Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2, part 3. But can also be read as a oneshot.)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
Chapter summary: Aerion's "Why don't you love me?" moment, Targaryen style secret first date in the streets of King's Landing. And the girlies are fighting (Aerion and Valarr.)
a/n: The last chapter of Growing Strong series is out, btw, for those not yet aware! <3
You had not expected the kiss to continue. When Aerion first pressed his mouth to yours, you had thought it would be brief, a moment of impulse caused by the dress, easily broken, easily dismissed. But his arm had locked around your waist before you could step back, pulling you flush against him with a firmness that left no room for retreat, and when you instinctively shifted against his hold, his murmur vibrated against your lips.
"Stop wriggling."
The command was soft, almost distracted, as though his mind were elsewhere entirely. His mouth did not leave yours. It moved with a slow pressure that made your thoughts scatter before you could gather them into something useful.
You bit his lip.
It was not hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to make your point, or so you intended. Aerion groaned, a low sound that rumbled from his chest into yours, and instead of pulling away as any sensible man might have done, he kissed you harder. His free hand came up to grasp your neck, his palm warm against the side of your throat, fingers curving along the line of your jaw to guide your mouth more firmly against his.
You let him.
That was the worst of it. You let him. Your hands, which had risen to push against his chest, remained where they were, neither shoving nor gripping, simply resting against the fine fabric of his doublet as though your body had not yet decided whether to resist or surrender.
Only when he pulled away, just enough to draw breath, just enough to let the air cool the space between your mouths, did you try to step back.
He followed.
One step, then another, matching your retreat until your spine met the edge of the table. He did not cage you there, precisely. He simply did not allow the distance you sought.
"You have loved Valarr for years, have you not?"
The question came from nowhere, searching, and it struck you harder than any blow could have.
You stared at him. Aerion's violet eyes were fixed on your face, but there was no mockery in them. He looked, bewilderingly, almost like a child. His brows were drawn together in contemplation, his mouth set in a line of mild frustration, as though he were working through a problem that refused to resolve itself.
"Could you not love me too?"
You could not speak. The words lodged in your throat like stones.
He did not seem to require an answer. His gaze grew distant for a moment, reflective, and when he spoke again his voice was lower, rougher, as though he were recounting something he had never intended to share.
"I could see you, you know. When my father would make us come visit the Red Keep. You were always following him around. Valarr." He said the name with a particular weight, not quite disdain, not quite resignation. "A pretty little girl, but not remarkable enough to torment. I saw you only in passing."
Your jaw tightened. He did not seem to register it.
"Then we came again, years later, and you were…" He paused, his eyes dragging over your face, as though reconstructing a memory in real time. "A woman grown. Flowered. Filling out your dresses in ways that made it impossible not to look. And still beside him. Still following."
His hand had not left your neck. His thumb traced a slow line along the edge of your jaw.
"I assumed he had deflowered you by then," he said, and the bluntness of it made your breath catch. "Taken you to his bed. Broken you in a bit. How could he not? Having you next to him every day, looking at him the way you did." His eyes darkened, something flickering behind the violet that you could not name. "I could not imagine the restraint. Or the stupidity."
Your heart was beating too fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the places where his body nearly touched yours.
"Only for him to get betrothed to someone else." Aerion's mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. "A merchant's daughter from Tyrosh. And I wondered then if I had misjudged him. If my courteous, perfect cousin Valarr had it in him to use a woman and abandon her once he tired of her. That would have been a surprising discovery of cruelty. Almost impressive, in its own way."
He leaned closer, nosing along your cheek, pressing his lips in a way that were not quite kisses to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the tender skin beneath your ear.
"But then you told me the truth. That the potion was meant for him. And you had the expression of a maiden grasping for attention, not a woman scorned." He paused, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "He had simply never noticed the doe offering herself up willingly. Without so much as a chase."
You remained silent. What could you say? It was all true. Every word of it.
You remembered those years with a clarity that still ached. The hours spent at Valarr's side. The way your heart had leapt when he sought you out, when he smiled at you, when he trusted you with his fears and his uncertainties. You had thought, foolishly, desperately, that proximity would breed something more. That devotion would be rewarded. That he would look at you one day and see what had always been there, waiting.
He had not.
Aerion was wrong about one thing, at least. Valarr had not deflowered you. He had not even come close. There had been only one kiss, years ago, when you had wondered aloud what it felt like and he had offered to show you.
"To satisfy your curiosity," he had said. "And soothe your fears. That is all."
That was all. A single kiss, chaste and brief, and you had spent years afterwards lying awake at night wondering if he had ever wanted to kiss you again. If he had ever thought about it. If it had meant anything at all.
"What a dreadful waste."
Aerion's voice cut through your thoughts, and you realized he had been watching your face.
"All those years," he continued, shaking his head slowly. His tone sharpened with something that might have been disgust, though it was not directed at you. "Wouldn't you rather have fun with me?"
Before you could answer, he dragged his tongue along your parted mouth, an obscene gesture, and then pulled back entirely. The loss of warmth was jarring.
You heard the click of the lock.
He had crossed the room while you were still in a daze, and now he stood by the door with his hand still on the bolt, surveying the chamber with a new expression. Thoughtful. Calculating. The look of a man who had just conceived of something and was already deciding how to execute it.
"Change," he said.
You blinked. "…what?"
He was already moving toward your trunks and flipping them open. He rummaged through the folded gowns with the carelessness of a man who had never had to pack his own belongings in his life, tossing aside silks and velvets until he found what he was looking for.
"Put this on." He straightened, holding up a dress. It was the plainest thing you owned, wool, not silk, a muted grey-brown. Serviceable. Unremarkable. He found a cloak as well, dark and heavy, and thrust it toward you. "Quickly."
"Aerion..."
"I have decided," he said, as though that explained everything, "to show you something you have not seen before."
"What would that be?"
His mouth curved. "A life outside these walls."
You stared at him. "You are mad."
"Possibly." He did not seem troubled by the assessment. "But you are going to put on that dress and that cloak, and you are going to come with me, and for one night you are going to see what it is like to not be a lady in a cage."
"A cage I am only still in because of you," you pointed out.
"Yes," he agreed, entirely unrepentant. "So you may consider this my penance. Now change. Unless you would prefer I stay and watch?"
You snatched the dress from his hands and pointed toward the door. "Turn around."
He turned, though not before you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
You changed quickly, pulled the cloak around your shoulders and drew the hood over your hair. The woman who looked back at you from the mirror was not a Baratheon lady. She was not a prince's betrothed. She was simply a woman in a plain dress, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the city below.
Aerion turned back at the sound of your movement, and his eyes swept over you with an approval that made something in your stomach tighten.
"Passable," he said. "Come."
He did not take your hand. He simply opened the door and waited, and after a moment's hesitation, you followed.
The passages he led you through were not the ones you knew. They were narrower, darker, clearly meant for servants or for those who did not wish to be seen. Aerion moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, and you wondered, not for the first time, what sort of prince spent so much time in hidden corridors.
The city beyond the Red Keep was another world entirely.
You had seen it before, of course: from windows, from carriages, from the high walls that separated royalty from rabble, but you had never walked through it. Not like this. Not on foot, with the press of bodies around you and the smell of cooking meat and unwashed skin and something sour that might have been spilled ale.
The market was still alive even at this hour, torches flickering in iron sconces, vendors calling out prices in voices hoarse from use. Aerion guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back, a light pressure that steered you away from the worst of the press without ever seeming to direct you.
"Keep your hood up," he murmured against your hair. "Your face is too memorable."
You did not know whether that was a compliment or a warning.
He bought you food from a stall, fried and greasy dough, wrapped in paper that grew translucent with oil, and laughed when you hesitated to eat it.
"It will not kill you," he said. "Probably."
You ate it. It was, against all expectation, delicious.
He showed you the stall where a woman sold ribbons dyed in colors so vivid they seemed to glow in the torchlight. You saw the corner where a man with no teeth told fortunes for a copper penny, and the alley where a boy no older than ten was teaching a dog to dance on its hind legs. The blacksmith's forge, dark now but still radiating heat, the weaver's shop with its shuttered windows, and the fountain in the small square where the water ran clean and cold.
You stopped when you saw the play.
It was being performed on a makeshift stage at the edge of the market, boards laid across barrels, a painted curtain fluttering behind the players. The actors were not skilled, their voices too loud, their gestures too broad, but there was an energy to the performance that drew you in. You grabbed Aerion's sleeve without thinking and pulled him toward the crowd that had gathered.
He came willingly, standing close behind you as you watched.
The play, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing performed in the Red Keep.
It was vulgar. Obscenely, unapologetically vulgar. The plot, such as it was, seemed to revolve around a milkmaid, a travelling merchant, and a donkey, and the jokes grew progressively filthier with each passing minute. The crowd around you roared with laughter. You scrunched up your face.
You turned sharply, intending to leave, and found Aerion already watching you. He had not been watching the play at all. His grin was half-hidden against your hair, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and when he saw your expression he only laughed harder.
"Not to your taste?" he murmured.
"You knew what this was."
"I had my suspicions." He tugged on your hand, drawing you away from the crowd. "Come. Before the donkey returns for the second act. It does not improve."
You were laughing by the time you reached the Red Keep.
You could not remember when the laughter had started, somewhere between the market and the gates, somewhere between the grease-stained paper crumpled in your hand and the way Aerion had nearly slipped on a pile of something unspeakable in the alley, but it had not stopped. Your sides ached with it. Your cheeks hurt. Aerion was no better, his composure utterly shattered, his hair disheveled from where you had shoved him in retaliation for a joke you refused to repeat.
The laughter died the moment you stepped through the doors.
Maekar Targaryen was waiting.
Beside him stood Baelor Breakspear, his expression troubled but composed, and beside Baelor...Valarr.
Your stomach dropped.
"Where," Maekar said, his voice carrying the particular calm of a man who was restraining himself only with great effort, "have you been?"
Aerion straightened, the last traces of mirth fading from his face. "Sightseeing."
"Sightseeing."
"The city is quite lovely at night, father. You should try it sometime."
"Do not play games with me, boy." Maekar's gaze moved to you, taking in the plain dress, the cloak. "You took your betrothed out into the streets. Alone. At night. Unchaperoned. Without guards. Without so much as a word to anyone."
"We did nothing inappropriate," Aerion said, and there was an edge creeping into his voice now. "We merely walked. I only wished to show her the city, she obliged me."
"She wished..." Maekar cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. "You are a prince of the blood. She is a lady of a great house, newly betrothed, and you thought it appropriate to drag her through the filth of the city like a common..."
"Like a what?" Aerion's voice sharpened dangerously.
Baelor raised a hand, stepping between them with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years mediating Targaryen tempers. "Enough. The question is not what was done, but what will be perceived. Aerion, you must understand how this looks. An unchaperoned outing, in secret, at night...it invites speculation. It invites scandal."
"There is no scandal," Aerion said flatly. "There is only a man showing his betrothed the city she will one day help rule."
"And there will be time enough for that after the wedding," Maekar snapped. "When she is your wife, not your..."
He stopped. The word hung unspoken in the air, and you felt your face heat for an entirely different reason.
"She is my betrothed," Aerion said, very quietly. "And I will thank you not to imply otherwise."
Valarr spoke for the first time.
"This is reckless, even for you." His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made Aerion's head turn slowly toward him. "She deserves better than to be dragged into your whims."
"Who asked your opinion?" Aerion's hostility flared so suddenly that even Baelor looked taken aback. "Who asked you to weigh in on this, cousin? You, who could not be bothered to notice her when she was right in front of you? You, who..."
"Aerion." Baelor's voice was sharp now. "That is enough."
"Is it? Because I find myself quite interested in why Valarr has suddenly developed such a concern for my betrothed's welfare. A year ago he could not see her beside himself. Now he cannot stop looking."
Valarr's jaw tightened. "I have always cared for her."
"Have you?" Aerion tilted his head, and his smile was not pleasant. "How convenient that you discovered this only after she was no longer available."
"Enough!"
This time it was Lyonel Baratheon who spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a war horn. He had been standing near the back of the hall, silent until now, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between Aerion and Valarr with a calculation that made you nervous.
"You," he said, pointing at Aerion, "will learn to control your tongue and your impulses, or I will teach you myself. I have no objection to a man showing his betrothed the city. I have done worse in my youth, and I will not play the hypocrite. But I do object to a man whose every action threatens to dishonor my niece and my house through sheer carelessness."
Aerion opened his mouth, saw the look in Lyonel's eyes, and closed it again.
"You will not be alone with her without a witness until the wedding," Maekar said, seizing the opening. "That is not a request. It is a command. I will not have this alliance jeopardized by your inability to exercise restraint."
"Father..."
"You are dismissed."
Aerion stood motionless for a long moment. Then he turned, and his eyes met yours. There was frustration, defiance, and something else that you could not quite name, and then he bowed, stiffly, and strode from the hall.
You did not watch him go. You did not look at Valarr, though you could feel his gaze on you like a weight. You simply inclined your head to Maekar, to Baelor, to your uncle, and retreated to your chambers with as much dignity as you could muster.
You barely slept.
The morning came gray and cold, and you rose with the first light, your head aching from too little rest and too much wine the night before. Your maids had not yet arrived. The castle was quiet.
You did not hear him enter.
One moment you were alone, standing before the mirror in your shift, and the next his arms were around you from behind, his mouth pressing hot against the curve of your neck.
"Aerion..." you gasped, trying to twist away. "The command...there must be a witness..."
"There is no one here to witness the lack of witness," he murmured against your skin, "and I will be gone before anyone knows I was here. Turn around."
You turned.
He kissed you.
This time, you kissed him back.
Your hands rose to grip the front of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Your mouth moved against his with an enthusiasm that surprised you both. The taste of him was familiar now, and you chased it, rising onto your toes to press closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven. He looked at you for a long moment.
"Well," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "That is more like it."
Then he was gone, slipping through the door as silently as he had come, leaving you standing alone in the morning light with your heart pounding and your lips still tingling.
part 5: pending...
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📂 𝐋𝐍𝟒, LANDO NORRIS.
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| WORK FOR DRIVERS I DON'T REGULARLY WRITE FOR.
𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔, CHARLES LECLERC.
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request guidelines ⛐
i primarily write driver x female!reader fic. my work does not represent the drivers i write for in any way, shape, or form.
ⓘ WHAT REQUESTS ARE OKAY?
🟢 fluff, romance, angst, crack/humor. established relationships, platonic/friendly relationships, poly relationships. a range of au's i.e. bf!f1, brother!f1, husband!f1, non-driver au's (e.g. uni, other professions, etc). reqs based on media (i.e. movies, series, songs), tropes, or prompts.
🟡 smut/suggestive content, cheating/infidelity, age gaps, emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief. drivers not indicated above. romantic content for any drivers below 20 y/o.
🔴 explicit character death, emotional manipulation, gender swap, sa/sh/ed, terminal illnesses, yandere, content for team principals.
📟 BOX, BOX! · MAKE THAT REQUEST! CURRENTLY: CLOSED
people catfish all the time. how were you supposed to know your bumble match was actually who he claimed to be?
ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x reader.
ꔮ smau + word count: 2.4k.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor, fluff. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. based on this prompt, online romance, a shameless love story reference in the year of our lord 2025. title from adele’s song of the same name.
ꔮ commentary box: i had canva and a dream,, i will probably never do this much graphic editing for a fic ever again, but yuki deserves it!!! happy 100th race to the man, the myth, the legend. stunt on these hoes, yukino 🐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You’ve always known things like this happen.
Random giveaways, surprise upgrades, the universe occasionally tossing you a bone just to keep things interesting. Still, when a Red Bull staffer handed you a gleaming Paddock Club pass outside the circuit entrance like it was no big deal, your brain went full static.
“Just giving a few away today,” she’d said, smiling like a benevolent game show host. “Enjoy.”
Sure. Just like that. Like this wasn’t the motorsport equivalent of getting handed a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory. You’d clutched it like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.
Now, you’re here. Inside hospitality. Where everything smells like victory champagne and lemon scented diffusers. Where Max Verstappen just asked for a second espresso like it was a normal Sunday.
And then there’s Yuki.
Not on a screen. Not in selfies or helmet cam footage. Real. Silver necklaces glinting underneath the artificial lighting. Laughing about something with a physio until he spots you.
You watch his face shift. There’s something that might be recognition, then something gentler. Then something you don’t have the emotional vocabulary to name because it’s currently buried under twenty-two layers of oh-my-God-what-is-happening.
You’re not supposed to be here. You should be texting ‘Yuki’, your ‘Yuki’, joking that you beat him to hospitality. Something harmless, and hilarious, and impossible. Hell, you could probably tell the Real Yuki about how your kinda-sorta-maybe Internet boyfriend is catfishing as him. Would that be too weird? You think Real Yuki might get a kick out of it.
But then Real Yuki is walking over.
And then he’s hugging you.
And you’re not breathing.
“Why are you being weird?” he mumbles into your shoulder, like this is a routine greeting and not the collapse of your entire reality.
His arms are warm. His cologne is unfair. Your heart is doing something between a samba and a panic attack. “I’m not being weird,” you say, weirdly.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. He’s got an amused sort of smile on his face, but there seems to be a hint of nerves underneath the bravado. “You texted me a meme thirty minutes ago,” he points out, “about groundhogs.”
Holy shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You did do that. You thought you were texting a stranger with suspiciously specific knowledge about Suzuka and a penchant for catfishing motorsport fans. Not a literal Formula One driver standing in front of you with the expression of someone who’s been waiting all day for you to get here.
“Right,” you say, your voice an octave too high. “Funny squirrel. Classic.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you okay?”
You nod. You lie. “Yup. Normal. Great. Totally fine.”
Your brain is not fine. Your brain is assembling a crime scene timeline:
Matched with somebody who used Yuki Tsunoda’s photos for his profile. Unverified, in your defense.
Started talking about meals. For icebreaking purposes, initially. Eventually, a way to ensure the other had eaten well. A sort of tender ‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ day to day.
Talked until midnight, then past-midnight, then the kind of past-midnight that bled into early mornings. Lost track of time, every single time.
Exchanged phone numbers. Deleted Bumble; neither of you needed it anymore. Moved the daily conversations to texts. Made room for that in your routine.
Agreed to meet in Montreal. Except you didn’t. You were going to be in Montreal and you mentioned it offhandedly. The Bumble guy had said, “Cool, me too.” You’d assumed he was just playing along. Roleplaying the bit. Like a particularly immersive LARP.
You hadn’t thought he’d actually be here.
You hadn't thought he might actually be him.
He squeezes your hand, casual but instinctive. You let him, because you still don’t know how to say any of it. Not here. Not now. Not in front of half the paddock and the world’s most diverse cheese board.
He glances over his shoulder. “You wanna sit? I saved you a seat.”
You nod again, because that’s apparently your only mode of communication now.
