You grit. You’ve never been the angry one, sardonic maybe Cynical. But you didn’t like being angry, that weird burning feeling in your chest, the way the anger would cloud a person's judgment. That was never you. “Stop calling me angry.”
But she nods, solemnly like it hurts her to do so. “Look at you. Look behind you,” Blinking, you turn around and see that the floor is on fire, a line trailing from your feet, across the room and traveling up the wall. Shaking your head, it snuffs out and you turn back, blinking away the embarrassment lingering in your eyes. “You’re scaring your friends; you’re scaring us.”
Licking your lips, you shake your head again before leaving. You can’t deal with this, deal with them or the sounds of your mother crying as you leave. You’ve fucked everything up, again. You always do.
“(Y/n)—“ Spencer’s voice calls after you, a little panicked as he follows the burnt footsteps. The heat that’s radiating off of your body. “—wait, please!”
“I need to be alone!” You warn, pushing through a set of doors that leads to the basement. “Stay with the others, Spencer.”
He waits at the door for a moment, just one, solitary moment to think about it before he shakes his head and follows you down. “Talk to me… please,” The basement is a metal, but not the type that radiates the heat rolling off of your body; it’s cold down there, reflective in a way that makes the fire in your eyes shine when you face him.
“I can’t hurt you,” You’re pleading, the anger gone from your body as he only gets closer, a cold fear quickly replacing it. “Spencer, please. Stay back— I when I get like this—“ Stopping yourself, you shake your head and head inside the room. He follows, again because for some reason he can’t stop himself. It’s like he needs to prove himself, to who, he’s sure it’s you. He’s not sure why and he’s not sure how but he enters the room just before the doors close.
It’s dark, impossibly so. The type of darkness that’s no longer just the color black— this must be what it’s like to be completely blind. But even more so. He can’t tell which way is up or down and it’s so silent. The hall had been quiet but this was silent, silent enough that he could hear the blood rushing through his ears, his soft breathing. But he can’t hear you. And a part of him is afraid to call out, to break whatever this is that’s going on.
“You need to go,” Your voice echoes from across the room, in some area he can’t pinpoint. He flinches, trying to figure out where your voice came from, his eyes desperately trying to adjust to the darkness. “The room is going to fill with water in fifteen seconds. The door will shut for an hour. And I don't want to have to force you out,”
“What about you?” He’s panting, and he doesn’t know why. One foot steps in front of the other, venturing deeper into the room.
“I’m—“ Your voice catches in your throat, the words ringing as not important. Not the focus of right now. “Spencer, you have ten seconds. Leave. This is my… timeout room. Go!” His hand wraps around yours, at first he stutters, unsure in his movements— actions before they hold you tightly. “Spence…”
“I trust you.” The door hisses, the seal clicking into place and your eyes close. Another seal hisses and water starts to pour into the room from behind you. His heartbeat picks up, slightly but enough that you notice.
“It’s going to fill the room entirely. Floor to ceiling.” You warn, looking at the water. You can’t see it but you can sense it, understand where it’s coming from and going. “Fifteen percent Epsom salt, so we’ll float but still be able to swim. Air gets pumped through… some system, I’m not sure.”
“How do we…” Breathe, he means. The water’s up to your knees by this point but he hasn’t moved. And it feels like he’s staring at you.
“I can breathe underwater. It’s a skill I learned, filtering the water out before it enters my nose, so I just get the oxygen. I can… make a large air bubble for you.” You’ve done it before, back when you were an X-Men and once, when the team went to the beach and Henry slipped from his floaters faster than anyone could react.
He leans back, letting the water hold him up and you feel it, his body lying on the surface, slowly drifting about. You do the same; it’s the purpose of the room, after all. By the time your stomach hits the ceiling, you’ve wrapped Spencer into the bubble of air. It moves around him— he’s talking and you swim closer to him before widening the bubble to incase the both of you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” It, the situation or the other situation. Because, while you don’t want to talk about either, one is certainly better than the other. Then again, knowing Spencer, he’ll want the bigger picture first.
“The point of this room is to not talk for an hour,” You softly remind him.
“Still,” It’s up to you, that’s the thing. You can say no, give a firm, black or white yes or no and he’ll drop it. Hand to God he would, but… you want to. You want to tell someone about this, someone like Spencer. To get this off of your chest, to let him see you and see all of you. Not just SSA (Y/n) (L/n).
Despite yourself, there’s an immediate need to defend yourself. “I’m not angry— I’m not an angry person,”
“I know,”
“I’m not.”
“I know.”
“It’s just; they make me angry. My parents, Charles… they’re so… self-righteous. Mutant and proud. Putting yourself on the line. These—the great, grandiose expectations about how you’re supposed to be great and this poster boy for mutants. Proud of your mutations, to ignore the vile words, the hatred that normies spew at us. To still help them when they spit at us, treat us like infections. I was the only one of my siblings to try and tell them that we didn’t want this life, they didn’t believe me and it frustrated me. I…I got angry and…” Trailing off, you feel your eyes sting as the memories come back. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I lost control of my powers and ended up burning them. Everyone. My mom, dad, Rose, and Ella.” His breath hitches and he reaches forward while you lean back. “That's why they built this room. It makes me focus on water and not fire.”
“Ella was different, she was always… scared. Of her powers, of people— it really didn’t matter. And then she met him. Walking in a park, he was…normal, that’s what she called him.” Running your hand over your head, you exhale. “She saw the life she wanted in him. Going to high school, living in an apartment with just his family, no one hated him. Nothing that she had in her life. She told us about it, told me and Rose. Swore us to keep it a secret, Rose wanted to but I knew something wrong was happening. She needed an escape, not a boyfriend. And not him. I told them— I stalked him,” It’s the first time you’re admitting this, your arms crossed over your stomach as your eyes dart around, the memories slowly rolling in.
“I followed him home, this brownstone in Manhattan. I saw him, the Senator who’s the main endorsement for the Sentinels. They looked so similar and seemed too close that there was no way that they didn’t have the same views. I tried telling her, and then Rose, and then our parents. No one listened. Ella thought I was being a protective big brother. Rose wanted to let Ella make her own choices and my parents just… wanted to focus on using her to get close to the Senator.”
You just continued to talk but it felt more like word vomit, your words growing more and more hoarse until you just started sobbing. It was uncontrollable, pent-up feelings bubbling to the surface like a volcano that you couldn’t contain. And Spencer didn’t want you to. He listened and he didn’t judge, not even when you admitted to robbing a liquor store after finding out about her death and getting black out drunk in the middle of the woods. He just sat there, letting you lean on him for the first time.
By the time you caught your breath, the water was being drained in the middle of the room and the lights were starting to come back. It was a slow progression so as to not hurt your eyes. The water slipped between the new slots in the floor and whatever somehow managed to stay inside the room would be steamed out once you left.
“Are you ready to go back?” He asks, still squinting due to the bright, white lights flooding the area.
“No,” You admit, voice steady where your eyes are still red, lips still holding a small tremble. “I’m going to find Ella,” He nods, letting you guide him back upstairs before you leave him to get back to the others.
—
It’s almost an hour before you return. The team had been trying to focus on the case but it was hard. Especially for Morgan who kept huffing and slamming things on the table; everyone knew why, too. He was hurt, hurt in ways he couldn’t describe. One of his closest friends, someone who he calls when he’s at his lowest, didn't trust him as much as he trusted them. And that stings, Spencer will admit. But he gets it.
He looks at the cases— your file and slips through countless mission reports. The details in them are gruesome. Buried alive at eleven, thrown into a lava pit at nine, set on fire, kidnapped and tortured, and something about being sent to an alternate universe. Then there’s the press, he skims through videos of you and your family at rallies, protesting at capital buildings, in court— a video of your mother getting arrested at one while you’re struggling to contain yourself, bending the wooden table in front of you before you’re tackled to the ground and placed in a mutant collar. You’d been seven at the time.
The room itself was quiet, whispers of information passed around like a game of telephone until rapid footsteps approached the door. It swung open like a storm was hitting, bouncing off of the hinges and everyone turned to the door, seeing you frantic.
“Is Josh here?”
“No,” Scott shakes his head, beginning to stand up. “We sent Logan and Kitty on a search for him.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet,” He sighs. “They’ve checked each safe house and nothing's been touched. Logan hasn’t picked up his scent, either.” He’s speaking like a doctor breaking bad news to a family, taking slow steps until he’s in front of you. Something flashes across your face; guilt, maybe sadness and you whisper to him, shaking your head. Spencer can hear faint I know and it's not your fault from Scott.