He leads you to the table. His hand never leaves yours. All you can think, as you try not to trip over a Monégasque intern and whatever’s left of your dignity, is: You might be in love with a Bumble match who actually turned out to be Yuki Tsunoda.
You’re not entirely sure how you’re still functioning. Your body is moving, your mouth is making sounds, but your internal monologue is curled into the fetal position somewhere behind your left lung.
Yuki’s talking. Just… talking. Like you’re normal people. Like this is just a nice weekend in Montreal and not a glitch in the matrix.
“They changed the breakfast spread,” he says, nudging your elbow as he sits beside you. “No more miso soup. Just scrambled eggs that taste like regret.”
“That’s devastating,” you manage, dizzily remembering excited texts from a week ago where Yuki had raved about the miso soup.
“Thank you,” he says seriously. “Finally, someone gets it.”
He launches into a story about Isack stealing his smoothie this morning, complete with impressions and dramatic reenactments. And you laugh. You actually laugh, which feels a bit like betraying your own nervous system.
There’s a quiet kind of ease to him. Quick with a joke, but not performative. Relaxed, but with a coil of energy under the surface. It’s as if he’s always halfway between a punchline and pole position.
The thing is—he’s warm. Not just emotionally. Physically.
His arm is looped around the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. It’s casual, sure. But there’s a possessiveness to it. Not the caveman kind. More like the kind that says, You’re mine to look after, even if it’s just for ten minutes between media obligations.
You’re still not saying much. Nodding, smiling, blurting out half-thoughts and hoping he finds them charmingly minimalist. He doesn’t comment on it. If he notices, he lets you keep your buffer.
Someone in a headset materializes at the table like a very polite ghost. “Yuki, time to go,” the staff announces.
He sighs. Gives you a look that borders on cartoonishly pouty. “Duty calls.”
He gets up slowly, like maybe if he moves languidly enough, reality will bend to let him stay longer. Before he steps away, he leans down, grinning.
“Good luck kiss?” he asks, head tilted, tone teasing but devastatingly hopeful.
You freeze.
Yuki laughs under his breath, gently amused. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s diffusing a very delicate bomb. “Next time.”
Then, his voice gets softer. Enough so that only you can hear. “But you’ll still be here after the race, right?”
You nod, throat dry. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”
He taps your shoulder once before heading off. You’re left sitting in the halo of his warmth, trying to make sense of anything. Your phone buzzes with a new message.
From him. Mere seconds since he last saw you.
allegedly yuki tsunoda [9:23 AM]: don’t eat the lemon tarts btw. learned that the hard way. 🤮
You stare at the screen, lips twitching. Bumble match or not, he’s still looking after you.
You start in the paddock club because that’s what a normal person would do. Sit somewhere warm, surrounded by petit fours and champagne flutes and that one guy in a turtleneck trying very hard to pretend he knows the difference between a double diffuser and a double espresso.
After ten minutes of watching the race on a high-def screen while Alex Albon yells something off-camera about tire degradation, you realize you’re crawling out of your skin.
So you duck out.
You find a seat on the outer edge of a section near Turn 10. The air is sharper here, cold in that way Montreal likes to be in June, like it never got the summer memo. It’s loud. Bones-rattle-in-your-sinuses loud. It helps.
There’s a certain thrill to watching it live. The cars are less clean here, less like smooth CGI and more like animals snapping past at speeds that make your stomach tighten. Yuki’s car flies by and your heart jerks without permission.
You tell yourself you’re annoyed. Which is true. You’re annoyed that he never told you. Annoyed that he just assumed. Annoyed that you didn’t assume harder.
Yuki’s in the points.
You tell yourself you don’t care. But you’re counting his laps. You’re watching the timing screen with the manic focus of someone who’s very not-invested, obviously. You’re definitely not bouncing your leg during the final stint or whispering under your breath for him to hold off that Haas. No, not at all.
When the checkered flag waves and he crosses the line in P7, you allow a smile. Just a small one. Barely perceptible. A moral victory.
You’re still pissed. Obviously.
But pride’s a slippery bastard, and it slides in before you can lock the door. Because despite everything, he did it. Despite everything, you think you might’ve liked him before you knew who he really was. That’s the part that grates.
Yuki texts you, afterwards. Twice. The first one says, where did you go??? The second one is just a question mark. Not passive-aggressive. Not petulant. Just puzzled, with a little side of concern you can read even through the punctuation.
You leave him on read.
Not because you’re cruel, but because you’re still somewhere between third-hand embarrassment and full-body incredulity. Your fingers feel too tight around your phone, and your brain keeps cycling through I got catfished by an actual celebrity like it’s some strange mantra.
You do the thing people in denial do best: you keep walking. Past the paddock club. Past hospitality. Past the frosted-glass glam of the inner circles. You buy food, you make small talk with disappointed Tifosi, you find your way back to the grandstands. You watch the track, empty now except for marshals and the tire scuffs they haven’t swept up yet.
You sit there and stew. Arms crossed. Chin tucked into your collar. Giving the sky your best unimpressed glare.
Because what kind of famous person makes a dating profile with their own face? What kind of high-profile athlete answers that Adele is his go-to karaoke song and means it? What kind of rich man texts “are you mad at me :(((((“ with that many parentheses? (That was earlier in the week. You screenshotted it. For evidence. And also maybe affection.)
You don’t even hear him at first. There’s just the crunch of gravel, a puff of breath, and then suddenly: “You ghosted me.”
You look up. Yuki stands there, his race suit traded for a team polo. His hair’s a little damp from the balaclava, sticking out in soft tufts. There’s a Red Bull jacket slung over his shoulder and a frown carved into his face.
“You ghosted me,” he repeats, dropping into the seat beside you like he owns the entire stadium.
“You’re famous,” you say wryly.
“That’s not a real defense.”
“It’s my opening statement.”
He stares at you.
You stare back.
You can feel your expression start to crack around the edges. The disbelief, the emotional whiplash, the deep, deep shame of having sent him a meme about Pierre Gasly thinking he was some guy from Manitoba.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, voice tight.
He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “I thought you knew,” he bites out, and that gets you.
“I thought you were pretending to be you!” You’re not screeching hysterically, but it’s a close thing. “I thought you were, like, one of those weird fandom catfishers who’s like, ‘Hey girl, I’m Harry Styles and I love small batch kombucha. Let’s talk about your smile.’”
“That’s a dated reference,” Yuki huffs, but you barrel on.
“I was protecting myself, okay? I didn’t want to get my hopes up about someone just because they used a hot guy’s face and knew a lot about what happened at the 2024 Sao Paulo Grand Prix.”
His lip twitches. “You think I’m hot.”
You scowl. “That is not the point.”
“Kinda feels like the point.”
You throw your hands up. “This is why I didn’t text back. Because I knew you’d be like this.”
“Like what?” he says, all mock innocence, even as the corners of his mouth fight upward.
“Annoyingly smug. And unfairly cute,” you lament. “And—and now I have to retroactively go over every single text we’ve ever sent and recontextualize it through the lens of you being you.”
Yuki’s smile breaks free, full and blinding. He leans back in his seat, like this is the best post-race entertainment he could’ve asked for. “I knew you liked my texts.”
You look heavenward. For patience. For answers. For an alternate universe where you maybe played this cooler.
He shifts closer, bumping your shoulder. “So let me get this straight. You matched with me, kept talking to me for weeks, actually liked me—but thought I was an impersonator?”
“Yes.”
“And you still talked to me?”
You sigh. When he puts it that way, you sound like a fucking idiot. “Well, yeah. You were funny,” you say defensively, “and weird. And you sent me that article about the town that elected a golden retriever as mayor.”
He turns his whole body toward you. “You like me me.”
“God help me.”
“You liked me even without knowing I’m me.”
You groan. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“It is a thing,” he says, beaming now, eyes scrunching in that way that makes your stomach flip traitorously. “It’s such a thing. I just podiumed emotionally.”
You shove his arm. “You’re unbearable.”
“But cute.”
“Moderately.”
He leans in a little closer. His tone dips, playful but softer around the edges. “This could be a proper love story, baby,” he coos, “just say ‘yes’.”
Your reaction is a full-bodied flinch. “Do not quote my karaoke song at me,” you say, as flatly as you can manage, but it falls apart in the face of Yuki’s giddiness.
You glance at him. He’s right there, smelling faintly of rubber and cologne, still a little flushed from the high of the race and from something else. Somehow realer now than he ever was on your screen. Dusk curls in around the track, the buzz of the day beginning to fade.
You let him keep smiling at you like that. And when he reaches out to fill the spaces between your fingers with his, you let him do that, too. ⛐
can u write smthg on reader feeling like she is bad luck because max did not win one or two races when she was there nd people on social media says it too and feels awful which max finds out
Bad Luck Charm
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: When fans starts calling you Max's bad luck charm, you decide staying away is the best thing you can do for him. Max thinks that's complete bullshit.
4.7k words / Masterlist
The first time someone called you bad luck you laughed.
It was stupid, ridiculous really. A throwaway comment under a fan edit, buried somewhere beneath heart emojis, fire and lion emojis, and arguments about strategy. You had only seen it because you were sprawled across Max's hotel bed in one of his oversized Red Bull hoodies, shamelessly scrolling through edits of him on TikTok while he showered.
@verstappenator33: not saying she’s cursed but max hasn’t won a single race she’s attended this season 😭
At the time it felt harmless enough, a little mean maybe, but that’s the internet.
Max had finished third that day. Third. It was hardly a disaster. He had been annoyed about strategy, about balance, about a lock-up that had cost him time in the first stint, but when he came back to the garage and found you waiting there he had smiled.
He had pulled you into his arms, kissed your temple and muttered, “Long day.”
You had rubbed your hand over the back of his neck and whispered, “You still did amazing.”
He had grumbled something about not wanting amazing, wanting first, but he had leaned into you anyway. So no you didn’t think much of the comment.
The second time you noticed more.
Monaco was supposed to be fun. It was one of your favourite races to attend, even though Max always complained about the current celebrification of it all. You loved the narrow streets, the balconies, the impossible glitter of the harbour, the way the whole weekend felt like it existed in some strange, historic bubble.
Max had qualified poorly after a messy final sector. Then the race had been worse, you can’t overtake here at the best of times but the car looked like it wanted to fight him at every corner.
He finished seventh.
By the time you got back to the motorhome your phone was already burning with notifications.
You told yourself not to look.
@f1_tea: Max when his girlfriend is there: fighting for his LIFE
Max when she’s not there: untouchable
make it make sense.
@orangearmy: She seems nice but the stats are getting scary now.
@rbrupdates: Races attended by Y/N this season: P3, P5, P7
Races missed: P1, P1
Interesting…
@maximylove33: Red Bull need to ban her from the garage I’m sorry.
You stared at that one a little longer than the others.
Ban her from the garage.
Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to laugh under your breath because it was absurd. It was social media. People said anything online. They blamed girlfriends, mechanics, fans, helmets, haircuts, cats, moon phases.
It didn’t mean anything.
Still when Max came into the room, damp-haired and exhausted, you locked your phone before he could see. His eyes flicked to the movement immediately.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Just tired.”
Max studied you for a second, blue eyes narrowing with that sharp, quiet attention he always had when something felt off. He might have been blunt with the rest of the world, impatient with questions he didn’t like, but with you he noticed everything. The forced smile, the tucked-away phone, the way your shoulders sat too high. He crossed the room and sat beside you.
“What’s happened?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Don’t do that.”
You looked down at your hands. “It’s nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s just stupid fan stuff.”
Max exhaled through his nose, already irritated, never at you, but at the invisible crowd of people who seemed to think loving him meant they owned every part of his life.
He reached for your phone. “Show me.”
“No.”
His expression softened at once, that was somehow worse, the anger you could handle but the softness made your throat close.
“Mijn liefje,” he murmured, quieter now. “What is it?”
You shook your head. “They’re just saying I’m bad luck.”
Max stared at you, then he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You didn’t say anything and so he shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours. “I could drive into a wall by myself and they would find a way to blame you if you were standing three countries away.”
You laughed, but it came out weak.
“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not bad luck.”
“I know,” you said, but neither of you quite believed that you meant it.
The third time was Austria.
You loved Austria because Max loved Austria. Even before the weekend started he was lighter there, still intense and focused, still Max, but happier. The sea of orange in the grandstands always did something to him even if he pretended it didn’t.
You wanted that weekend to go well for him more than anything.
Instead qualifying was messy and then the race unravelled.
A poor start again then a strategy gamble that didn’t pay off. A late-race battle that left Max furious over the radio and fifth at the flag.
You didn’t need to check your phone to know what people were saying. You felt it before you saw it.
In the garage people were careful around you, no one was outright rude, you didn’t think anyone would dare be rude, not openly and certianly not around Max, but there were glances. Tiny pauses. Conversations that dipped quieter when you walked past.
You told yourself you were imagining it. Then you heard one of the junior PR assistants whisper, “It’s going to be a nightmare online again.”
Someone else said, “Honestly they should just keep her away for Silverstone. Not because it’s real, obviously, but the optics… the comment sections are getting brutal.”
The optics.
Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen in the corridor outside hospitality, one hand still on the door you had been about to push open.
The first voice replied, “Yeah. It’s becoming a thing now.”
A thing.
You were becoming a thing.
You're Max’s girlfriend. The person who holds his hands all night when he's too wired after races to sleep, the person who knows exactly what he needs before early flights, the person who watched him be too hard on himself again and again and loved him through it all.
Now you’re reduced to a thing.
A bad-luck narrative.
A problem to manage.
You stepped back before anyone could see you.
Silverstone was the next weekend. You had planned to go. Max had asked you three times if you were sure you wanted to come because he knew the British media could be brutal, and you had kissed him in the kitchen and said, “Of course I’m coming.”
He had smirked at that, pulling you closer by the hips. “Good. Then you can watch very carefully.”
Later, sitting alone in bed waiting for Max to finish on the sim you felt something inside you twist.
What if you went and he didn’t win or missed the podium again?
What if everyone was waiting for it?
What if even the team didn’t want you there?
By the time Max came to bed you had fixed your face. His hair was a mess and his expression stormy, but when he saw you the storm eased.
He came closer, his hand finding your waist automatically. “You okay?”
You looked at him, at the tiredness in his face, at the frustration he was trying to swallow because he didn’t want to bring it to you and you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t add yourself to the list of things he had to handle.
So you smiled.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m okay.”
Max did not win Silverstone.
But you weren’t there. You watched from home, sitting cross-legged on your sofa in one of his hoodies your phone face down on the cushion beside you.
He finished second after a late safety car, close enough to make it painful.
When he called you afterward, his face appeared on your screen still flushed from the race, hair damp and eyes tired.
“You should've been here,” he said.
Your chest ached.
“I watched.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know.”
He frowned. “Why didn’t you come again?”
You had told him you weren’t feeling well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You had felt sick every time you imagined stepping into the paddock and seeing everyone wonder if you were going to ruin his weekend just by existing.
“I told you,” you said. “Headache.”
“For four days?”
“It was a very committed headache.”
Usually he would have laughed but he very pointedly didn’t.
“Y/N.”
You looked away from the screen. “Max.”
“What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
You swallowed. “I’m just tired.”
He watched you in silence and for one terrifying second you thought he was going to push. Max was stubborn. He hated being shut out, especially by you, but then someone called his name in the background.
His jaw tightened. “I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “We’re going to talk later.”
“Okay.”
His voice softened. “I love you.”
You closed your eyes for half a second.
“I love you too.”
After the call ended, you turned your phone over.
You lasted eight minutes before checking socials.
@f1girlies: She wasn’t there and Max was back on the podium. Coincidence? 👀
@mv1nation: Not a win but better than last week. Keep the pattern going.
@paddockspy: Red Bull garage seemed calmer without Y/N there, just saying.
@verstappening1: I don’t hate her but if she loves him she should stay home until the championship is safe.
If she loves him.
That was the one that got you, because of course you do.
You loved him so much it terrified you sometimes. You loved him when he won and when he didn’t. You loved him when he was impossible after bad races, pacing hotel rooms and replaying overtakes in his head. You loved him when he was soft in the mornings, half-asleep and clingy, pulling you back into bed with a grumbled “five more minutes” even though he was always the one with the schedule.
You loved him enough to wonder whether loving him meant removing yourself.
The thought was unbearable so you did what people always did when something hurt too much you tried to make it logical, you told yourself it was temporary. Just a few races. Just until the noise died down.
Until Max won again.
And he did.
Hungary.
You stayed home again, claiming work, though you had finished everything by Friday afternoon and spent the entire weekend watching coverage with a knot in your stomach.
Max won.
Dominantly.
The internet exploded.
@f1tea: Y/N absent = Max win. Third time lucky. I fear the curse is real.
@orangeprophecy: Someone send her flowers and also keep her away from the paddock please.
@mv1updates: Max has won or come 2nd at every race she hasn’t attended this season btw.
@paddockwives: Imagine being such bad luck your boyfriend performs better when you’re not there.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred. You watched him smiling up there, happy and champagne-soaked, feeling like the whole world thought your absence had helped put him there.
Max called you after.
You didn’t answer.
Then he texted.
Max: Where are you?
Max: I wanted to see your face.
Max: Schatje?
Max: Are you asleep?
You stared at the messages until the screen went dark. Then you cried so hard you had to press the hoodie sleeve against your mouth to keep quiet even though there was no one there to hear you.
A few hours later you replied.
You: Sorry I fell asleep. I’m so proud of you. You were amazing.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Max: Thank you.
Max: I missed you.
You squeezed your eyes tight.
You: I missed you too.
Spa was where everything broke.
You weren’t going to go, in fact you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. Hungary had confirmed it, hadn’t it? He was better off without you there. But Max had been strange all week, he wasn’t angry or even mad, but he was quiet. He kept asking if you were coming, casually at first, then less casually.
“You love Spa,” he said over dinner one evening, pushing vegetables around his plate like they had personally offended him.
“I do.”
“So come.”
“I have some things to do.”
“What things?”
“Work things.”
“You can work from the hotel.”
You gave him a look. “Not everything can be done from a hotel Max.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “You sure?”
In that moment you hated how well he knew you. You hated that you had built a life with someone who could tell the shape of your lies before you even finished speaking. Excpet you didn’t really hate it, because really it was part of the million reasons why you loved him.
“I just can’t this weekend,” you said.
Max’s mouth pressed into a flat line.
“Okay.”
That was all he said.
Okay.
Later when you were brushing your teeth you heard him on the phone in the bedroom, his voice was low and irritated.
“No, I don’t care what they’re saying.”
A pause.
“I said no.”
Another pause.
Then, sharper, “Because she’s my girlfriend, are you stupid?”
You froze, toothbrush still in your mouth. His tone changed after that, quieter but no less furious.
“You think I don’t know what people are saying? Of course I know.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“I’m not asking you to manage her. I’m asking you to shut it down.”
Silence.
Then Max said, “If anyone in the team has made her feel unwelcome I’ll find out.”
You stepped back from the door and a strange panic rose in your throat. Somehow instead of making it better, it made you feel worse because now he was worried and he was distracted. Now you weren't only bad luck you were also a problem.
So the next morning when Max left early for training you booked a last-minute flight to Belgium.
You told yourself you just needed to prove something to yourself. That you could be near him and not ruin anything. That the world was not actually keeping score.
You arrived on Saturday and stayed hidden. It was pathetic really, you wore sunglasses and a cap low over your face, sitting in a quiet hospitality corner you knew cameras rarely reached. You didn’t tell anyone except one security guard you trusted, who looked at you like he wanted to ask questions but wisely chose not to.
Qualifying went badly. Not catastrophically but badly enough. A mistake in Q3. A snap of oversteer. A lap that should have been pole but turned into fourth. You felt the garage change around you before the session had even ended.
Then you heard the buzz of a message, but it wasn’t to you. It came through on the screen of a team tablet someone had left on the table beside you, a notification from a group chat flashing bright before disappearing.
But you saw enough.
Is Y/N here? Because this is going to become a whole thing again.
Your whole body went cold.
A second message appeared.
Can someone please make sure she’s not around tomorrow? Max doesn’t need the distraction.
The distraction.
For a second you couldn’t breathe.
Not bad luck this time.
Worse.
A distraction.
You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor but no one seemed to notice, or maybe they did and pretended not to. You left before Max got out of the car and by the time he called you were already on your way back to the airport.
“Where are you?” he asked, hearing the noise around you.
“At home.”
“No you’re not.”
Your silence betrayed you.
Max’s breathing changed.
“Y/N.”
“I came for qualifying,” you whispered.
There was a pause.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Where are you I’ll come—”
You closed your eyes, and the tears slipped out anyway. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Max went very quiet.
“What do you mean? Did someone say something?”
“No.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Max, please.”
“Who said that to you?”
Your voice broke. “Everyone.”
The word came out small.
Humiliating.
And then you couldn’t stop.
“Everyone says it. Online, in the comments, in the paddock, your team, everyone. When I’m there, you don’t win. When I’m not, you do. And I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t real, but then I come and something goes wrong and people look at me like I brought it with me and it feels real.”
Max said nothing.
You wiped your face with the heel of your hand.
“And then today I saw a message. Someone said to make sure I’m not around tomorrow because you don’t need the distraction.”
His voice, when it came, was low and rough.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who, Y/N?”
“I don’t know, Max. I just saw it.”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Where are you right now?”
“The airport.”
“I’m coming to you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You have a race tomorrow.”
“I don’t really care.”
“Max this is exactly the—.”
“No,” he snapped, and you flinched even though he wasn’t angry at you. It was as if he felt it anyway, because his voice softened immediately. “No, listen to me. I care about the race. Of course I care but not more than you.”
“I don’t want to be something you choose over racing.”
“You’re not something I'm choose over racing,” he said. “You’re my world. That’s not the same thing.”
“But what if I make it harder?”
“You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I drive the car,” he said, blunt and immediate. “Not Twitter or the team or the fans. Me.”
A sob caught in your throat. Max breathed out shakily.
“Schatje,” he said, softer now. “You think I win because you stay home?”
You couldn’t answer.
“You think when I am in the car I‘m faster because you’re sad somewhere without me? You think I don’t put every single ounce of effort into the race no matter what.”
The words hit you hard enough to hurt.
“No,” you whispered. “I know you do”
“That’s not what you’re saying.”
You went still. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“You are hurting me by disappearing.” Max rarely said things like that, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel them, but because feeling them out loud had always been hard for him.
“You don’t answer after races,” he continued. “You lie about work. You say you’re sick. You look at me like you’re already leaving and I don’t know what I did wrong.”
Your chest caved.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why am I being punished?”
You broke. Right there, in the corner of an airport lounge, with people walking past and announcements echoing overhead, you pressed your hand to your mouth and cried.
Max stayed on the phone. He didn’t fill the silence with useless comfort, he just breathed with you until you could speak again.
“I saw the comments after Hungary,” you admitted. “Everyone was so happy you won without me there and I was happy for you, I was, but I felt like I wasn’t allowed to miss being there. Like the best thing I could do for you was stay away.”
Max cursed softly in Dutch.
Then he said, “Do not get on that plane.”
You sniffed. “What?”
“Don’t get on it… please. I’m sending someone to bring you back.”
“Max, no.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t walk into that paddock tomorrow.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he repeated, steady now. “Because you’ll walk in with me. And if anyone has something to say then they can say it to my face.”
The next morning you woke up in Max’s hotel room. You had planned to come back, talk to him, then hide somewhere until the weekend was over.
Max had other ideas. He had met you at the hotel entrance himself, even though it was late, even though he had meetings, even though everyone would have told him rest mattered more. He was wearing sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, face tight with worry.
The second he saw you, he crossed the lobby and pulled you into his arms.
Hard.
You’d whispered, “I’m sorry,” into his chest.
He’d answered, “Stop saying that.”
Then he took you upstairs, gave you one of his shirts, made you drink water and got into bed beside you fully dressed because you were crying too hard for either of you to pretend sleep would come easily. At some point in the night you had woken to him gently taking your phone from your hand.
“No more,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t looking.”
“You were going to.”
You hadn’t argued.
Now in the grey morning light Max stood at the end of the bed already dressed in the team kit, watching you carefully.
“You don’t have to come ,” he said.
Your stomach dropped and he saw your expression change immediately.
“No,” he said, moving toward you. “Not like that. I just mean you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I would never force you, but please don’t not come because of them.”
You sat up slowly. “Do you want me there?”
Max looked almost offended.
“I always want you there.”
Your eyes burned.
“But I under—”
“I want to come,” you said.
His face softened.
“Okay.”
“I’m scared.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took your hand. “I’ll be there.”
You finally smiled, small and private.
“There she is,” he murmured.
The paddock noticed. Of course it did. You arrived with Max, his hand firmly intertwined with yours, his expression giving absolutely nothing away except the very clear message that anyone with an opinion should reconsider having it near him.
Cameras turned and whispers started and you felt them against your skin like heat.
Max did not let go of your hand when you passed photographers or when you entered Red Bull hospitality, or when two members of staff glanced at you and then quickly away. In fact he tightened his grip.
“Max,” you whispered.
He leaned closer, eyes forward. “I’m behaving.”
“You’re walking like you’re about to commit a crime.”
Inside the garage, the air felt strange. Then GP looked up from his station and smiled at you.
A geuine smile.
“Good to see you,” he said.
Something in your chest loosened.
“Thanks,” you said softly.
A few minutes later Laurent came over, his expression was professional, but gentler than usual. Max stood beside you like a guard dog.
“Y/N,” he said. “Glad you’re here.”
You weren’t sure if Max had spoken to him. Judging by the slightly haunted look behind his eyes he probably had. In fact you had a feeling he had a spoken to a few people.
GP cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry if anyone made you feel otherwise.”
Your throat tightened. “Thank you.”
Max’s jaw flexed. That, apparently, was him continuing to behave.
The race was chaos. Spa always was. Rain threatened, then disappeared, then threatened again. Strategy shifted every few laps. The start was messy, the midfield dangerous, the radio tense.
You stood in the garage with headphones on, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.
Max climbed from fourth to third.
Then third to second.
Then, with twelve laps to go, he hunted down the leader.
The garage barely breathed.
You watched the timing screens one hand pressed to your mouth as Max closed the gap lap by lap.
A defensive squeeze, and then Max went around the outside with the kind of impossible bravery that made your stomach drop and your heart soar at the same time and reminded everyone exactly why he was the best.
The garage erupted.
You didn’t move.
Not until GP’s voice came over the radio after the chequered flag.
“P1, Max. That’s P1. Great job mate.”
The sound that left you was half laugh, half sob.
On the screen, Max’s car slowed on the cooldown lap.
His radio crackled and his voice came through.
“Yes! What a race!”
Then.
“Is she there?”
The garage went quiet and GP glanced over at you, smiling.
“She’s here mate.”
Max breathed out.
“Good,” he said.
A pause.
Then, clear enough for everyone to hear he added, “Tell her she’s my good luck charm.”
Your face crumpled.
He had made sure they heard. He had made sure the world would hear too.
By the time Max got back, you were trying very hard not to cry and failing miserably. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet, and looked for you before anyone else.
He pushed through the crowd and reached for you. He was sweaty and champagne-less, but the second he reached you none of that seemed to matter. He wrapped both arms around you and lifted you clean off your feet. Cheers erupted around you, cameras flashed, and for a moment it felt impossibly cinematic, like the final scene of a film. You buried your face in his neck, holding on as tightly as he was holding you.
“You’re incredible,” you whispered.
His hand spread across your back.
“We did it.”
You shook your head. “Max—”
“No.” He set you down but didn’t let go. His eyes locked on yours, intense and unflinching. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say you’re bad luck again.”
Your lips trembled.
“I mean it,” he said. “If I lose, its because of racing. If I win, its because of racing. But you? You are the person I want to come back to after both.”
The tears spilled over. He wiped them away with his thumbs, not caring that cameras were catching every second.
“I’m sorry I disappeared.”
“I know.”
Later after the podium, after the anthem, after champagne and interviews and a hundred people trying to pull him in a hundred directions, Max posted a rare photo. It was a picture someone had taken in the garage just after the race. Max still in his race suit, arms around you, your face hidden against his shoulder while he pressed a kiss to the side of your head.
The caption was simple.
My good luck. Always.
The internet, predictably, lost its mind.
@f1tea: MAX SAW THE COMMENTS AND SAID ABSOLUTELY NOT.
@mv1nation: Never calling her bad luck again. I fear he will personally fight us.
@paddockspy: Max Verstappen hard launching a defence of his girlfriend was not on my bingo card but I support it.
@orangearmy: “My good luck” I’m crying he loves her so much.
You didn’t read most of them. Max made sure of that.
That night back at the hotel your phone stayed on the bedside table while you sat between his legs on the bed, his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.
The trophy sat on the desk across the room. Max had barely looked at it.
“Do you want to celebrate?” you said softly.
“I am.”
“You’re sitting in bed.”
“With you.”
You smiled faintly. “Very wild.”
“I’m older now.”
“You’re twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
You laughed and felt him smile against your neck. For a while neither of you said anything, then Max’s arms tightened around you.
“I need you to promise me something.”
You turned slightly. “What?”
“If you ever feel like that again you tell me.”
Your chest tightened.
“Max—”
“You tell me. Even if you think it is stupid. Even if you think I have more important things. Especially then.”
You looked down at his hands, warm and secure over yours.
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
“You’re allowed to need me.”
After a moment, you whispered, “I promise.”
He kissed your shoulder. “Good.”
You turned in his arms to face him. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle in a way the world rarely got to see.
“You are the furthest thing from bad luck,” he said again.
This time you believed him.
“I know.”
His eyes searched yours and then he nodded, satisfied.
Outside somewhere far below, fans were still singing, the city was still buzzing. The internet was still doing what the internet always did, loud and frantic and hungry for the next thing to tear apart or worship, but in the quiet of Max’s hotel room none of it reached you.
There was only him. His steady hands and his heartbeat beneath your palm.
teacher's pet | student!reader - written
part one | part two | part three | part four | completed
my muse | pianist!reader - written
love me baby | arthur's gf's best friend!reader - smau + written
for you, always | prince!charles - written
war is over | airforce!charles - written
sacred ashes | church boy!charles - written
save her | assasain!charles - written
a sin taught | catholic!charles (smut)
summary: as a child of God, one thing is taught, sex is a sin unless it is after marriage and for the sole intention of procreation. charles followed that rule like the law, but temptation always lingers, temptation is dangerous, temptation eats.
stetsons and broken engines | texan!reader
summary: out of all the places charles wanted to be, he could say with a hand on his heart that it wasn't broken down in a trailer park with a beautiful woman pointing a gun at his face, but fate worked in weird ways, and he very quickly found himself charmed by this barefooted angel
CARLOS SAINZ | CS55
a summer of love | summer romance -written
a future worth living | knight x princess - written
not a lot (just forever) ⭐️ · childhood bestfriend!reader, romance. smau.
they should call you sugar · fluff, romance. 0.9k.
📂 𝐋𝐍𝟒, LANDO NORRIS.
𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓, CARLOS SAINZ.
one way mirror · spider-man!carlos x wife!reader, romance. 7.5k.
just to know you’re alive 🩵 · ex-girlfriend!reader, angst, hurt/comfort. 2.1k.
change me at all costs 🩵 · girlfriend!reader, romance. 2.8k.
come find me 🩵 · childhood best friend!reader, angst with a happy ending. 4.4k.
𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑, ALEX ALBON.
puppy love · pet shelter volunteer!reader, romance, fluff. smau.
formula fake-mance · fake girlfriend!reader, romance, friendship. 7.5k.
the way i do · pr officer!reader, romance. 1.7k.
love you like i mean it · childhood best friend!reader, romance, angst. 10.2k.
to be honest · girlfriend!reader, fluff. 1.4k.
something to you · fluff, romance. 0.9k.
𝐆𝐑𝟔𝟑, GEORGE RUSSELL.
paging doctor russell 🩵 · emergency physician!george x emt!reader, romance. 11.2k.
not what it looks like · girlfriend!reader, fluff. 0.6k.
| WORK FOR DRIVERS I DON'T REGULARLY WRITE FOR.
𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔, CHARLES LECLERC.
never the star (always an asteroid) · bridgerton au, romance. 3k.
fortune favors the feline 🩵 · girlfriend!reader, romance. 4.1k.
not worth the mention · ex-girlfriend!reader. 2k.
𝐃𝐑𝟑, DANIEL RICCIARDO.
it’s kind of a funny story · girlfriend!reader, romance. 2.8k.
house handy · girlfriend!reader, romance. 1.6k.
loml (loss of my life) · drive to survive producer!reader, romance. 1.3k + smau.
𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒, LEWIS HAMILTON.
a good run · ex-girlfriend!reader, angst. smau.
𝐌𝐕𝟏, MAX VERSTAPPEN.
wait for me (reprise) 🩵 · au: orpheus & eurydice, romance. 5k.
𝐉𝐃𝟕, JACK DOOHAN.
cool for the summer · surf instructor!jack x childhood friend!reader, romance. smau.
𝐙𝐆𝟐𝟒, ZHOU GUANYU.
boy of the summer · childhood friend!reader, romance. 3.5k.
just call me yours · childhood crush!reader, romance. 3.2k.
⸻ INDYCAR.
𝐏𝐎𝟓, PATO O’WARD.
better than revenge 🩵 · romance. 15.3k.
from friends to this · best friend!reader, romance. smau.
request guidelines ⛐
i primarily write driver x female!reader fic. my work does not represent the drivers i write for in any way, shape, or form.
ⓘ WHAT REQUESTS ARE OKAY?
🟢 fluff, romance, angst, crack/humor. established relationships, platonic/friendly relationships, poly relationships. a range of au's i.e. bf!f1, brother!f1, husband!f1, non-driver au's (e.g. uni, other professions, etc). reqs based on media (i.e. movies, series, songs), tropes, or prompts.
🟡 smut/suggestive content, cheating/infidelity, age gaps, emotional hurt/comfort, themes of grief. drivers not indicated above. romantic content for any drivers below 20 y/o.
🔴 explicit character death, emotional manipulation, gender swap, sa/sh/ed, terminal illnesses, yandere, content for team principals.
📟 BOX, BOX! · MAKE THAT REQUEST! CURRENTLY: CLOSED
while on vacation, pato helps you get back at your douchebag ex—by being your designated ‘instagram boyfriend’ during the trip.
ꔮ starring: pato o’ward x reader.
ꔮ word count: 15.3k + smau elements.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating lite, mentions of infidelity (neither pato nor mc), mc is elba’s friend, sibling dynamics!!!, feelings realization/denial, google translated spanish. title is from taylor swift’s better than revenge.
ꔮ commentary box: oh look at me i’m pato o’ward, kae’s newest favorite driver! boy fuuuck u.. anyway. this one has been on my mind for weeks. behemoth of a fic is well-deserved after the season he had. this also goes out to the anon who requested an adjacent plot 🏖️ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You’re not supposed to be on this trip.
Pato drags his suitcase across the tile, wincing when the wheels rattle with each step. It’s barely dawn, the airport shuttle is due in twenty minutes, and he’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’re coming with them.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks for the third time, tossing his backpack onto the couch where Elba is zipping up her carry-on. “Vegas isn’t exactly a spa weekend. It’s obscene. It’s bright. It’s—”
“Fun?” Elba cuts in, arching a brow. She shoves a pair of sneakers into her bag without ceremony. “Relax, Pato. She’ll be fine.”
He leans against the armrest, arms crossed. “I’m just saying, I thought she was more of a… book-club-and-brunch type. Not a twenty-four-hour-casino-bender type.”
Elba rolls her eyes. “You underestimate her.”
“No, I don’t,” Pato says, voice dry. “I’ve known her for years. She’s been to our house a hundred times. She always helps Mom clean up, she never forgets birthdays, and she once turned down sangria because she had an early morning yoga class.” He tilts his head. “Does that scream Vegas to you?”
“She’s allowed to surprise you,” Elba bites back, hauling her bag upright.
Pato narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
Elba fiddles with the zipper, not meeting his gaze. That’s all the confirmation he needs. He straightens, invested. “You’re hiding something.”
“Pato.” Warning tone. Big sister mode.
“Spill.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed. “Fine. She just... had a rough breakup, okay?”
His eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Silence hangs for a beat. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. “So this is like... a rebound Vegas trip?” he hums.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?” He gestures vaguely, words tumbling out faster than he can stop them. “Vegas is literally the rebound capital of the world. You want me to just—what—pretend she’s not going to be spiraling the entire time?”
“Pato.” Elba fixes him with a look sharp enough to cut through his dramatics. “Do not overreact.”
“I’m not overreacting.”
“You’re vibrating.”
He glances down at his hands, clenched tight around the suitcase handle. He is shaking, though it’s more of a physical manifestation of his shock to the news. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Elba sighs. “She doesn’t need your commentary, alright? She needs a break. Eso es todo.”
He presses his lips together, trying to reel in the hundred half-formed comebacks bouncing in his head. Still, one escapes. “You really think Vegas is a break?”
Elba shoves past him with her suitcase. “For her, maybe it is.”
Pato watches his sister go, torn between skepticism and reluctant curiosity. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. It’s just you.
The airport smells like burnt coffee and too many perfumes competing for dominance. Pato shoulders his bag, trudging after Elba as she waves you over from the check-in line. You come bounding up with a grin that makes his sister light up, like you’ve just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
“Hey!” you say, practically squealing as you hug Elba. The two of you slip into that easy rhythm of rapid-fire chatter—weekend plans, outfits, the state of Elba’s nail polish—that makes Pato feel like background noise in his own family trip.