“Cerebro,” Your voice gets higher, eyes snapping towards Charles. “Use cerebro to find him.”
Charles doesn’t give an indication if he can or even will, but he makes his way over to the two of you and the three of you start talking. The air starts to feel hotter, like it had when you learned they moved Ella and Spencer sees the smoke rising from the floor underneath you. Sees the shifting air around Scott’s hair, the way your face twists and contorts as though you have no control over it. And then, a break.
Your body falters, blearly eyes look between the two of them. “He’s not… he’s…”
Charles shakes his head. “It’s the most likely scenario. Logan will do one last sweep today for him,”
“So, there is a mutant serial killer,” It’s not a question, it’s a realization. That these past couple of days of bullshitting had been for nothing, that you should’ve taken this more seriously. Scott nods. “Okay— have we asked Jean, Wanda, or Hotoru to take a look at the bodies? See if they can get any information from them?”
It’s weird, now you can place yourself into business mode. Because you’re walking around the room, using your powers to guide files over to the board, standing straighter and that tone, Spencer knows it well. You and Scott work together well, he notes. The man is at your side in seconds and it’s strange how well the two of you balance each other out. He wonders just how connected the two of you are, considering what happened during breakfast.
“Spencer, did you get a look at the letter on my door?” He snaps out of it, seeing your serious face and nods, standing up with his dry-erase marker to the board. “Both Josh and I got one— I didn’t get a chance to read it. Maybe the others did, too,” You hurriedly explain, arms crossed and teeth finding purchase on the inside of your cheek.
“So, you’re a potential victim,” Scott notes, arms crossed to mimic you when you turn to him as if he asked a stupid question. “You are. And don’t bring up the fact that you can hide inside of a volcano, again.”
“Well, I can hide inside of a volcano!” There’s a pause, your eyes shift before your eyebrows shoot up. “And Josh can dig underground. Deep enough to not be found by detectors or search dogs.”
While it convinces Scott, his lips purse. “There are hundreds of miles of dirt between your building and here. It would take you days to search it,”
“Julio and I can— and maybe Jean. She can try and fly with me, sense him. Are there any other earth based mutants?”
He thinks for a moment, recounting all the students in his care. “A couple, but none of them have that much power. It’s just you and Julio. And even he’s not on your level,”
Grinning at him, you move towards the board where Spencer is. “You’re making me blush,” Standing next to him, you look at the board. “That’s everything?” He hums, blinking over at you while you read it over, lips pulled to the side and eyes jumping around.
“This is weird,” You admit, waving Scott over. “It’s all broken,”
“Broken?” Hotch echoes and you no,d turning to him.
“This is Krakoan. It’s a language for an island, and if you were on the island at any point, you’d know the language as if it was your native tongue,”
“This is written like someone’s learning the language,” Scott finishes with you nodding in agreement.
But now the question was, who’s teaching them? “Making a list of all the mutants on the island wouldn’t take too long. Not many of us left it. So, we can start from there.”
—
“This isn’t crazy to you guys?” Derek whispers during dinner. You’re gone, off with Scott and your friends, making a plan to find Josh— who Penelope was surprised to figure out was the same Josh from the apartment building— and connect the letters to the current murders. “He’s been lying for years!”
Hotch is the first to speak, his head shaking slightly with a slight frown etched into his skin. “It’s not that simple,”
Derek scoffs, leaning back in his seat. “We’re not bigots, Hotch. He could've trusted us like we trust him.”
“You’ve seen him,” Hotch starts, slow like he’s still piecing together his evidence. “How he reacted ever since we took this case. He’s scared, he’s barely sleeping, outbursts, and withdrawn. This wasn’t something he wanted to talk about with anyone,” Of course, Derek can sympathize with that. He knows that feeling well but it doesn’t stop the hurt in his chest. Something so deep in his soul that he doesn’t know how to get over this feeling fast enough to make logical choices.
Outside, they hear someone’s loud laughter and the conversation dies on Derek’s tongue. “He’s cute— he’s cute, I don’t see the harm,” It’s a woman’s voice, one they haven’t heard before.