He lifts your suitcase without asking and rolls it toward the baggage drop. It’s heavier than his, which is impressive considering he packs three pairs of sneakers for every trip. He mutters something under his breath about weight limits and hernia risk, but no one’s listening.
By the time they’ve printed the luggage tags, Elba and you are still giggling about something he didn’t catch. Pato slaps the stickers onto the bags with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times and drags everything onto the belt. He’s sweating by the end, while you and his sister are comparing playlists like the departure gate is a sleepover.
Finally, a lull. Elba darts off to find a bathroom, leaving you beside him. The crowd hums around you—rolling announcements, a kid screaming about an iPad, the scrape of suitcases on tile. You glance at him, a little awkward now without your co-conspirator. “Thanks for hauling my stuff,” you say, voice softer than it had been with Elba. “That was nice of you.”
Pato twitches, caught off guard. People rarely thank him for things like this. Usually it’s assumed he’ll just handle it. He shrugs, trying to play it off. “Don’t mention it.”
But it sticks. The way you’d looked him in the eye when you said it. The way you’d meant it.
He tells himself he only tolerates you because you’re one of Elba’s constants. Unlike the revolving door of flaky friends and temporary party girls, you actually show up. You were there when Elba had to be hospitalized for typhoid. You once volunteered to drive their mom to the airport when Pato overslept. You’re easy to have around, like furniture that’s actually useful instead of decorative. Pato likes to think he tolerates you.
As you smile faintly and adjust the strap of your carry-on, he wonders—just for a second—if tolerating you has always been his word for something else.
The boarding process is chaos, as always. People shoving oversized carry-ons into overhead bins that clearly aren’t built for them, babies already crying before takeoff, the whole plane smelling faintly of stale pretzels and sanitizer. Pato slides into the aisle seat, buckles in, and closes his eyes like maybe if he pretends hard enough, he can fast-forward to landing.
Then Elba leans over from two rows ahead. “Switch with me. She wants the aisle.”
Pato cracks one eye open. “And I want the aisle.”
“You don’t even like the aisle.”
“I don’t like the window either. But I like sitting here.”
“Eres una persona terrible.”
“Hace falta uno para conocer a otro.”
Elba huffs. “Come on, just switch.”
“Nope.” He tilts his head back, smirking at the ceiling. “Enjoy row seventeen.”
“Pato—”
You laugh, cutting her off. “It’s okay, Elba. Really. I don’t mind.”
He glances sideways. You’re already tucking your bag under the seat, pulling out a paperback with that practiced ease of someone who knows exactly how to survive air travel. Your smile is genuine, not forced, and it makes his sister’s glare feel even more unnecessary. Elba mutters something about men being insufferable and disappears into her row.
The plane takes off. A short flight, barely an hour, but long enough for Pato to find himself watching you out of the corner of his eye. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Research, even. If you’re really spiraling post-breakup, there should be signs.
Tear tracks? None.
Listless scrolling through old photos? No. You’re reading, underlining sentences in the margins with a pen.
Random sighs of heartbreak? Nothing. You hum quietly to yourself when the beverage cart rattles by.
Honestly, you don’t look like someone falling apart. You look like someone holding it together with suspicious ease, which might be worse. People who are actually fine don’t need to underline entire paragraphs of some novel. People who are fine don’t smile like that when flight attendants hand them a ginger ale.
Pato shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of how intently he’s staring. He scratches at his jaw, looks out the window he swore he didn’t want, and tells himself he’s only noticing because Elba made such a big deal about it. That’s all.
Still, when you look up and catch him watching, he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “That book any good?”
You grin, unperturbed. “Better than your company.”
He chuckles despite himself.
Vegas doesn’t greet you so much as it assaults. Strobe lights bleeding through the cab windows, people in sequins at three in the afternoon, the kind of heat that makes the air feel sticky even in September. By the time you check in, the hotel lobby reeking of dollar bills and coconut sunscreen, Pato can’t help but wonder what he’s agreed to.
The suite isn’t bad. Two bedrooms, decent view, balcony that looks out over the strip. Elba calls dibs on a closet before anyone can fight her for it and promptly disappears with her suitcase, mumbling about reorganizing her entire wardrobe for the weekend.
Which leaves him with you.
You step out onto the balcony, resting your arms on the railing. The street buzzes below, chaos wrapped in cheap plastic, and you sigh in a way that doesn’t sound sad so much as guilty. “Sorry for crashing your family trip,” you say lightly.
Pato leans on the opposite side of the railing, pretending the sun doesn’t cling to him like a second skin. “Elba didn’t mention plus-ones,” he responds, “but it’s alright.”
You glance at him, eyebrow arched. “You mean to tell me she didn’t explain why I’m here?”
He shrugs, casual. Too casual. “I don’t ask questions I don’t want answers to.”
“Right,” you say, turning back to the lights. “Because the two of you never tell each other everything.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’ve got him there. He can practically hear Elba in his head, scolding him not to be a pest about it. He forces himself to grin. “Fine. Maybe I didn’t want to hear the sob story on repeat.”
It’d be calloused to anyone else, but you’ve had a front seat to the O’Ward show for what feels like years now. “Fair.” You nudge the railing with your hand, fingertips drumming absentmindedly. “Still. I don’t want to be a burden.”
Pato looks at you again, really looks, like maybe he’ll find the cracks Elba swore were there. He doesn’t. You look the same as you did at the airplane. Composed, too composed. Someone running a performance they’ve memorized word-for-word. It makes him feel bad for you, the same way one might anticipate a car crash is about to happen and brace for impact.
“I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s not a lie. Surprisingly. It’s a little annoying, but it’s true. You’re probably the best of Elba’s friends to get stuck with for an indefinite amount of time.
You glance at him again, that quick spark of a smile tugging at your lips. Then Elba yells from inside about someone stealing her conditioner, and the moment cracks like cheap glass. Pato huffs a laugh. Of course. Family vacation, plus-one or not.
Vegas doesn’t sleep, and apparently neither does Elba.
By the time morning shifts into late afternoon, she’s already dragged both of them through half the Strip. Slot machines clanging, tourist traps swallowing wallets whole, the sun bouncing off mirrored glass towers. Elba narrates everything like she’s a tour guide auditioning for a job she already thinks she deserves.
“This is where Celine used to perform,” she announces, pointing at a theater marquee. “Icónica.”
Pato mutters, “Yeah, so is a nap,” but she ignores him, tugging you along like her favorite accessory.
You play along. Laughing when Elba insists on souvenir sunglasses, gamely posing beside fountains, clapping when street performers breathe fire. Pato trails half a step behind, hands shoved into his pockets, offering running commentary mostly for his own amusement. Every now and then, you glance back at him with a grin that says you heard every word. And that’s enough to keep him going.
Dinner ends up at an old-timey diner with burgers the size of helmets. Elba insists on ordering milkshakes ‘for the vibes.’ Pato groans but drinks his anyway. You steal a fry off his plate without asking, and when he gives you a look, you just shrug.
Afterwards, when Elba disappears into a boutique because she absolutely needs a dress she’ll wear once, it’s just the two of you leaning against a railing, watching a fountain show blast water into the sky in choreographed bursts.
“You’re holding up,” Pato says nonchalantly.
You tilt your head. “That a surprise?”
“A little. Elba’s treating you like a charity case.”
You laugh softly, eyes catching the fluorescent glow. “She means well,” you say. “Besides, it’s easier to let her try.”
Pato studies you in profile, water glittering across your face. He still can’t find it. The aches, the cracks. Somehow, between Elba’s overcompensating energy and your polite deflections, he’s closer to you than he expected to be after one day.
He doesn’t say that part. He just grins, pushes off the railing, and says, “Hope you packed stamina. Vegas with Elba is like running the Indy 500.”
Your laugh follows him back into the neon, and he tells himself it’s just part of the trip.
Day two, and Elba wakes up like she’s been injected with pure caffeine. More landmarks. More attractions. More everything. Pato lasts until midday before staging a small rebellion in the hotel hallway.
“Elba, we need a break.”
“You’re twenty-six,” she snipes. “You don’t need breaks.”
“I do if you’re trying to kill me.”
You step in, merciful. “Maybe just a couple of hours by the pool?”
Elba narrows her eyes, considering. “Está bien,” she concedes, “but only because I want to even out my tan.”
The pool is an oasis compared to the chaos of the Strip. Loungers lined up, sunlight bouncing off the water. Pato thinks he’s ready for it—until you step out in a bikini. His brain trips over itself like a car hitting gravel.
He’s seen you a hundred times. Jeans. Dresses. The kind of casual sweaters people wear to brunch. Never this. Pato blurts in Spanish before he can stop himself. “¿Qué carajos? ¿Ella siempre se vestía así?”
Elba, sprawled on a lounger, doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Es su ‘hot girl summer’, idiota.”
Hot girl summer. Of course. He groans into his hands. You glance over, half-amused. “Should I be worried about whatever you two are plotting?”
“Nothing,” Pato says too quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”
You don’t press, just sit on the edge of a lounger with a bottle of sunblock in hand. “Could you help me with this?” you ask, a little shy. “Can’t really reach my back.”
He freezes. Elba snorts.
“Sure,” he manages, taking the bottle. He squirts too much onto his hands, mutters a curse, and tries not to notice how warm your skin is under his palms as he spreads the lotion across your shoulders. Too slow, probably. Too careful.
You say a soft ‘thanks’ when he’s done, glancing at him over your shoulder. His ears burn. He drops back onto his lounger, shoving sunglasses on to cover the fact he’s staring at the sky like it holds answers. He only stands when he’s fairly certain there’s nothing pressing into the front of his swim shorts.
The water is cool, a relief after the desert heat. Pato dives under, comes up slicking hair out of his eyes, and tells himself it’s just swimming. Just two people in a pool. Normal. Nothing to short-circuit over.
You’re there, treading water beside him in the deep end, laughing when he splashes too close. Sunshine cuts across the surface, broken into shards that glint against your shoulders. He forces his gaze away, focusing on the pool tiles like they’re fascinating.
“Alright,” you say, floating back on your heels. “I guess I should tell you the whole story. You’ve been polite about not asking.”
Polite. He almost laughs. More like terrified Elba would bite his head off. He shrugs, trying to look casual as he hangs on to the pool’s edge. “If you want.”
You take a breath, steady but not dramatic. “We broke up. Me and… well, you probably saw him. On my Instagram.”
Pato nods. Yeah, he remembers. The guy with the wire frame glasses. Always in button-downs. College boyfriend, if he recalls correctly. The kind of guy you thought you were supposed to end up with. He never paid much attention beyond that, except to note the way you looked happy in those pictures. Comfortable.
Then you drop it like it’s nothing. “He cheated on me.”
Pato balks. “Sorry—what?”
You glance at him, tone maddeningly even. “Yeah,” you say, the tidbit more fact than emotion. “Apparently for months.”
He stares, something hot spiking under his ribs. Months. He grips the pool ledge tighter, jaw flexing. He doesn’t even know the guy, never knew him beyond a name and a face, but the thought of anyone cheating on you is enough to make his skin buzz.
“Asshole,” he mutters, too sharp, too fast.
You laugh. It sounds soft, tired. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
He wants to say more. To ask how you’re not furious, how you can tread water so calmly while dropping a bomb like that. Instead, he dunks his head under, comes back up with a shake, as if chlorine might wash the anger off. It doesn’t.
When he catches your eyes again, there’s something unspoken there. Like maybe you expected him to react exactly this way.
The pool glitters as you two climb out, water streaming down your arms, dripping off your hair in steady rivulets. Pato trails behind, hauling himself onto the deck with less grace than he’d like to admit. He tells himself he’s just following because it’s the only way out of the deep end—not because he doesn’t want to let the conversation go.
He grabs a towel, scrubs at his hair, then glances sideways. “So. Months?” he asks, his voice a little sharp. “You said he was at it for months.”
You wrap yourself in a towel, sit on the edge of a lounger. “Yeah. That’s what I found out, anyway,” you say, sounding almost bored. “Dating apps and all that bullshit.”
He frowns. “And you’re just… fine? Sitting here like you lost a bet, not like—”
“Like my whole life fell apart?” you finish for him, tone light. “Guess I’m just built different.”
Pato snorts, throws the towel around his shoulders. “No one’s built different about that.”
You glance at him, calm, steady. Too steady. “You’d be surprised what you get used to.”
It knocks the wind out of him, how you say it without blinking. He wants to shake you, or maybe shake himself for asking. Instead, he presses again. “Seriously, though. You don’t even sound mad.”
“I was.” You stretch your legs out, toes catching the sun. “Then I got tired of being mad.”
He bites down on a response, unsettled by how cleanly you say it. No tremor in your voice. No cracks. Just fact. He’s not sure why he wishes you were mad, wishes you were teary. Maybe he thinks that’d be easier to deal with.
Finally, you let out a small laugh. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want to hear the sob story?”
Pato winces, rakes a hand through damp hair. “Yeah. Sorry,” he grumbles. “I’m asking too much.”
You wave him off, like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it.”
Elba’s voice cuts across the pool deck, calling your name with that familiar urgency, as though the world might end without your immediate attention. You stand, tightening the towel around you, and head off toward her without looking back.
Pato watches you go, jaw tight.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Elba drags the three of you from one overstuffed itinerary stop to the next: iced lattes from a café where the baristas wear nothing but aprons, slot machines tucked in every corner of the hotel lobby, a slow crawl through Caesar’s where she insists on posing by every marble fountain. Pato goes along because he always does; his sister has the stamina of an endurance race and the social appetite of a golden retriever.
But today, he’s tuned in differently. He catches things. Little things.
Like how you laugh too quickly at Elba’s jokes. Or how your smile seems just slightly delayed whenever someone asks if you’re having fun. How your hand lingers at your cup a beat longer after a sip, knuckles whitening just enough. He isn’t pitying you. No, pity is cheap. He just… notices. More than he wants to.
It pisses him off. Not at you—never you—but at the idiot who made you learn how to wear that calm like armor.
At the slot machines, Elba pumps in coins with the vicariousness of a champion in the making. You lean on the side, arms crossed, watching with exaggerated fascination. Pato drops into the seat beside you, one eyebrow raised. “You know she thinks she’s going to beat the house, right?”
You crack a grin, eyes still on Elba. “She’s committed. I respect it.”
He lets the corner of his mouth curve. “You respect insanity?”
“Sometimes it’s charming.” You finally glance at him, the weight of your expression lighter than before. “Besides, she’s having fun. That’s what matters.”
He could say something. That fun isn’t supposed to look like desperation in heels. That you’re just propping his sister up because it’s easier than examining your own bruises. Instead, he raises his shoulders and a shrug and leans back in the chair. “Then I guess you’re a better person than me.”
The words catch you off guard, your laugh breaking sharp and real this time. “That’s generous.”
“I don’t do generous,” he says, but his voice has gone softer, betraying him.
Later, at another restaurant, Elba orders three desserts ‘or the table’ and takes the lion’s share. You nudge the last spoonful of tiramisu Pato’s way without a word. He looks at it, then at you. “What, you trying to bribe me?” he drawls.
“Trying to be nice.”
“Dangerous habit,” he mutters, but he eats it anyway. Because the truth is, every time you turn toward him, he can’t stop himself from softening.
Dinner is a production. Elba’s idea, obviously, because there’s no universe in which Pato would willingly sit through a two-hour reservation at one of the Strip’s most ostentatious restaurants. White tablecloths, chandeliers dripping crystal, menus that don’t bother putting prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here.
There’s you. Swept into some designer dress that Elba must’ve bullied you into. It looks like trouble. Looks like the kind of thing that makes Pato suddenly very interested in his water glass, or the bread basket, or literally anything that isn’t you.
He compensates to the best of his ability. Orders a bottle of wine for the table like it’s no big deal, as if that explains the sudden heat crawling up his neck.
“Qué generoso, hermano,” Elba needles, eyes glinting across the table. She raises her eyebrows like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Mira nomás, acting like Mr. Rico Suave tonight.”
Pato rolls his eyes. “Cállate. I just didn’t feel like drinking soda water in a place that costs this much.”
Elba giggles, clearly satisfied she’s gotten under his skin. They bicker in low voices, the usual rhythm of siblings who can do this all night. Pato thinks it’s working, distracting him from noticing the way the soft restaurant light plays against your skin. Until you cut in.
“Thank you, Pato,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, fingers brushing the stem of your glass. Not loud enough to make it a scene. Just enough to hit like a punch to the gut.
He blinks, caught off guard. “It’s nothing,” he chokes out. “Just wine.”
He tries to make it sound casual, like you didn’t just unspool him with two words. Like he isn’t suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you’re sitting right there, and he’s running out of places to hide his eyes.
There’s too much wine, too much sugar at dessert, and Elba’s voice only climbs like she’s auditioning for the role of ‘angry best friend’ in a telenovela. She’s slamming her fork into cheesecake, eyes flashing, saying words Pato doesn’t think the surrounding tables need to hear.
“Ese cabrón! I swear, if I ever see him—” She points the fork like a weapon, and a bit of cream cheese flies. “Cheating? On you? He’s blind. He’s—he’s…” She’s out of insults, so she just mutters another string of Spanish curses.
Pato sets his wineglass down before she breaks something. “Alright, alright. Chill. Not everyone here needs to know about this dude.”
His tone is casual, but his eyes flick to you. He expects to see you shrinking. Instead, you’re giggling into your spoon, cheeks flushed from the wine. “It’s fine,” you say, blushing and tipsy and so out of reach. “Let her get it out.”
Elba slaps her palm on the table. “Fine?” she screeches. “It’s not fine. Who cheats on you?”
“Apparently him,” Pato mutters.
Wrong move. Elba rounds on him like he’s complicit. “Exactly! Who cheats on her?”
“You already asked that.”
“Because it makes no sense!”
Pato pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you not scream about it like we’re on some reality show reunion?”
Elba doesn’t let up, sliding into Spanglish like she always does when she’s half-drunk and overdramatic. “Seriously, hermano, you don’t get it. She’s a catch. And this pendejo? He’s lucky she even looked at him. And then he—ugh. No. No puedo.”
You’re laughing harder now, which makes Pato feel weirdly protective and annoyed all at once. “She said it’s fine,” he reminds, voice sharper this time. But when your eyes flick to his, all warm and tired and a little too glassy from the alcohol, he gentles. “Right?”
“It is,” you say, smiling like you’re trying to convince both of them. “Really. I don’t care anymore.”
Elba exhales dramatically, takes another gulp of wine. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “And the worst part? He was obsessed with motorsports. With you, Pato.”
The air shifts. Pato freezes mid-reach for the bottle. “What?”
You wave your hand lazily. “Ignore her.”
But Elba is relentless. “No, no, tell him. This guy. Constantly asking about you. Always, ‘Do you get free tickets? Can we meet Pato?’ Él era una sanguijuela.”
Pato stares at you. “Hold up,” he says slowly. “That’s true?”
You groan, head dropping into your hand. “It’s not a big deal.”