“Jean,” That’s you, undeniably that’s your voice. “Name one mutant who's found love in a normie,” The team eyes each other, trying to figure out where the conversation is going.
“Wanda,” She immediately responds to which you scoff.
“Jericho is literally the sorcerer supreme,”
It takes a moment but she snaps her fingers. “Ororo and T’Challa,”
“He’s the king of the most powerful nation and has powers,”
She huffs. “You’re impossible,”
“I’m practical and you’re not fitting the criteria. I want a mutant and a non-mutant without any powers in a stable relationship where one of them doesn’t die.”
The silence that follows is heavy. “It could be you and Spencer,” She finally says.
Her words hit most of the team like a truck, the two of you weren’t just talking in general. This was a specific conversation about you and Spencer getting together. The logistics of someone like you and someone like him being together for the long run. When they look at him, his ears are burning red and he’s staring at the window as if you’d climb through and…confess or something of the sort.
“You said it yourself, you wanted to kiss him in the sensory room,” If Spencer wasn’t red before, he is now. Avoiding everyone’s gazes and sinking into his seat.
“Shut the fuck up.” Your voice is fast, embarrassed that she’s speaking about it out in the open. “And I told Scott that in confidence— he's such a loud mouth,” There’s a twinge of a whine to your voice while Jean laughs.
“I’m his wife,”
There’s no rebuttal for that and the two of you start walking, albeit slowly. “So what if I did, it’s not gonna happen. You, Scott, Charles, Erik, and Derek need to understand that.”
She sighs and it’s this big, loud disappointed sigh that only a mother could pull off. “You need therapy. And I’m saying this to be nice but you and Spencer could be really cute and go the whole way. But your fear of normies not accepting you— all of you is holding you back. You’ve known him for eight years, doesn’t that count for something? You said the two of you held hands—“
“He was scared, we were sharing a blanket and he wanted to hold my hand,”
“You slept in the same bed,”
“Again, he was scared. We watched a scary movie,”
“The X trilogy. Stop interrupting me. He likes you, I've never met him and I can tell. You like him. The two of you are cute and clearly, he’s not going to turn out to be some evil mutant killer or end up kidnapped by an evil mutant killer,”
“He could, though,” When you speak, your voice is smaller, almost breathy. “I’m never going to be separated from this life, and if I merge him with this, who knows who’s going to find out? The wrong person could and I lose Spencer— forever. I could lose all of them, Derek already hates me,” The way you say it, like a child scared they’d disappointed their parent,
makes Derek feel bad. Guilt builds in his stomach as the others glance at him as if he’d refute your claim. He should— he will, he knows that. Just… not right now.
“No, he doesn’t,”
“You weren’t there, Jean. I saw his face, I know Derek. He’s upset with me and I can’t find it in myself to wish I had told them sooner. I would’ve taken this to the grave,”
“…(Y/n)…”
“What? It’s not like I’m going to pass along the X gene, there was no reason for them to know. And sure, none of them have their pitchfork and torches but what now? Are they going to be nervous around me during work, passive-aggressive, or maybe I’ll just be quietly shunned out until the only thing for me to do is quit? Because I’ve heard the way they talk about mutants. They don’t want us dead, but we need to fit into their boxes.”
“What?”
“They’re FBI agents, they’ve dealt with mutants. Big and scary ones, ones with what they call inconsequential powers, and everything in between. You’re always lucky to survive a case with them. It's a cool story to tell to pick up chicks in a bar, a war story about what could’ve gone wrong. It’s something you keep hush-hush, don’t assume the UnSub is mutant, it’s taboo. It’s like calling them the devil.”
“If you’re scared of them, then why stay? You could get a job anywhere else, but you’ve stayed with them,”
“Honestly,” You shrug, passing by the window. “They’re amazing people. I just think they’ve been subjected to so much propaganda, they don’t notice it.”
“Y’know what your issue is?”
“Oh, please tell me another issue I have,”
“You dim your light in situations where you’d shine.”
“How about we go look for Josh? We’re burning daylight,”
“It’s nighttime,”
“I don’t have time for your mind games, Jean. Get in the air already,” The sound of the two of you leaving leaves something short of a sonic boom that makes the glass shake and the team shudder.