“The hell it isn’t.” His voice rises before he reins it back, aware people are watching. He leans closer, seething. “So, let me get this straight. This clown cheats on you, but he’s in my DMs through you?”
“He wasn’t in your DMs.”
“He wanted to be!” Pato runs a hand through his hair, half laughing, half furious. “You’re telling me he was using you for tickets?”
You look up at him, eyes hazy but honest. “Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. He liked free stuff.”
Pato sits back in his chair, wine swirling in his glass, trying not to imagine punching someone he’s never even met. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself it’s stupid. But the heat beneath his ribs says otherwise.
By the time the plates are cleared, the wine has burned holes in everyone’s composure. Elba is still mumbling in Spanish about your ex being a disgrace to humanity. You’re slouched in your chair, cheeks pink, laughter bubbling too easily. And Pato—he’s staring into his glass like it holds divine inspiration.
Then it hits him. The brilliant, stupid, absolutely perfect idea. He sets his glass down with a little too much ceremony. “You know what we should do?”
Elba perks up immediately. “Revenge?”
“Kind of,” he says, pointing at you. “Take a picture of me. Post it on your story.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
“Porque.” He leans back, already halfway to a pose. “So that idiot sees it. So he knows you’re fine. Thriving. Hanging out with me in Vegas. Imagine the meltdown.”
Elba gasps dramatically, clapping her hands like he’s solved world hunger. “Sí! Sí, sí, sí. This is genius. I love it.”
You’re less enthused, shaking your head. “I don’t know. That feels… cheap. Like I’m using you.”
“You’re not using me,” Pato shoots back without missing a beat. “I’m offering. There’s a difference.”
You chew your lip, considering, and he catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes. For some reason, it makes him want to insist even more. He leans in, treading lightly now. “C’mon. It’s just a story. No captions, no drama. Just… us.”
Elba is already fishing her phone out, drunk and determined. “Do it. Post him. Post his stupid face.”
You laugh, torn between resistance and amusement. Finally, you sigh, raising your phone. “Fine. But if this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Pato says, flashing the camera his best I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life smirk. “Trust me.”
Everything is buzzing and too bright, the three of you weaving through the crowd like you own the sidewalk. Elba is a comet blazing ahead, heels clicking fast, voice carrying over the noise. “Notifications are a good sign! Means it’s working!” she shouts without looking back.
Pato lags a step behind with you, his arm hooked under yours, keeping you vertical. You’re leaning into him, warm and giggly, your phone lighting up every three seconds in your other hand. “It won’t stop,” you complain, half whine, half laugh. “Every time I look, it’s another one. I regret everything.”
He snorts, tightening his hold when you stumble on the curb. “Welcome to the internet, cariño. Post me once and suddenly your phone is famous.”
You bury your face into his shoulder, muffling another laugh. “This is your fault.”
“Gladly taking the blame,” he says, trying not to grin too much, trying not to think about how natural it feels to have you leaning against him.
He adjusts his step to match yours, keeping steady while you’re anything but. Ahead, Elba throws her arms in the air like a conductor, commanding chaos. “For a good cause!” she yells again, practically twirling under the multicolored signs. “We’re building your legend!”
Pato rolls his eyes skyward but doesn’t let you go. Your weight is solid against him, your laughter hiccuping in his chest. For once, he doesn’t have a single complaint.
Morning hits like a truck, though.
The hotel room reeks faintly of tequila and bad decisions, all three of you nursing hangovers with greasy breakfast plates on the table. Elba wears sunglasses indoors, muttering about her head. You cradle coffee like it’s salvation, curled up sideways against Pato’s chest on the couch because standing feels like a war crime.
The boundaries are gone, blurred by wine and neon and bad choices. Touchy, co-dependent, soft in ways none of them have energy to call out. Your phone buzzes again and you groan, shoving it at Pato without lifting your head. “It hasn’t stopped,” you whine. “All night, all morning. I’ve created a monster.”
Elba peels her glasses down just enough to squint. “How many?”
You sigh dramatically. “Responses. Reactions. Like… a dozen? Maybe more. And he saw it.”
Pato straightens a little. “Wait. He viewed it?”
“Didn’t react,” you sigh. “But yeah. He saw it.”
Elba sits up like she’s been resuscitated. “Then we double down. Obviously. We post more.”
You groan, burying your face deeper into Pato’s chest. “Bad idea. Feels evil.”
“Evil is good,” Elba insists, stabbing a fork into her eggs. “He deserves evil.”
Pato chuckles, resting his chin lightly on top of your head without thinking. “I don’t mind,” he says, surprising himself with how easily he gives in. “If it makes him squirm, I’ll do it. Keep it going. ¿Por qué no?”
You tilt your head just enough to look at him, bleary-eyed and incredulous. “You’d actually do that?”
“Yeah.” He grins, though it feels softer than usual. “For the cause.”
The day unravels into chaos disguised as strategy, Elba operating with the conviction of a film director who thinks she’s capturing a once-in-a-lifetime romance. In reality, she’s herding two hungover idiots down the Strip while barking stage directions. Pato isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Probably both.
She insists on cafés strung with fairy lights that don’t photograph right in daylight, casino lobbies dripping in gold, fountains that mist too aggressively and leave him squinting as if he’s a drowned cat. Every few feet, Elba throws out orders: “Closer! Hand on her waist! No, not like a mannequin, like you actually like her. Dios mío, put some passion in it!”
It’s less romance and more farce, a comedy of errors where he plays the reluctant leading man. Pato swears you’ve snapped fifty photos of him in the span of an hour, all nearly identical, all equally unflattering in his opinion. His smile has begun to calcify into something that feels suspiciously like rigor mortis. He loses track after the third time he’s forced to lean against a marble column, pretending to brood like some tragic poet.
By midafternoon, he’s convinced your camera roll is now seventy percent Pato O’Ward, professional race car driver turned accidental Instagram model, trapped in witness protection.
You don’t look much happier about it. Every time you scroll through the growing collection of pictures, your frown deepens, and you mutter about how none of them look right. Elba, of course, dismisses all protests, already plotting the next photo op in front of some gaudy sign. Pato follows because he has no choice, half-amused, half-ready to collapse into the nearest seat with a drink.
By the time the Strip begins to glow with its evening electricity, the three of you are weaving toward dinner. The air buzzes with the shift from day to night, tourists flooding sidewalks, neon bleeding into the desert sky. You’re glued to your phone, scrolling with a dramatic sigh. “There are too many,” you remark. “I can’t pick.”
Pato leans in, shoulder brushing yours, eyes catching the endless grid of his own face. “That one,” he says instantly, pointing. “In the casino. Where I’m smiling.”
You zoom in. “Why that one?”
He shrugs, casual but not careless. Lips quirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “That’s probably how I’d look at someone I’m in love with.”
The words hang, heavier than he expects. For a second he worries he’s tipped too far into sincerity, but you recover quick, teasing. “Oh yeah? And what exactly does the ‘look of love’ entail, O’Ward?”
He’s about to craft some cocky retort when Elba, ever the saboteur, cuts in with all the subtlety of a megaphone. “You just know with him. He doesn’t hide it. Remember that girl he liked back in—”
“Elba!” The shout rips out of him, too sharp, too fast. He lunges before she can dig up the memory. Tourists glance their way as if they’re part of the evening entertainment. “¡No digas nada!” he hisses, scrambling to get around her arm.
She laughs, dodging effortlessly, tossing insults. “Qué dramático eres. You’re worse than when you lose a qualifying session.”
“Shut up!” He grabs her elbow, she twists out of reach, and suddenly they’re in the middle of a mock-wrestling match on the sidewalk.
He catches sight of you doubled over on the curb, clutching your phone to your chest, laughter spilling unrestrained. Wide grin, eyes shining. For once, you’re not carrying that careful mask you wear so often.
Pato knows he’s lost this round. No way to salvage dignity from this spectacle. But he tells himself it’s worth it, because your laughter feels like a winning lap. Better than any posed photograph Elba could orchestrate.
The morning is still soft, Vegas pretending to be calm before the city remembers itself. Pato tugs on his running shoes, half-asleep, ready to pound out a few miles and sweat off last night’s shots. But when he slides open the balcony door for some air, you’re already out there, knees tucked up, phone glowing against your face.
He pauses, one shoe half-laced. “You’re up early,” he greets. “Couldn’t sleep, or are you just waiting for the Strip to explode again?”
You don’t look at him, just thumb at your screen. “He reacted.”
Pato frowns. “Who?”
You finally turn, holding up your phone. The tiny emoji mocks him from across the screen. Just a laughing face. Nothing else. Like your ex didn’t buy it for a second.
“That’s it?” Pato blurts. “A laugh? After everything?” He’s more offended than you are, and it shows. “That’s—what? Him saying he doesn’t believe it? Or that you’re a joke? Qué idiota.”
You shrug, curling deeper into yourself. “Doesn’t matter. Really. It’s just a stupid emoji.”
Pato ties his other shoe tighter than necessary. “No. No, it matters. Because he’s not supposed to laugh. He’s supposed to choke on his regret. He’s supposed to look at that story and—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Too much, O’Ward.
Your smile is faint, almost apologetic. “It’s fine, Pato. You don’t have to get worked up for me.”
But he’s already worked up. It feels personal now, this douchebag ex scoffing at what’s right in front of him. Pato straightens, a spark of determination lighting up where irritation sits. “Then we up the ante. You’ll see. He won’t be laughing next time.”
You stare at him, caught between amusement and hesitation. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But I’m committed ridiculous.” He points at you, grinning despite the tightness in his chest. “Leave it to me.”
Before you can argue, he jogs out into the morning, headphones in, needing the rhythm of his feet on the pavement to cool the fire in his blood.
Pato spends the run doing what he calls “research,” which is really just him sprinting on fumes while muttering to himself about emojis, then slowing to a jog so he can scroll Pinterest on his phone like a lunatic. He tells himself it’s a game plan. By the time he circles back toward the hotel, the desert sun frying his brain, he has tabs open about ‘Instagram boyfriend’ like he’s about to defend a thesis.
When he gets back upstairs, Elba and you are curled up in the suite’s living room, sipping iced coffee. Pato drops onto the couch between you with the air of a man about to deliver a sermon. “Okay. Listen. I’ve figured it out,” he says solemnly. “The only next step is soft launches.”
Elba immediately snorts, then actually slides off her chair, wheezing. “Soft launches? ¿Qué te pasa, Pato?”
You throw a pillow at his head, which he barely catches. “That’s ridiculous,” you snort. “We are not staging some fake PR campaign for my Instagram.”
“Yes, we are,” he insists, eyes alight, dead serious in a way that makes both of you laugh harder. “We have to play it smart. Strategic photos. Casual hand placement. Hints. A shadow here, a reflection there. It’s the art of the tease.”
Elba is choking with laughter on the carpet. You’re trying to hide a grin behind your coffee, shaking your head like he’s absurd. And maybe he is. But Pato leans back into the couch cushions, resolute, heart pounding for reasons he won’t admit out loud. This isn’t just a bit anymore. Not for him.
Pato decides that if you’re going to play this game, he’s the one calling the shots now. Enough of Elba’s ‘candid-but-not-really-candid’ instructions, enough of you fumbling with angles like you don’t know your best side. He’s in charge. Director. Cinematographer. Boyfriend-for-hire.
“You. Stand there,” he orders, pointing at a ridiculous marble fountain. “Tilt your chin. No, higher. Perfect.”
You give him a flat look but do it anyway, lips twitching as if you’re suppressing laughter. Elba, phone in hand, is already giggling behind him. “Pato, esto es ridículo.”
“Ridiculously good at this,” he shoots back, adjusting your arm until it’s looped through his. He leans closer, just enough that the warmth of your skin skims his, and gestures to Elba. “Take it. Quick. Before the magic fades.”
The photos that follow are far from magical. It’s him pretending to whisper secrets in your ear, you rolling your eyes but leaning in anyway. His hand resting just a second too long on your waist, your laugh caught mid-frame as he tries to lift you in a hug in front of a neon-lit sign. Each pose is more dramatic than the last, equal parts parody and commitment.
Elba is living for it, providing commentary like a reality TV host. “Oh my God, yes. The fake proposal. Do it, do it!”
You groan, putting some distance between you and the insane siblings, but Pato just grins. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns.
It’s comical. Over the top. Completely unnecessary. Yet, as the shutter keeps clicking, Pato doesn’t pull away as quickly as he should. His hand lingers at your back, his gaze catches yours longer than needed.
Once the photoshoot has wrapped up, Pato is scrolling through your phone like a ruthless editor, swiping past photo after photo with a shake of his head. “No. No. Definitely not. Dios mío, who even stands like that?”
You snatch the phone back, exasperated. “They all look fine, Pato. And by fine, I mean silly, which is the whole point.”
He leans back against the couch, arms crossed, expression infuriatingly smug. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it properly,” he protests. “The angles are off. The lighting is bad. Half of these don’t even look like I’m invested.”
Elba, sprawled on the floor with a bag of chips, snorts. “You’re too invested, brother. It’s called Instagram, not Vogue.”
Pato opens his mouth to argue, but then Elba waves her phone like a trump card. “Look at this one,” she proclaims.
On her screen plays a five second clip, shaky but golden. You and Pato in the hotel kitchen earlier that day, laughing while you half-dance, half-bump into each other. It’s chaotic, unplanned. He remembers it clearly. Trying to get past you to the fridge, spinning you around like a joke, both of you mocking Elba’s playlist. “Otra vez Kali Uchis?” he’d groaned, and you’d laughed so hard you nearly tripped over his feet.
Now, watching it back, the laughter feels different. Softer. Real.
You chew your lip, hesitant. “It’s not staged. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”
Pato pretends to consider, but he knows. He knows it’s the most genuine thing out of the whole batch. He catches himself smiling, almost unwillingly, and you catch it too.
“Only if he says yes,” you tell Elba, eyes flicking toward him.
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as something twists warm and reckless underneath his skin. “Post it,” he says. “Let him choke on it.”
Elba whoops, triumphant. Before Pato can rethink, the clip is live—proof that sometimes the best shots are the ones no one meant to take.
Pato wakes to the sound of Elba shrieking like she’s just hit the jackpot on a slot machine. He jolts upright, hair sticking in every possible direction, heart thudding like he’s missed a fire alarm. “What?” he sputters, stumbling out into the living space. “What happened?”
Elba is waving your phone like a victory flag. “Blocked! He blocked her!”
You roll your eyes from where you’re seated on the arm chair. “Can you not announce it to the entire hotel?”
Pato’s mind takes a minute to catch up. Blocked. He squints at you, noting the way you try to play it cool, shoulders shrugging like it doesn’t matter. Except your lips tug up at the corners, betraying you. It’s a small smile, but it’s there. It’s a good look on you.
Elba practically bounces. “Girl world translation?” she says excitedly. “He cared. He saw, he cared, and he couldn’t handle it.”
Pato can’t help it, either—he grins. It feels like a win, like crossing a finish line and hearing the roar of the crowd. Not his race, not his victory, but watching you glow like you’ve just stolen something back? It’s better than qualifying pole.
“Alright,” he declares, stretching his arms over his head. “We’re celebrating. Drinks, food, whatever you want. On me.”
You look up, surprised. “Pato, you don’t have to—”
“I insist.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
Elba snickers, shooting him a look in Spanish. “Mira nada más, el caballero.”
Normally, he’d roll his eyes, fire something back. But right now he doesn’t care. He’s too focused on the way you’re smiling, soft and triumphant, like you’ve just done something you weren’t sure you could. And if that means footing the bill for a night out in Vegas? He’ll happily pay twice over.
The hotel room turns into a pre-game war zone. Clothes scattered, hair products lining the counter, Elba flitting around like she’s a stylist backstage at Fashion Week. Pato buttons up his shirt, but he barely gets through rolling his sleeves when the real drama kicks off.
You’re standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a dress Elba has strong-armed you into. It’s all slinky fabric and bare shoulders, and you’re muttering that it’s too much, that you’re not wearing this out in public. Elba plants her hands on her hips. “Stop. You look gorgeous.” She spots Pato and immediately pounces. “Pato, tell her she’s hermosa.”
Pato freezes. Betrayal. He wasn’t prepared to be dragged into this.
His tongue feels too big for his mouth, his brain short-circuits like an engine blowing out mid-race. He catches your reflection in the mirror—how uncertain you look, how the dress frames you in a way that makes his throat dry—and he knows he can’t joke his way out of this one.
“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out more earnestly than he intends. “You… you look beautiful.”
Your eyes flick to him, quick and startled. There’s color blooming high on your cheeks, a shy smile tugging at your lips even as you duck your head. “Thanks,” you mumble. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I wanted to,” Pato blurts before he can stop himself. Too much, too much, too much.
He looks away, tugging unnecessarily at his cuffs, like the shirt suddenly needs adjusting. His ears feel like they’re on fire. He’s grateful for the chaos of Elba spinning back toward her closet, too busy crowing about how she knew it would work to notice his face spelling out what he can’t say. You let out a sigh, softer this time, and turn back to the mirror. “Fine,” you concede. “I’ll wear it.”
Elba claps her hands in victory, already plotting the night ahead. Pato pretends to be focused on his watch, but his pulse is hammering, and he tells himself it’s just pre-game jitters.
The restaurant he chooses is all velvet booths and golden chandeliers, the kind of place that makes Pato feel like he should’ve ironed his shirt but also like he owns the room. He doesn’t blink when he orders steak—medium rare, obviously—and a cocktail that sounds fancier than it probably tastes. He’s leaning back, legs stretched, watching you skim the menu to order the cheapest thing on it.
When the food arrives, it’s obscene. Plates the size of racetracks, portions that somehow disappear faster than he expects. He doesn’t notice he’s smiling until Elba points it out, kicking him under the table and calling him extraño. He ignores her, focused on you stealing bites from his plate and lighting up at the sight of dessert.
The real chaos begins when the check lands. You’re subtle—well, you think you are—sliding your card toward the server with all the stealth of a magician pulling a rabbit. Pato catches it instantly. “Oh, no you don’t.”
You glare. “I can pay.”
“And I can not let you,” he fires back, leaning across the table to physically intercept the poor server’s hand. Suddenly it’s a wrestling match, his fingers closing around your wrist, the two of you half-laughing, half-serious as you try to shove your card forward.
“Pato!” You hiss, laughing anyway. “Stop being difficult.”
“I was born difficult.” His grin is sharp, triumphant, as he finally snatches the check, swapping your card for his like a magician with a better trick. The server bolts, wisely deciding survival trumps customer service.
You slump back, exasperated but smiling, muttering something about stubborn racecar drivers. Pato just shrugs, a little smug, a little warm in the chest at the way you’re looking at him now.
Elba watches, eyebrows raised. She’s always been too perceptive for her own good. “¿Y eso qué fue?” she says pointedly, rapid-fire Spanish spilling like bullets. “Estás actuando mucho como un novio.”