—
That night, while you were still out looking for Josh, most of the team had gathered inside of Penelope’s room. Everyone but Hotch and Rossi couldn’t sleep, their minds filled with the information that not only were you a mutant, but you used to be one of the most powerful— probably still are, if what Scott had said was true.
None of them have that much power. It’s just you and Julio. And even he’s not on your level.
Your level, your own separate league for just your earth based powers. Who knew about the other three elements you could bend to your will?
Pen had dug up all the videos she could of you and sent them all one single text: check this out. Which is how they ended up huddled around her desk, chairs pulled up and the curtains drawn as if it would shield them from being found out.
The first video isn’t bad. It’s a news clip about the school, you’re in the background, playing with Scott and a man they’ve yet to meet. It’s grainy, clearly dated by the bad camera quality when Pen zoomed in, but it’s obviously you. The next video is mission footage, clips recovered from a warehouse. You’re a teenager, maybe even a tween, running with Ella in your arms as robots chase after. They’re huge, skin changing to steel as you shoot waves of fire at it. There are bodies— other mutants, scattered across the floor that you’re trying to shield Ella from seeing.
At some point, you meet with Rose and your parents. From there, you Ella off to your mother before you and Rose turn back to the creature. “It’s a sentinel,” Emily breathes, quietly as if the word would bring it out from the screen. “In the report, they’re robots who adapted to mutant powers, it nearly wiped the mutant population out,”
In the video, Rose holds her hands up and the room shakes. It’s like everything feels heavy and you strain, trying to use the air to rip it apart when from behind, just out of view, Spencer sees it. A shine on the floor, then a black metal foot before three prongs pierce your chest. If the sound had not been recovered from the footage, they would’ve heard Rose’s screams, and heard the ground split as the gravity became too hard for even the sentinel to handle and collapsed under their weight.
“He was eleven,” Derek points out, looking at the date on the corner of the screen.
“He was a baby,” Pen’s voice is filled with pain that only grows when the next video plays. You’re there, on a makeshift operating table. This time, there’s sound and they hear all of your shouts, hear the wind blowing across the room because there wasn’t any anesthetic. This is somewhere in the warehouse, untouched by the sentinels. Blood is rushing from your wounds, there’s an organ poking out from one of the holes, and you’re screaming. There shouldn’t be air in your lungs to make any type of noise, but it’s like your powers are working on autopilot to keep you alive.
“Where is Silver?” Scott asks, he’s there, holding your hand to keep you from getting up.
“Rose is finding him now,” Erik replies. He’s somewhere in the room, pacing around.
“She needs to hurry— he’s losing—“
“I’m aware,” He’s at your side, kneeling down to brush the sweat from your skin. “Just a little longer, I promise it.” You manage a nod through gritted teeth before sobbing again. You’re muttering so they can’t hear the words but they know the tone.
The video skips as Penelope wipes her face. This one is easier to stomach. It’s homemade footage that starts with Scott pointing the camera in the mirror, showing off his new suit.
“Hey, heat beam—“
Scott sighs, pointing the camera over to you. You’re about thirteen in your new suit, grinning madly. “It’s a concussive punch—“
“Yeah, whatever,” Waving your hand, you inhale while Scott exhales. “These suits are kinda ass, gotta admit. But Lorena said I look good and I was thinking of asking her out— don’t tell Erik, please. Delete this—“ You hold your hand out and the camera flies into your hand, showing your scared face. Scott shouts and a chase starts, showing off the halls of the mansion until they see a familiar door.
It’s your room, your current room. It's the same hallway and the inside is filled with whatever items a thirteen-year-old omega-level mutant could want.
“Scott! How the fuck do I delete this?” You shout, turning the camera over in your hand.
“Just— gimmie the camera, I’ll do it.”
You stare at him, eyes narrowed. “You said that last time and now Hank knows that we all think he’s on furry chat rooms selling his body!” Looking down again, you grin. “Found i—“ The footage doesn’t end there, though. It just cuts to another video, dated the same day, just four hours later.
The camera is on the ground, grass blocking some of the view but most of it is still visible. It’s chaotic, like a war zone in the middle of a field. There’s a crashed airplane in the distance, that’s what caused the fire in the background and there’s a team. Two people fall to the ground. Scott is on his knees, clutching his chest, Lorena is just now standing up and Quicksilver is bringing supplies from the plane.
“Cyclops— don’t breathe it in! Don’t!” Your voice is hoarse, you must’ve been shouting for a while. Your hand plants itself on someone’s chest and they watch as the person convulses before green air is pushed out their body. Pietro places a breathing mask on the person's face as you run to the next person, repeating the process.
By the time you reach Scott, he’s face down on the grass. “Q— can you see if the— the black box is still in the plane? Someone needs to tell the Professor what happened?” He zips back, returning less than a second later with a solemn look on his face. “It’s okay— it’s okay. Just… move them away from the plane, yeah?”
You lug Scott up, limping towards the camera and they see a piece of metal sticking out from your leg. It’s straight through but you’ve been working through it, using your powers to keep pressure from the leg.
The video ends there, cutting to a picture of you and a guy with red eyes in front of a grave, giving it the middle finger. It reads Charles Xavier. The next picture of the two of you again, taken by someone else as you’re both hanging your heads at the sight of Charles, alive and back in the mansion.
Again, it’s a video. It starts with a banner that says it’s prom night. The theme is Under the Stars and there’s terrible music playing in the rented-out hall. “This is proof— because we all know (Y/n) will deny this later,” Jean laughs into the camera as your group of friends rush towards the bathroom. There’s Scott, of course, and three other people they can’t see. The door to the bathroom opens without anyone touching it and they see you, standing with Kurt sat on the bathroom sink, making out.
The group shouts when the two of you pull away and Kurt bites your lower lip, pulling a noise from you. It doesn’t last long, as your head snaps over and you shout, chasing them throughout the party.
Then starts a string of videos. Taken at different points of your life but you’re training your powers in all of them. Flying, holding up Olympic-sized pools with just a finger, freezing giant robots midstep, creating tornadoes— incredible feats that continue to top each other with each new clip. It’s somehow but incredibly terrifying and amazing and then they’re reminded that the person they’re watching is the same person they’ve known for nearly eight years.
The same person that they would’ve said didn’t have a single dangerous bone in their body, whose muscles were for carrying them home from the bar— not the guy who broke off the top of a mountain to fight Apocalypse.
It’s so weird, like you’re two separate people. But, Spencer guesses that the death of Ella truly did change you, since none of the videos are dated after her death.
Before the screen turns back, there’s one final picture. It’s a funeral, Ella’s. The rain is heavy, impossibly so and Spencer remembers it— that storm. The rain was so heavy and strong that it reached Vegas, towns flooded and some of the damage is still being recovered to this day. The background is hard to read but there’s a break in the rain, a perfect rectangle above the casket where a golden sun shone down on the beautiful bouquet.
You’re off to the side, not far from the casket but notably away from everyone else, staring at the brown wood, fist clenched tightly in your suit, two sizes too small for your body.
Spencer gets it— you are on a completely different level from the other mutants.
Summary: To the world, you're Lewis Hamilton's perfect wife - elegant, soft-spoken, endlessly supportive. In Monaco, the paddock sees exactly why he never lets you go.
The first thing people notice is how quiet you are.
Not silent, never that, but measured. Controlled. Every word placed exactly where it needs to be, every movement soft and intentional, like you were taught from the beginning how to exist in rooms like this.
Monaco suits you.
Of course it does.
The terrace is bright, overlooking the water, yachts lined up like ornaments, champagne already flowing, the usual pre-race brunch stretching long and indulgent. Drivers, team principals, partners - all of them scattered across the space, laughter and conversation overlapping in easy, familiar chaos.
And then there's you. Seated beside Lewis, one hand resting lightly against his arm, the other curled around a delicate glass you've barely touched. You don't demand attention. It comes anyway.
"She's unreal," Lando mutters under his breath, watching you as you laugh softly at something Carmen's just said, your head tilting slightly, eyes warm.
George hums in agreement. "She always is."
"Do you think she's ever had a bad day in her life?" Lando asks.
"Definitely," Oscar says calmly. "She just doesn't let anyone see it."
Across the table, you're speaking to Alexandra, your voice low, gentle, something about fabrics and silhouettes and the way certain cuts fall differently depending on movement rather than structure. She's leaning in, completely engaged, nodding along like she's in a private masterclass.