Pato throws her a glare, the kind that says shut up without saying it. “Comes with the job description,” he mutters under his breath, stabbing his steak like it insulted him.
She cackles, leans back, and waves it off. “Fine, fine. Enough romance. We’re going to a club.”
The club is already packed when you arrive, bodies pressed together under shifting neon lights, the bass line so heavy Pato feels it in his ribs. Elba takes one look at the crowd, then turns to him with the authority of a general. “Ve por una botella. Something nice. We deserve it.”
Pato doesn’t argue. He never wins with her anyway. You’re already scanning the room, muttering something about finding a booth before someone else snags it. He watches you go, cutting through the crowd with surprising ease, and then he heads for the bar.
Ordering is quick enough—until someone slides into the open space beside him. She’s tall, glossy-haired, flashing him a smile that’s practically rehearsed. Exactly his type, if we’re talking stats: long legs, knowing eyes, a laugh that lingers just too long. She leans in, brushing her arm against his like it’s accidental, and shouts over the music, “You here for the weekend?”
He can play this game. Normally, he likes this game. He gives her a grin, answers something flirty, though his delivery’s off, a beat too flat. Because when he glances past her shoulder, his gaze snags on the booth across the floor. You’re there with Elba, laughing at something she’s said, head tipped back, phone tossed carelessly on the table. Neon paints you in blue, then pink, then gold.
Your eyes catch his. Just for a second. Quick, electric. Like maybe you hadn’t expected him to be watching. You look away almost immediately, pretending to fuss with your drink napkin.
The girl at the bar is still talking, her lips curving around words he doesn’t bother processing. Something about the DJ. Something about how crowded it is. He nods, tries to feign interest, but it feels like going through motions on autopilot.
All he can think about is that flicker of guilt crawling up his throat. Like he’s just been caught red-handed, even if there’s nothing to be caught for.
Pato comes back to the booth feeling as if he’s just survived a pop quiz in charm school. The girl at the bar had handed him her number scribbled on a tissue, complete with a kiss-print. He bundles it in his palm without a single glance, but when he slides into the booth, he notices your eyes catch the faint red mark. You don’t say anything. That silence is worse than any quip you could have thrown at him.
Elba, blissfully oblivious, claps her hands and pushes a bottle toward him. “¡Órale, hermano! Pour for her. Don’t be cheap.”
Pato sighs, but he takes the bottle, and you tip your head back with a grin that looks more like a dare than consent. He pours.
The liquid slips past your lips, some of it sliding down your chin, catching on your neck. It’s messy. It’s supposed to be funny. Instead, his pulse jumps like he’s missed a restart. You come up, choking and gagging a bit, and it does him absolutely zero favors. Unfortunately, Pato is still just a man.
He grabs the nearest thing—the tissue from the stranger—and presses it to your skin. You flinch, murmuring, “Hey, that’s… isn’t that—”
“Don’t need it,” Pato says quickly, wiping gently, ignoring the lipstick mark smearing faintly across your collarbone. The tissue crumples, useless now, but he doesn’t care. The number, the kiss-print—all gone. He tosses it aside and grabs a fresh one, this time working on cleaning the red from your skin.
You blink up at him, lips parted like you’re about to argue, but no words come out. Elba whistles low, grabs the bottle, and takes a swig herself. Pato leans back, heart hammering, pretending like pouring tequila down your throat and wiping your neck with someone else’s number is all standard procedure.
The booth turns into a pit stop: shots poured, glasses clinked, laughter already loosened by the alcohol humming through veins. Elba’s on a mission, tossing back her drink with one hand and grabbing yours with the other. “Come on, vámonos!” she orders, practically dragging you off the seat.
Pato stays planted, elbow on the table, watching the two of you push through the crowd. You look like you’re trying to remember how your limbs work, shoulders stiff at first, eyes darting around. Then the music swells, and the liquor does its job. Your hips start to move with more rhythm, more abandon. Elba spins you, hollering, her jewelry catching the strobe lights. People glance. Some stare. And maybe Pato’s imagining it, maybe he’s just drunk enough to be paranoid, but the attention lingers longer than he likes.
He tips back what’s left in his glass, jaw tight. Why should it matter? People look. It’s Vegas. That’s the point. Still, something unsettles him. He tells himself it’s just a protective instinct. That’s what he’ll call it, anyway.
Then you turn. In the swirl of bodies, you find him.
Your eyes catch his, and you crook your finger, a drunken, lazy gesture like you know exactly what you’re doing. Pato stills, heat crawling up his neck. He tries for cool, but his legs betray him, stumbling to his feet before his brain can catch up. The floor tilts under him as he shoulders past strangers.
The bass rattles through his chest and makes every thought arrive half a second too late. Pato doesn’t realize when he reaches you that his hands settle on your hips like they belong there, like this is some automatic muscle memory he didn’t know he had. He tells himself it’s just practical—crowd control, balance, whatever—but the lie barely lasts a beat.
You move against him with abandon, messy and free, as if the alcohol has peeled back whatever restraint you normally wear. Elba’s nowhere near, already swallowed by a cluster of laughing girls, leaving the two of you in the swirl of the crowd. The air feels wet, heavy, and Pato has to lean down to make himself heard.
“Are you trying to get us kicked out?” he teases into your ear, voice rough from shouting over the music.
You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, lips curved. “Depends,” you slur. “Are you trying to keep up?”
He matches your rhythm, chest pressed to your back, hands steady at your waist like he’s bracing both of you. He knows he should pull back, give you space, but the song is loud and your laughter is louder, and it feels like gravity doesn’t give him much choice.
His hands shift without permission, sliding higher, fingers splayed along your ribs. The move is subtle, but you shiver all the same. For one dizzying second, he panics, until he realizes you’re not pulling away. You’re still moving with him, giving as much as you take.
Pato leans back down. His voice is half-mocking, half-sincere; his breath, warm against the shell of your ear. “Guess I am keeping up,” he hums.
Your answer gets lost in the music, but it doesn’t matter. He feels it in the way your body presses back, in the way the crowd dissolves, leaving just the two of you and a bassline that feels like it’ll never end.
The crowd swells and shifts, bodies pressing closer until the air feels like static. Pato’s hands stay firm at your hips, anchoring him when every drop threatens to scramble what’s left of his brain. You move against him without hesitation, and he thinks maybe you’re both gone past the point of return.
On some drunken, traitorous instinct, he dips his head and presses a quick, chaste kiss to the side of your neck. He doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he does. He can’t tell anymore. All he knows is the second his lips brush skin, you tip your head back onto his shoulder, your body grinding against his with a kind of surrender that makes his pulse stutter.
Pato’s entire chest tightens. He feels every gasp that slips out of you like it’s lodged directly in his own throat. He’s going insane—actually insane—and the worst part is that he doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t hate it at all.
And then salvation—or disaster—arrives in the form of Elba. She cuts through the crowd like she owns it, seizing your hand with zero preamble. “Bathroom,” she screeches, eyes unfocused in a way that indicates she probably won’t remember a thing tomorrow. “Now.”
You’re tugged from his grasp, leaving Pato standing alone, hands suddenly useless at his sides, the ghost of your warmth already fading. He stumbles back toward the booth, jaw tight, trying not to picture the feel of your hips rolling against his or the sound of your gasp in his ear. He fails miserably.
Heading home, Pato has never been so grateful to be the least drunk person in the group. Which is saying something. He’s not exactly sober, just… functional. In the cab, Elba’s slumped against his right shoulder, mouth open, snoring softly. You’re curled into his left, cheek pressed against him like his arm is the world’s least ergonomic pillow. Both of you are dead weight, and he’s the unlucky middle seat.
The driver’s muttering along to some late-night radio, lights blurring outside the windows, Vegas still screaming at them even though the night should be winding down. Pato keeps his eyes forward, jaw set. He tells himself he’s fine. He’s responsible. The only one holding it together.
Except his brain refuses to shut up. It’s busy cataloging things it shouldn’t. Like how you smell faintly of the overpriced perfume Elba bullied you into at Sephora. How your hair tickles against his neck. How he’s way too aware of the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing.
You’re Elba’s friend.
That reminder loops like a mantra in his head. He’s not supposed to look. Not supposed to think. And yet—he thinks. About your ex, the whole stupid revenge plan, the way you laughed when he grabbed the bill at dinner. He thinks about the dance floor, about the way his self-control wavered when your body was pressed against his. He thinks about how you looked at him like maybe he wasn’t imagining it.
It’s Vegas, he tells himself. Everything’s louder here. Brighter. Hotter. Nothing is real. It’s all neon illusions and cheap tricks. When the break’s over, he’ll go back to racing his car, and you’ll go back to your life, and none of this will matter.
Your hand shifts in your sleep, fumbling across the seat, and without thinking, you lace your fingers through his. Pato goes completely still. His chest tightens, breath caught like the cab has suddenly forgotten how to pump oxygen.
He should let go. He knows he should.
But he holds on, thumb brushing your knuckles in the dark, quiet and tentative. He thinks to himself, everything else can be fake and plastic—but this, this, is real. Your hand in his, looking for him even in your sleep.
The next morning, Pato shuffles out into the living space, hair messy, still tasting the bad mix of whiskey and regret at the back of his throat. The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet. Elba’s not here, which is weird, because she’s usually the one orchestrating everyone’s suffering the morning after. Instead, it’s just you. Slouched on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, remote in hand like you’ve claimed squatter’s rights.
You look up, caught, sheepish. “I may have lied to Elba about being hungover,” you admit. “She went shopping. I… didn’t want to.”
Pato lets out a laugh, rubbing his face. “Wow. Faked a hangover to get out of shopping?” he rasps. “That’s impressive. I’ve pulled that exact move before. Respect.”
You grin at him, but it’s small, guilty. He watches you shift on the couch, fiddling with the blanket, and for a beat he considers bailing. Ducking back into his room, pretending he’s got calls to make, avoiding the mess of thoughts still circling from last night. Because you don’t seem to remember. The dance floor. The closeness. The part where he nearly lost his mind when you tilted your head back against his shoulder.
Instead, his mouth betrays him. “So,” he says, leaning against the wall, crossing his arms, “what do you actually want to do on this trip? Because I feel like Elba’s been running the schedule, and you—” he gestures vaguely, “—you haven’t really gotten a say.”
You stare up at him, clearly not expecting the question. And Pato tells himself he’s just being nice. Just filling the silence. Just making sure you’re not left behind.
You give him your honest answer, and Pato takes it upon himself to inform Elba you’re hanging out with him for the day.
Except nothing about the day is what he expects. Vegas, in his head, is glitter, pool parties, overpriced cocktails, and maybe waking up with a regret or two. Not… museum tours. Not standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you while a guide talks about art stolen and reclaimed, or mob history told with a little too much enthusiasm. Pato keeps waiting to be bored, but he isn’t. Maybe because every time he glances at you, you’re lit up, grinning like this is exactly what you wanted. And that—it does something to him.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets as you walk through the Fremont canopy of lights, “this is probably the least Vegas-Vegas trip I’ve ever had. And I’ve been here Nolan.”
You laugh, shoulders bumping into his. “That sounds like trauma.”
“It was.” He grins, watching you snort at that. He can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this. Fremont Street smells like beer and fried food, there’s someone singing badly off-key two blocks away, and still he’s content. Annoyingly so.
By the time the two of you are weaving through the Paris Hotel’s perimeter, his legs are sore and his brain is running circles. You stop to stare at the faux Eiffel Tower, head tilted back, eyes wide in a way that makes him look twice. Like you’re not seeing plaster and steel, but something else. Something bigger.
“You know it’s fake, right?” he says, sidling closer, voice dry. “You’re such a cliché.”
You don’t flinch, just smile without looking at him. “I know. But I can’t help it. Part of me will always be a bit of a romantic, I guess.”
For once, he doesn’t have a smart retort locked and loaded. Just a sudden, sharp constriction in his ribs, like someone’s punched him and he forgot how to breathe. Romantic. Of course you are. That’s the whole reason you’re here, nursing wounds from some idiot who didn’t deserve you in the first place. Hearing you say it, it feels like something else. It’s a confession not meant for him, one that lands on him anyway.
He shoves the feeling down, laughs instead, because that’s easier. “So what, you’re gonna make me take a hundred pictures of you with the fake tower?” he teases. “You want to kiss under it too, for the full package?”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks pinken, and God, he shouldn’t notice that. He notices anyway. To save himself, Pato insists on the pictures.
You’re groaning, swatting at him, begging him to stop, but he’s relentless, tilting your chin toward the fake Paris skyline, telling you to stand a little closer to the rail. Every snap of his phone is a victory, even if you look ready to tackle him to the pavement. He tells himself it’s for the bit. He tells himself you’ll thank him later. He ignores the way his chest is doing that uncomfortable squeeze thing again.
Finally, you throw your hands up. “Pato, enough. Seriously,” you beg. “My phone is going to combust from all this.”
“Good,” he grins, lowering the phone only to immediately lift it again. The flash goes off. “That’s the point. Combustion. Viral combustion.”
You laugh despite yourself. He catches it all—your smile, your exasperation, the way you’re glowing under the fake Eiffel Tower light. He doesn’t think about how obvious he’s being until he hears his own voice asking, too casually, “How do you do it?”
You tilt your head to one side. “Do what?”
“Still believe in this stuff. Romance. Fairy lights. Eiffel Towers that aren’t even real. After—you know.” He regrets the question the second it leaves his mouth. It’s none of his business. Except it is, because he wants it to be.
For a second you’re quiet, eyes tracing the steel beams above you. Then, softly: “Because if I don’t, then he wins. He takes the part of me that wants to love and be loved, and that’s the only thing I can’t let anyone take. Not even him.”
Pato swallows.
The Strip buzzes around them—cars, music, laughter—but it all feels like background noise. He wants to say something, something to lighten the weight in his chest, but nothing comes. Just that squeeze again, unbearable this time.
You brush past him, heading toward the exit. He follows, phone heavy in his hand. You don’t notice when he lifts it one last time, catching you from behind, your gaze still caught on the fake Eiffel Tower.
Pato wakes up to impact. A pillow collides with his face, followed by the unmistakable sound of his sister’s hiss: “¡Levántate, idiota!”
He groans, dragging the pillow off his head. “What the hell, Elba?”
Another swing, softer this time, smacks against his shoulder. He’s seconds from starting a full-blown sibling wrestling match when Elba jabs a finger to her lips. “Shh. Quiet. She’s asleep.”
That stops him. Just barely. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. A quick glance at the wall clock shows it’s a little past midnight. “Then why are you trying to suffocate me in my sleep?” he hisses.
“Because,” Elba hisses, climbing onto the edge of his bed like a vengeful goblin. “What the hell was that Instagram story?”
Pato doesn’t mean to play dumb. He just woke up, for Christ’s sake. “What story?” he croaks.
“The one of her. Looking at the fake Eiffel Tower like you just shot a damn perfume ad.” Elba’s eyes narrow. “What are you doing, cabrón?”
He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “It’s nothing,” he manages. “It’s part of the act, right? The whole ‘Instagram boyfriend’ thing? Her ex probably follows me. Quiero que se muera de celos.”
Elba gives him a look sharp enough to decapitate. “Estúpido. You know what it looks like. To her. To everybody.”
Pato wants to argue. Wants to say it’s fine, wants to shrug, wants to go back to sleep. But he sees her face—dead serious under the dim hotel light—and something twists in his stomach. “It’s not like that,” he mutters.
“Then prove it.” Elba crosses her arms. “Delete it.”
He scoffs under his breath. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being protective. For her. She doesn’t need people speculating, she doesn’t need you making her life messier than it already is.”
Pato reaches for his phone, stares at it for a moment, thumb hovering. The photo’s still up. Your face lit, something private in the way you’re looking at fake Paris. He feels a flicker of guilt, maybe even grief, but he doesn’t let it show.
“Fine,” he mutters. He deletes the story with a few taps.
Elba exhales, satisfied. “Gracias.” She slides off the bed, whispering as she heads for the door. “Try to think next time.”
Pato flops back down, phone clutched in his hand. Sleep doesn’t come easy after that. Not when all he can see is the image he saved for himself, the one that no one else will ever get to see. How that, too, had to be taken from him. He falls asleep, chest heavy with implication.
When he wakes up, he’s determined to prove a point to no one in particular. If Elba thinks he’s getting carried away, fine. He’ll swing the other way. Civil. Detached. So detached he could win a medal for it. You’re just his sister’s friend. You’re just here for Vegas. Nothing more.
For most of the day, he nails it. Elba, ever the puppeteer, makes it easy. She has you distracted with brunch plans, shopping detours, and a labyrinth of errands that keep Pato comfortably on the sidelines. He’s polite, even cheerful, like some guy who’s never in his life held your hand in the back of a cab. Neutral. Switzerland with better hair.
It’s only when the night folds into music again, the three of you sliding into a pool party, that the façade starts to crack. JHAYCO blares, the water glows an artificial blue, people splash and laugh. You turn to him with that earnest gleam, nudging his arm. “Come on, let’s play something. You’re not just gonna sit there.”
He doesn’t even know what possesses him. Some awful reflex, maybe. The need to overcorrect.
He scoffs, sharper than intended. “Play?” he echoes. “What are we, five?”
The words cut. He sees it—the flicker across your face, quick as lightning but unmistakable. The way your mouth opens, then shuts again. You try for a smile, brittle at the edges. “Right,” you say, “guess that was kind of dumb of me.”
Pato’s stomach drops.
Guilt crashes in, heavy and uninvited. He wants to take it back instantly, wants to say he didn’t mean it like that, but you’re already looking away, pretending to be invested in the pool lights. He’s left with the sour taste of his own mistake, wondering when exactly trying to be detached turned into hurting you.
The pool party thrills with a drunken rhythm, bass thudding through the water and the air sticky with chlorine and cheap cologne. Pato tells himself he doesn’t care. You’ve wandered off, you’re not his to worry about, and he’s already proven he can be detached. Detached and civil. A regular monk, if monks happened to lounge shirtless by lit-up pools. But then he spots you.
You’re crouched by a poolside table with some tall, too-handsome stranger, both of you hunched over a tray of colored kinetic sand like it’s the Louvre. The stranger laughs, dimples and all, as you press the sand into a little mold, your eyes lighting up as if this is the most important architectural project of your life. Pato feels something in his chest that’s less monk and more caveman.
Elba’s somewhere else—probably trading tequila shots with girls in pink cowboy hats—so Pato doesn’t have backup. It’s just him, stewing. Watching you laugh at this stranger’s dumb jokes, like it’s the funniest thing on earth. He tries not to, but his legs betray him, marching across the tiles until he’s standing over your masterpiece-in-progress.
“Seriously?” Pato says, voice dripping with judgment. “A sandcastle?”
You glance up, annoyance flickering across your face. “It’s fun. You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather drown in the pool,” he fires back, crossing his arms. He can hear himself and he knows he sounds like a dick, but it’s too late.
The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at the drama. “She’s actually really good at this,” he says casually, as if Pato cares about sandcastle rankings.
Pato steps closer, gesturing at you. “Come on, let’s go. Party’s over.”
You squint up at him. “No, I’m fine here.”
There’s a bit of a squabble. Some sharp words exchange. None of it matters, not when his foot shifts, his balance tips, and his heel comes down right on the edge of your neon sand fortress. The turrets crumble in an instant, collapsing into a sad, shapeless heap.
You freeze, staring at the ruins. Then you look up at him, and the flicker of hurt in your eyes hits harder than any punch. He wants to blame the tiles, gravity, maybe even the bass vibrating underfoot, but the truth is simple: he just stomped on your castle like a jealous idiot.
Your tears start before Pato even realizes what’s happening. One second you’re blinking fast, jaw tight, the next you’re welling up, eyes glassy in the fluorescent wash of the pool lights. Great. Fantastic. He’s officially the villain of the pool party, and all because he couldn’t handle you sculpting a sandcastle with some random dude who probably has a PhD in jawlines.
The stranger does exactly what Pato wishes he could do—backs away, palms up, muttering something about drinks before vanishing into the crowd. Traitor. Now it’s just the two of you, you tearing up over a mound of kinetic sand like he just kicked a puppy. Which, to be fair, he kind of did.
“Hey, hey, no llore,” Pato blurts, reaching out like his hands can catch tears before they fall. He’s already scrambling for damage control, brain short-circuiting between panic and guilt. “I didn’t mean to—okay, maybe I did mean to, but not this.”
You’re babbling through breaths, words spilling faster than you can catch them. “It was making me happy, and you’re just—” you hiccup, “mean, Pato. You’re mean.”
That one hits worse than the sand crunching under his shoe. Mean. Out of everything you could call him, that’s the one that sticks like a dart in the middle of his chest. He sinks down, knees hitting damp concrete, palms scooping at the ruined little tower. He knows it’s pathetic. He does it anyway.
“Look,” he says, working with absurd precision, like the tiny turrets are fragile masterpieces and not chunks of neon-colored sludge. “There’s nothing broken I can’t fix. Nada. Give me five minutes, it’ll be better than before.”
You sniff, shaking your head, voice cracking when you try to stop him. “You can’t fix it. It’s—it’s ruined.”
Pato keeps building anyway, stubborn to the bone, piling sand back into crooked walls and lopsided towers. He glances up, grin trembling around the edges but still there, because that’s his armor. “Watch me. Architect Pato’s got this,” he insists, practically begging you to believe him. “UNESCO is gonna call me any second.”
Pato has no idea what he’s doing.
His hands aren’t exactly trained for delicate construction. Steering wheels, sure. Simulators, yeah. But a bucket and wet sand? The thing keeps collapsing on itself, like it’s mocking him, and his knees are already digging awkward grooves into the damp ground. Still, he mutters to himself, determined, because he said he could fix it. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being wrong in front of you.
“Stupid castle,” he grumbles under his breath, trying to pat a wall into place. It leans like it’s drunk. Maybe it fits the party.
When you shuffle down next to him, knees pressing into the ground too, he nearly breathes out in relief. You don’t say anything at first, just start smoothing one of the towers that looks more like a lopsided muffin. He steals a glance at you. Damp cheeks, eyes a little puffy. His fault. His stupid, jealous, running-mouth fault. Yet here you are, fixing his mess—literally. It makes him want to cry a bit himself.
Between the two of you, something resembling a sandcastle eventually rises. It isn’t half as pretty as the first one. Towers are uneven, moat is a mess. But when you sit back, brushing sand off your hands, there’s this quiet in the air that feels almost forgiving.
Your voice comes small, almost tentative: “Can we get ice cream?”
It shouldn’t undo him, and yet it does. That single, shy question feels like a lifeline tossed his way. Halfway forgiven, maybe more, if he plays it right. He scrambles upright so fast he nearly knocks over the new castle. “Yes. Sí. Whatever flavor you want, you got it,” he says. “Double scoop, triple scoop, I don’t care. You want sprinkles? I’ll get you all the sprinkles in Vegas.”
You crack the smallest smile, wiping the last of your tears with the back of your hand. Pato is quickly growing convinced he’d build you a hundred crooked sandcastles if it means keeping that look on your face.
The two of you end up at the fringes of the party, where the music is muffled and the only glow comes from lights bleeding across the pavement. Pato has a half-melted popsicle dripping down his fingers. You’ve already finished yours, lips stained cherry-red, and he’s trying very hard not to notice. Or think about. Or let himself spiral about.
He clears his throat. “I was a dick earlier.” The words come out blunt, no finesse. He’s never been good at apologies, but he figures honesty counts for something.
You glance at him, eyebrows lifting, then back at the pool. “I noticed you were… different today.” A careful pause. “I wondered if I’d done something. Overstepped.”
The knot in his stomach tightens. He made you feel like that. He shakes his head too quickly, voice rough. “No. No, it’s not you. It’s—” He stops, because what does he even say? That he’s confused out of his mind? That he wants to punch himself every time he notices you in ways he shouldn’t? “It’s me being dumb.”
You let out a soft laugh that doesn’t sound convinced. He despises that he put that hesitation in your voice. He fumbles, tries again. “You haven’t overstepped. You’re Elba’s friend, that’s all. I just—” His throat closes around the rest of it. He shrugs, helpless, like that explains anything.
Something flickers across your face. You nod anyway, voice flat in agreement. “Right. Elba’s friend,” you echo, and it sounds so utterly wrecking when you say it that way.
Pato shoves the rest of his popsicle into his mouth to shut himself up before he says anything even dumber. The cold bite doesn’t stop the fire roaring in his veins.
Elba is the only one who doesn’t pace herself, so by midnight she’s draped between the two of you like a very loud, very stubborn scarf. Pato and you are hauling her through the hotel, both of you half laughing, half groaning every time she tries to squirm out of your grip to yell something about tequila being her blood type. Heads turn. Security stares. Pato decides he’s not paid enough to explain this.
Back in the hotel suite, you finally wrestle her into bed. She goes down like a sack of potatoes, face half-buried in the pillows, already snoring. The silence that follows is jarring. Almost intimate. The two of you just stand there for a beat, breathing like you’ve run a marathon.
“Thanks for helping,” Pato mutters, rubbing his shoulder where Elba had been clinging like a koala. He’s expecting you to just say good night, maybe laugh at how ridiculous his sister is.
Instead, you linger in the living space. The glow from the lamp softens everything. It makes the whole scene feel warmer than it has any right to. You turn to him, and there’s this nervous curve to your mouth, like you’re debating something in real time. Before he can decode it, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek.
Pato freezes. Absolutely short-circuits. His first instinct is to joke, make some crack about how this is a dangerous precedent. But the words never come because your lips hover, just inches from his. Your breath ghosts over his skin. Your eyes flutter closed like you’re waiting—waiting for him to close the gap.
And God, he wants to. He wants to more than he’s wanted anything all week. His heart is pounding so loud it’s humiliating. For a second, it feels inevitable, like gravity itself is pulling him into you.
But then he yanks himself back, as if distance is the only weapon he has left. He pulls away, swallowing hard, eyes darting anywhere but yours. His chest feels tight, like he’s made the dumbest mistake of his life in real time. “Good night,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like.
He retreats to his room before he does something he won’t be able to take back.
Understandably, Pato doesn’t sleep. Not really.
He lies there in the dark, sheets twisted around his legs, eyes burning from the evening bleeding in through the curtains. He’s never been good at shutting his head off, and tonight it’s worse. Your kiss on his cheek is on loop, phantom heat pressed to his skin. Every time he tries to close his eyes, he sees yours fluttering shut, waiting. He hates himself for pulling away. Hates himself for wanting not to.
By the time he finally knocks out, the sun is already sliding over the Vegas skyline. The reprieve lasts all of thirty minutes before his door bangs open, and Elba storms in like she owns the place.
“¡Órale, levántate, cabrón!” she snaps, flinging the edge of a pillow at him. He knows how this film goes, and he still falls for it. “What happened last night?”
Pato groans, dragging the pillow over his head. “What happened is you got drunk, we dragged your ass home, and I was finally getting some sleep,” he snarks.
“No.” Elba yanks the pillow away. Her eyes are sharp, arms crossed, all business. “She booked an early flight. Home. This morning.”
That lands like a sucker punch. His stomach drops, mouth going dry. You left. Just like that. He knows you enough to recognize you’ve done it because you don’t want to make things awkward, because you think you really have overstepped this time. He tries to play it cool, leaning back against the headboard. “So?” he says coolly. “Maybe she had things to do.”
Elba narrows her gaze. “Cut the crap, Pato. Something happened.”
He swallows hard. For half a second, he considers lying. He can’t stand the thought of Elba knowing, of her putting words to the thing he’s already tearing himself apart over. But she’s relentless, perched at the edge of his bed, jabbing questions in rapid-fire Spanish that make his temples throb.
Finally, it bursts out. “She tried to kiss me, alright?!” His voice cracks, too loud. He’s on his feet, suddenly, because this isn’t the kind of conversation he wants to have while splayed on his hotel bed. “And I didn’t let it happen. Because of you.”
Elba freezes, the fight draining from her face. Pato instantly regrets the words, chest heaving, jaw tight.
Pato’s starts pacing the room. His hands keep dragging through his hair, tugging like he can pull the right answer out of his scalp. He doesn’t even remember standing up, doesn’t even remember the first words spilling out, but now he’s on a tear and can’t stop.
“Of course I find her attractive. I’m not blind, Elba. She’s… she’s gorgeous. And smart. And funny in that annoying way that makes you want to keep arguing with her forever. She drives me insane, in the best possible way. You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t wanted—” He stops, sucks in a sharp breath.
“But she’s your friend,” he pushes on. His chest is heaving. The rant keeps tumbling, raw and jagged. “That’s the line. That’s the one rule I’m not supposed to touch. And I haven’t, okay? I didn’t. Because you’re my sister. There isn’t a thing in the world I’d do to cross you.
“Even if she and I could be something… even if I haven’t felt this way in—God, I don’t even know how long—it doesn’t matter. Because you’re standing there. And you’d never forgive me. And maybe you’re right not to. Maybe you don’t want me anywhere near her because of my reputation. Because I’m the guy who jokes around too much, who flirts with everyone, who never takes things seriously. The playboy, right? That’s what people say. That’s what you’ve probably said. And you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t want me for her either.”
The words land like punches in his own stomach. He laughs once, humorless, and drops onto the edge of the bed, palms pressing against his knees like they’re the only things holding him up.
“I’m not good enough for her. I know that,” he concludes, “and I can’t even blame you for thinking it.”
Elba doesn’t answer. She just stares at him for a long, unnerving moment, her expression impossible to read. Then she turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Pato’s left in the silence, his pulse pounding in his ears. He thinks maybe the worst part isn’t that he said it all out loud. The worst part is that it feels true.
He spends thirty more minutes locked in his room, pacing like a caged animal, rehearsing apologies that all sound stupid even in his own head. He’s decided that, fine, he’ll fix things with Elba first. Sibling détente, clean slate, no more explosions. That’s the plan. He opens the door with something almost resembling humility, an expression his face doesn’t wear well.
Elba is sprawled on the couch, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world is broken. She doesn’t even look up when he clears his throat.
“Took you long enough,” she says. Flat, but cutting. “I booked you a cab. If you leave now, you’ll just about make it to the airport in time.”
Pato balks. “I—what? No. No, I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” She looks at him, her eyes sharp in that way that makes him feel twelve again. “Get out of here.”
He laughs, sharp and incredulous, because it’s easier than admitting his chest has just cracked open. “That’s insane. You want me to chase after your friend?” he spits. “After the whole speech I just gave you about why I can’t?”
Elba raises an eyebrow. “You already gave me that speech. And I’ve already decided it’s garbage.”
Pato throws up his hands. “Elba, come on,” he says. “She’s your friend. You think it’s a great idea if I—if we—” He can’t even finish the sentence. Not without feeling the whole world tilt beneath him.
“I think,” Elba cuts in, softer now, “that I’ve seen the way you look at her. Look of love, remember?”
That quiets him. Knocks the wind out of his lungs in a way all her earlier jabs didn’t. Elba knows; Elba has always known. The way only siblings could. Before he could even catch it himself, Elba was already reading him like a book.
He’s still searching for something clever, some retort that can dig him out, when she stands and presses the cab receipt into his hand. “Go,” she says simply.
He hesitates, the coward in him scrambling for one more excuse. But then Elba adds, almost as an afterthought—
“For the record, I don’t think you’re not good enough for her.” A pause. Not dramatic, but thoughtful. “I think you’re the best person in the world, Pato.”
That’s what sells it. Pato steps forward and pulls her into a hug, tight and uncharacteristic. He mutters something about how she’s unbearable and he hates her, which is code for thank you, thank you, thank you.
Then he grabs his bag and heads for the door, heart hammering, chasing after a plane and a person who might already be gone.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Pato barrels through the sliding glass doors of the airport, already sweating like he just ran qualifying laps instead of sitting in the back of a cab muttering at every red light. He has no plan. Zero. Not a clue what terminal you’re at, what airline, what gate, what time. For all he knows, you could already be halfway through security, boarding pass scanned, sipping a tragic overpriced latte. Fantastic. A flawless strategy, O’Ward.
He storms past check-in counters, scanning faces, heart punching faster with every stranger that isn’t you. He tries departures screens like they’ll miraculously list: Flight to Get Pato’s Life Together – Gate 12. Nothing. Just a hundred numbers and destinations blurring until his eyes sting. He’s muttering half-Spanish curses at himself when he finally spots you.
There. By the rope lines of security, duffel bag slung on your shoulder, eyes red-rimmed like you didn’t sleep either. When your gaze lifts and catches him, you freeze. Shock, confusion. Maybe he’s a mirage conjured by lack of caffeine.
He comes up to a stop in front of you, and your voice cracks a bit when you greet him with, “Pato? Did I forget something?”
Here’s his moment. Time to deliver something suave, cinematic. What comes out instead is a rushed, graceless: “Yeah. Uh. Another flight. To Paris. With me.”
It hangs there, pathetic and wild all at once. He immediately wants to crawl into the floor tiles, but it’s too late. You’re staring at him like he’s completely lost his mind. Which, honestly, maybe he has.
You’re staring at him like he’s an escaped lunatic—and maybe that’s fair, because he just blurted out something about Paris, and not in a casual way. He knows he sounds like a deranged travel agent. Your eyebrows shoot up, your mouth quirks, and he can see you fighting back a laugh that’s one heartbeat away from spilling over.
“You know,” you say, voice lilting with amusement, “you’re kind of a cliché. Airport chase, flight to Paris. What’s next? Holding up a boombox? Running alongside the plane on the tarmac?”
Pato huffs, chest pounding like he’s sprinted the whole terminal. “I don’t mind if I’m a cliché. I’ll be the idiot at the airport, the guy in every rom-com you mock with your friends. I’ll buy the trench coat, I’ll stand in the rain, I’ll do the whole pathetic package.”
His throat goes tight, but he barrels on, because he’s already gone off the cliff and might as well see if he can fly. “I just want you to have good things,” he blurts out, “and if that’s a flight to Paris, so you can see the real tower that keeps you believing in love, then I’ll do it. I’ll do it, if it means someday you might want to give some of that love to me.”
The words hang there, ridiculous and raw, louder than the tinny boarding announcements scolding someone to proceed to Gate C17. He feels them echoing in his bones, feels the heat crawl up his neck. Part of him wants to laugh at himself, wants to reel the whole speech back and bury it six feet under.
But then—your expression changes. Softens. As if you’re seeing him stripped down to the wiring, and you don’t hate what you see. The kind of look that makes him feel like maybe, somehow, all the chaos and bad decisions of the past few days were pointing to this exact, absurd moment.
A look of love.
You take a hesitant step closer, the nervous kind that makes his pulse trip. He’s used to your sharpness, your deflections. This is something else entirely.
“Are you going to pull away again?” you say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flicking from his lips back up to his eyes.
Pato’s heart spikes, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. His hands move before his brain catches up. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your skin, like he’s anchoring himself to something real.
“Not happening,” he says, just as gently. “I’m not going anywhere you’re not, hermosa.” ⛐
Hiya, I really would love to see baelor marry again after a long time of being a widow and being a small family of 3 to then getting married to someone no one saw coming and no one thought he would marry and then they have two girls!
from 3 to 6 just like that. 🥹
and he's eldest daughter is soft spoken and stubborn and looks like mum but his youngest is a mini him but chaotic af.
absolutely love the way you write the family dynamic for markar
*flowers flowers*
The unexpected wife
This isn’t the best it’s just a compilation of small/cute moments in their lives.
1.7ish k of family fun, no death or sadness allowed and yes the game dragons is in reference to my Maekar ‘I don’t hate you’ fic, the Maekarlings do make an appearance or three.
“Really? Her?” Queen Myriah says to her eldest son, looking out at you playing tag with Matarys and Valarr. The young prince’s being full of energy given the weather. “She’s not even from an important family, are you absolutely certain?”
“I’m sure mother, I’ve married for politics before, let my second be for love.” Baelor responds from his chair next to her drinking some tea. A smile appears on his face at you picking up Matarys and spinning the boy around when you catch him.
“You love her?” His mother asks not expecting that answer, she thought he was marrying you for the company, having been widowed 5 years ago.
“Yes.” He says simply not having told you yet, waiting for the right time.
“The children?”
“I think their opinion is quite obvious.” He says with a laugh as Valarr tags you before running.
-
“Did you hear about lord Wetherbe? Apparently he’s spent his fortune on his mistress’s and he’s trying to marry off one of his daughters to fix the debt. Poor girl.” You say absentmindedly as you walk through the gardens with Baelor, having been spending more and more time with the prince and his sons over the past few moons. “I can’t say I’m surprised though-.”
“Marry me.” Baelor interrupts you to say what he’s been trying to do for the past hour as he drops to one knee. Holding out a beautiful ring.
“I - uh - yes.” You say in shock not expecting him to propose given his status as heir to the throne, content with just being his friend despite your love for him. “Are you sure? I mean I’m a minor lords daughter you can-.”
“I love you, I want you, but if you don’t want me.” He says softly as he stands holding your hand in his.
“I love you too.”
“May I kiss you then, my future queen?”
“Yes.” You say softly cupping his jaw as he kisses you. “You may my king.”
-
“Would you like to swap?” Maekar asks his brother a few days after the wedding, watching their wives entertain the children, Dyanna pregnant once again. The two men sat with the king in the gardens. “You take Daeron and Aerion and I have your two.”
“Not happening.” Baelor says smiling when his youngest runs over and climbs into his lap.
“Kepus, can I have cake?” Matarys asks, having already asked you for lemon cake but you said no.
“Not until after dinner.”
“Uncle Maekar? Can I have some lemon cake?”
“No.”