"-it's about how it feels when you wear it," you're saying, fingertips brushing lightly against the linen of her sleeve. "If it doesn't feel right, it doesn't matter how it looks."
Alexandra smiles, soft and admiring. "That's exactly what I try to explain to people."
You return the smile, smaller, more private. "Then you already understand."
Next to her, Charles is watching the exchange with quiet interest, glancing between you and Lewis like he's connecting something.
Because Lewis doesn't act like this with anyone else. His hand rests on your thigh under the table, steady, grounding, like it belongs there. Like you belong there. Like you've always been there.
Max leans back in his chair, arm draped casually, eyes flicking between the two of you. "He's worse with her," he says, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Kelly smirks slightly. "Worse?"
"He's soft," Max says.
Lewis hears it. He doesn't deny it.
You just glance at Max, amused, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly. "Only with me."
Max huffs a quiet laugh. "Exactly."
Kimi, sitting a few seats down, is watching you with open curiosity, not even trying to hide it. "How do you always look like that?" he asks suddenly.
There's a pause. You turn to him, blinking once, surprised but not thrown off. "Like what?"
"Perfect," he says, completely serious.
The table goes quiet for half a second. Lewis exhales through his nose, already shaking his head slightly.
You smile. Soft. Warm. Kind. "I'm not," you say gently. "I just know what I like."
Kimi frowns, like that answer isn't enough.
Toto, from further down the table, speaks without even looking up from his drink. "She's disciplined. That's the difference."
Your eyes flick to him, amused. "You make me sound terrifying."
"You are," Toto replies dryly. "Just quietly."
Laughter ripples across the table. But it's true. Because the thing about you isn't just the way you look; though that's part of it, undeniably. It's the way you carry yourself. The way you listen. The way you remember things people didn't expect you to notice.
You ask Lily about her recent travels and recall the exact city she mentioned weeks ago. You compliment Kika on something specific, not generic, something that makes her light up instantly. You thank every server, softly, sincerely, like they matter just as much as anyone else at the table.
You don't try to be liked. You just are. And it disarms them.
"She's ridiculous," Pierre mutters quietly, not in a bad way, just... overwhelmed.
"Don't," Esteban says. "Lewis will hear you."
"I'm not saying anything bad," Pierre defends.
"Still."
Because Lewis? He's watching. Not constantly. Not obviously. But always aware.
Every time you shift, every time you laugh, every time someone new speaks to you, his attention flicks back, subtle but there. Protective without suffocating. Possessive without ever needing to say it.
You lean slightly into him, almost absentminded, your hand sliding up to rest against his arm as you speak to Carmen. He adjusts instantly, like it's instinct, turning just enough so you can settle more comfortably against him.
George notices. Of course he does. "Mate," he says quietly, leaning toward Lewis, "you don't even realise you're doing it."
"Doing what?" Lewis replies, though he already knows.
George nods toward you.
Lewis glances down. Your head is tilted slightly toward him, your fingers lightly brushing the inside of his wrist as you talk, completely at ease, completely unaware.
His expression softens. "That's my wife," he says simply.
George leans back, hands up. "Yeah. We can tell."
Because they can. It's not just the ring. It's not just the way you sit beside him. It's everything. The way he looks at you like he's proud of you for existing. The way you ground him without trying. The way the chaos of the paddock doesn't touch you, or if it does, you never let it show.
Later, when the table breaks slightly, people moving around, conversations shifting, you stand to speak to someone across the terrace.
Lewis watches you go. Not worried. Not tense. Just... watching.
Lando slides into your now-empty seat, grinning. "I get it."
Lewis doesn't look at him. "Get what?"
"Why you never let anyone near her," Lando says.
Lewis huffs. "I'm not-"
"You are," Lando cuts in, still smiling. "And I don't blame you."
Lewis finally glances at him.
Lando shrugs. "She's-" He gestures vaguely, like there aren't enough words.
"Yeah," Lewis says quietly.
Across the terrace, you laugh at something Carlos says, your head tipping back slightly, sunlight catching against your skin, effortless and bright and completely, undeniably yours.
Lewis watches. And he doesn't smile big. Doesn't react loudly. Just something small, something private, something no one else really catches. A quiet, certain kind of pride. Because the truth is, you're not just his perfect wife. You're the one thing in his life he never has to second guess.