“Grandsire, may I have-.”
“Matarys, I said no.” Baelor says to his son as Aerion comes running over in his dragon costume tail swaying behind him.
“Oh don’t be mean Baelor.” King Daeron says cutting a slice of lemon cake and handing it to the boy. “He’s a growing prince, he needs his food.”
“Matty, you’re meant to be hiding from me.” The blonde boy says, crossing his arms over his chest wanting to play with his cousin. Daeron and Valarr sat with you and Dyanna playing cyvasse.
“I am, with cake.” The five year old smiles loving to tease his dragon obsessed cousin.
-
“Come to bed.” You tell your husband stood in the doorway watching your husband working in his solar late into the night.
“In a moment, I just need to finish this.” He says not looking up from a report about grain as you walk towards him.
“No, you need to cuddle your wife.” You say grabbing his chin to look at you, a smile on your face as you do so.
“I can do both.” He says placing his quill down and tapping his lap for you to join him. “This is nice.” He says kissing the top of your head holding you close. “I’m sorry for working so late.”
“I forgive you.”
-
“When did we get a baby?” Baelor asks with a grin when he enters your chambers to see you holding a baby Aemon.
“I offered to have him today so Dyanna could be with Daeron and Maekar has taken Aerion fishing.” You say bouncing the boy.
“And our two?” He asks dumping his book on the bedside table not thinking of the noise it would make.
“Valarr is with your father and Matarys is playing in his chambers.” You tell him, giving him a look when Aemon starts crying at the sudden noise.
“Oh don’t cry sweet boy, all is well.” Baelor says, taking the crying babe from your arms. Bouncing the boy and kissing his head. “There’s no need to cry.” He whispers to the boy before looking at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” You ask innocently loving the sight of your husband holding a baby.
“You’re staring.” He says a small smirk appearing on his lips knowing what you’re thinking. “What do you think of having one of our own?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed.” You say with a smirk tickling Aemons feet. “And Valarr asked for a sister anyway.”
“He did?” Baelor asks with a laugh not knowing the boy had asked.
-
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” Baelor asks after changing into his night clothes and seeing Matarys sleeping on his side of the bed.
“You could curl up by his feet.” You joke brushing some of the boys hair out of his face.
“Ha ha.” He says dryly coming over to your side of the bed to lay next to you. “What’s he doing in here? Is he alright?”
“He had a nightmare.” You tell him already knowing he’ll panic.
“Are you-.”
“Until Aerion turns into a giant worm and eats everyone I’m going to assume it’s a normal nightmare.” You interrupt calming his worries.
“A giant worm?”
“A giant worm.” You confirm trying to hide a laugh at the boys dream, not wanting to wake the sleeping boy up.
“You know what? I’m too tired to deal with that.” He says shaking his head in bewilderment before resting his hand on your growing bump. “How’s our girl?”
“We don’t know if it's a girl.” You remind him, both him and Valarr convinced your having a girl.
“Let’s say it’s a feeling.”
-
“Muña, can I have more chapters tonight?” Matarys asks, jumping on his bed full of sugar after spending the day with the king and indulging in lots of cake. “Oh and can we play dragons with the cousins tomorrow?”
“We’ll see.” You say to your bouncy boy as you pick up the book you’ve been reading to the boy every night. “Come on, enough jumping. Into bed.”
“Fine.” He fake humphs flopping into bed.
-
“How are you feeling?” Valarr asks, joining you in your bed as the maester has put you on bed rest. The boy brought some snacks and his favorite book with him. “Can you read to me?”
“I’d love to.” You say holding your arm out so he can cuddle into your side. “And I’m fine, just bored.”
“Does it hurt?” He asks touching where the baby was moving in you.
“Does what hurt?”
“When the babe moves.” He clarifies feeling the baby kick his hand.
“No, it feels weird and if she kicks me in the wrong spot it can hurt but it’s not that bad.”
“That’s good.” He says quietly, snuggling further into you when you kiss his head. “I love you.”
“I love you too my darling boy.”
-
“Boys, meet your little sister.” Baelor says leading the boys into your chambers, having given birth in the night, you decide to wait until morning for the boys to see you and the babe. “This is Visenya.”
“Are you ok muña?” Valarr asks you as Matarys climbs on the bed looking at his little sister in fascination.
“I’m fine my darling.” You say to your eldest as he gives you a gentle hug.
“Can we have cake for breakfast?”
“No, Matarys, we cannot have cake to break our fast.” Baelor says with a tired laugh you both having been up for hours.
“Why not? It’s Visenya’s name day!”
-
“How did you tell Maekar you were with child?” You ask Dyanna as her and Maekar were visiting with the children, having recently moved to summerhall. Aegon and Visenya sat on the floor playing with blocks together, as Daeron was attempting to read upside down on the sofa.
“Which time? With Daeron the maester told him, Aerion and Aemon I told him but with Aegon and this one he figured it out before I did, I’m assuming you’re with child?”
“I don’t know how to tell him, Visenya was planned so I didn't have to worry about telling him, what if he doesn’t want another?” You tell her slightly panicked. You know logically he’ll be happy, but that doesn’t take away the anxiety.
“Don’t be stupid.” Maekar says making you and Dyanna jump as you didn’t hear him enter. “He’s desperate for another.”
“Really?” You ask, perking up at the reassurance from his brother. “How do you know?”
“It’s obvious, he’s been giving you the look.” He says picking up Aegon from the floor as the little boy giggles.
“What look?”
“The please have my babies look.” He says rolling his eyes before noticing his eldest son, who was laying as still as possible. “Daeron, why aren’t you in the training yard with everyone else?”
“Egg and Visenya aren't in the training yard.”
“They are babies.”
“So am I.”
-
“She’s a tiny Valarr.” You say to your husband as you watch your six year old daughter, who looks almost like a copy of you but with her fathers eyes, play with daella. Both little girls having a tea party before the boys interrupted.
“What do you mean?” He asks, trying to hide a smile as Aegon steals Visenya’s tiara. Trying to get a reaction from the girl who just roles her eyes and keeps playing.
“She’s so soft spoken, but when she speaks everyone listens.”
“I suppose you’re right, would you say Maella is like Matarys?” Baelor ponders looking at his youngest son and daughter as they have a mud fight. Maella now four years old to Matarys’ eleven.
“What, chaos incarnate?”
“Are you talking about Aerion? If so he has been punished for the dragon pitt incident.” Maekar says, announcing his arrival, Dyanna following closely behind holding baby Rhae who’s sleeping in her arms.
“The what?” Baelor ask exasperated at what his nephew could have possibly been doing in the dragon pit. “And no we were talking about Matarys and Maella.”
“Please if you think they’re chaos I’d like to see you with mine, or just Aerion.” Maekar says stealing some cheese off Baelor’s plate. “That boys fucking weird.”
“Don’t be rude.” Dyanna tells her husband as she sits next to you, smiling at you when you pass her some grapes. “He’s just special.”
“How’s Rhae?” You asks changing the subject, looking down at the sleeping girl who was a surprise. Maekar swearing they were done with children after Daella, but he also said the same after Aegon and Aemon.
“She’s good, finally sleeping through the night.” Dyanna says before Aegon, Visenya and Daella appear in front of you.
Into It
Chase Atlantic ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻
⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●─────── ⁰³'¹⁶
If there is no link to the story you want to read, please search the title up in my page 🧡
McLaren
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
More Kisses? - LN4 + “One kiss is just never enough.”
This Christmas - LN4 + “There’s no way I’m letting you spend Christmas alone.”
Want You - LN4 + "But I don't want them, I want you." 🥧🏈
I'm All Yours - You and Lando have been in the talking stage for some months now. After Lando's third win, he knows he's missing something important. You being his girlfriend.
My Type - where the reader thinks she isn’t Lando’s type
Our Love Is Strong - You weren't going to let your eating disorder destroy your relationship until it did.
Good Luck Kiss - Lando is a fully independent guy until you are around.
First Choice - Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship.
Gold in Snow - you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type
Sweet Pain - lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home
Sleeping Medicine - Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.
Spa Day - Lando tried to go to a spa to relax after his win in Hungary, he didn't think he would fall in love with his Massage Therapists.
Emotional Support - Lando hasn't spoken to anyone after leaving the parc fermé, maybe some fistbumps but not a single word. After the podium celebration, he makes sure to seek you out first.
Soft Hands - Lando Norris getting a full body massage from you after a triple header
Birthday Boy - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Our Day - Lando has been counting down the days till his birthday - cuz of his birthday and he gets to see you again for months of long-distance.
Her Type - In a gathering, Lando had heard a bit of your conversation saying that your type is black guys. He decides to try to be your friend since he found you so attractive.
His Calm - Lando has a panic attack and looks for you only.
Planning Kisses - Lando plans mistletoe around the house and kisses you all the way.
You Matter - You and Lando just started dating and everything was great until you were getting racist comments
Soft Touches - Lando's love language is touch which is something you've never been used to before
Long Way To Go - Lando is courting you and in every way, Lando's got a long way to go
Officially Whipped - Lando being whipped for you which is all the time
Worthy Of You - You don't feel like you're not worthy of being the girlfriend of the newest F1 World Champion
Favourite Girls - Lando feels like it's time for you to meet the other favourite girl in his life, his niece Mila
Let Me Help - You ate an aphrodisiac chocolate by accident before the Silverstone grand prix and Lando just wants to help you
Chat's Favourite - When Lando introduced you to his stream, they loved you more than him
Physical Touch - You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Oscar Piastri
Mistletoe Magic - OP81 + “What are you doing with that mistletoe– oh.”
Baby Fever - OP81 + babysitting a child
24 Hours Without You - A dare from Lando led to Oscar not having any contact from you for 24 hours. Well he tried to.
My Husband - when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much
Yes To Me - OP81 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
Sleeping Medicine - Oscar always gets the maximum sleep needed, thanks to his warm and cuddly girlfriend but what happens when you go back to uni?
Stranger Danger - What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .
Not Friends Anymore - McLaren are glad and Oscar is mad. Who can help? His bestie!
Birthday Gift - Ten years ago, two loved ones died on your birthday and you've never celebrated it ever again until Oscar came into your life....
First Dance - You and Oscar decided that the first dance would be a slow one.
Maroon String Theory - You are one of the first black families to stay in Australia. Everyone was discriminating against you except your neighbours, the Piastris.
By Your Sea - You never expected Oscar to propose you like this.
Can't Avoid - You and Oscar have been best friends for ages until your friend says she has a crush on Oscar, you backed away to give her a chance.
Quality Time - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Ride A Cowgirl - For the Austin Grand Prix, Oscar is forced by McLaren to learn how to ride a horse by a hot cowgirl.
New Conditions - You and Oscar have been dating for a while and you've noticed that he loved your company more than anything.
Brother's Best Friend - The first person your brother, Lando calls after your break up is Oscar.
Never Letting Go - Oscar gets drunk at a party and won't leave your side
Protector - You've never had a boyfriend that protects you every time
His Solution - When Oscar keeps getting bad results, he closes himself off from the best thing in his life, you
Right Person, Right Time - Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Red Bull
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Teach Me - MV1 + “I never had any special tradition for the holidays while growing up,"
My Priority - MV1 + "You're my priority." 🍂🦃
Birthday Boy - It's getting to Max's birthday and you know what he wants for it.
Love Sick - You and Max have been together for a while and you knew he loved you but you didn't know to what extent.
Favourite Smell - a pilot with max and it ends up in smut like "I love your smell" +18
Timeless Desire - You had always been Mercedes fan since you were young and it didn't change when you became Max's best friend. Based on British Grand Prix.
Power Couple - Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.
Don't Stop - "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."
Ocean Eyes - "Please stop." "Stop what? I didn't even do anything." "I can see the look you're giving me. Stop it."
His Choice & Her Choice - You are a redhead, you're dating Max but you're a WWE wrestler so you're not the influencer or model that f1 drivers "normally" date.
Bouquet Catcher - You caught the bouquet at your friend's wedding and you locked eyes with your crush, Max
Not A Burden - You had a bad racist encounter in the paddock and you hide it from Max, letting it slowly eat away at you
Real In His Eyes - Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Dirty Dancing - Max is dragged to go to a strippers club with his friends after he has been broken up with and sees you.
His Loss - After Max made the decision to get a divorce 2 years ago, he has never suffered more. When he sees you again, he can't just let go again.
Relax - After a week of working, Max puts his foot down and make you relax one way or another
Better Tool - After being caught masturbating, Max makes sure to tell you know he's better than a sex toy
Celebrations - After winning his 5th championship, you decided to treat him good
Big Family - After the rookies adopted Max as their father on paddock, you became their mother
Worship - You've never had a boyfriend that worshipped you
Brat - You've never had a boyfriend that knows how to handle your brattiness differently
Your Gift - For his birthday, you secretly painted him his favourite picture
Daniel Ricciardo - "Honey Badger"
Fragments of Hope - You had an argument with Daniel and you decided to leave him for a while. What you didn't know is that he can't live without you.
Birthday Boy - It's Daniel's birthday and you two are still oblivious to your feelings. Time for the grid's help.
Yuki Tsunoda - "Muscle Packet"
No More Excuses - Yuki has been saying to himself, to you, to his fans that he's okay and that he just needs time to adjust to the car but after finishing out of points for the fourth time, he breaks in front of you.
Ferrari
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
Winter Wonder - CL16 + Winter Power Outage
You Know Me Best - Charles has a bad day and you as his best friend always knows what he wants, but do you really? +18
Just One Kiss - You & Charles are just best friends but when he wins in his home for the first time, things might change
Speak Baby - you are going out with Charles, you can speak his language, but don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Lose my Mind - “The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.” +18
Tell Me Your Confessions - You go on vacation with Max, who is one of your closest friends as well as with his other friends, one which just happens to make you feel like you have a high school crush.
Most Important - You knew something was wrong when Charles crashed harshly and he didn't get out of his car or reply on the radio.
Touches & Victory - "It feels like I ruin everything I touch." "If you ever wish to test that theory, you're more than welcome to do so with me."
First Time - You just got married to the love of your life. Great! Until you realise you have to do the nasty nasty and you have no experience at all.
Just A Plate - You broke a plate and you thought that Charles would hit you like your ex. But Charles is not like them.
Golden Duo - At the start of Charles's F1 career, having you as his race engineer made him win podiums and wins. You two were the unstoppable duo until you disappeared.
The Red Dress - “Move an inch and you won’t be coming tonight.”
Meeting The Parents - Charles was scared to meet your parents, being from a whole different continent and all.
Leo's Nanny - Charles is in need of a pet sitter and Leo somehow picks the best one.
Baby Leclerc - You're pregnant and you try and hide it because you're scared how he'll react
Favourite Interview - You are an interviewer for Sky Sports and Charles always manages to leave you flustered by the time he leaves
Favourite Duo - Charles has always had Ollie under his wing, which you think is cute
Rare Gem - Charles went to vacation in Sicily and found a rare beauty.
Only Choice - Your friends flirt with your boyfriend because they think they have a chance so Charles decides to show he only picks you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Christmas Ball - CS55 + fake dating for a Christmas party/ball
Happy Ever After - a Romeo and Juliet vibe
Golf Gurl - an AU where Carlos is attracted to the new receptionist at the golf course he and Papa Sainz frequent
Destiny's Will - You and Carlos were childhood friends until you two were separated before he got to F1. The next time they meet, they're enemies.
More Amor - you are going out with Carlos, you can speak his language, but you don't tell him. You were hiding your abilities due to an insecurity about your ability.
Heavy Love - Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does +18
Yes To Me - CS55 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment
The Garter - You wore a garter on yours and Carlos' wedding and you didn't think it would affect him that much.
Truly Loved - You were scared to meet Carlos' family, afraid that your skin colour will make them dislike you. Turns out it's the opposite.
Calm Chaos - You are wild and independent, which drives Carlos, a control freak, insane.
Snowed In - You and Carlos were stuck in his house because the house got snowed in.
Breaking Traditions - You are the princess of Spain and your father begs you to get married but you reject all suiters except the Smooth Operator.
Better Than Him - Your man has never treated you right and Carlos is here to show you it's supposed to be
No More Stamina - You are exhausted and Carlos still has a lot more rounds in him
Shoot The Shot - Franco has been bringing his older sister to races and Carlos can't help but shoot his shot
Deserving You - When Carlos got kicked out of Ferrari, he didn't think he was worthy of anything including you
Best Honeymoon - It's you and Carlos's honeymoon and you've never been so in love with each other
Simp - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
Lost Time - You originally didn't take Carlos for a simp but you love it regardless
My Darling - Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.
My Love - It was George's fathers birthday and he decided to invite the whole family to a yacht... which includes you, being 'George's love of his life'.
Kimi Antonelli - "Max's Successor"
Italian Lessons - You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.
Differences Aside - You and Kimi come from different backgrounds; rich and poor though you two met in school and Kimi hasn't let go of you since. You think that even with your love, you and Kimi would not work out because of you two differences. Here's where Kimi comes in; Operation: Get Advice on How To Ask You Out!
In His Arms - Kimi and you are in a long distance relationship because you're still in uni but when you two finally are able to see each other for the first time in ages, Kimi refuses to let you go.
Alpine
Franco Colapinto - "Il Padrino"
Dancing on Ice - FC43 + “I can’t ice skate amor, I’ll break all my bones.”
Distract You - FC43 + "Let me distract you."
Pierre Gasly - "Mr. Monza"
Accept It - You and Pierre have known each other for all your life... unfortunately for you. You two were the opposite. Grumpy with Sunshine, smart pretty with jock pretty etc. But what happens when you see him in Spa. . . .
Aston Martin
Lance Stroll - "Daddy's Cash"
No 1 Defender - Who's been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section?? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's you who is also his bestie and his biggest crush.
Williams
Alex Albon - "Albono"
You're Cute - Being George's twin sister, you get a lot of advantages: VIP paddock passes, meeting celebrities on the daily but there is one rule: don't date any of the drivers and you took that as a challenge.
Haas
Ollie Bearman - "The Red Baby"
My Lover - You and Ollie have been in a secret relationship for months now because of your strict parents and the potential hate from fans but what happens when someone flirts with you in the club. . . .
Take It Off - It's your birthday and you're wearing Ollie's favourite dress.
Esteban Ocon - "Estie Bestie"
Beauty Of Curls - You've been begging your boyfriend to get this haircut for months and after a while, Esteban gives in and you couldn't have fallen in love more.
Red Bull Racing
Isack Hadjar - "Le Petit Prost"
Unexpected Cupid - Isack's main goal has always been to become best friends with Lewis Hamilton and when that's achieved, Lewis invites him to meet his daughter, who just happens to be his age and very beautiful.
Podium Prize - You flew to the Netherlands in secret to surprise your boyfriend not knowing he would get his first podium in F1.
Surprise? - You've been gone 10 years, no 'bye', no 'see you', just gone. You had no right to show up at his birthday party like nothing happened.... But God he missed you.
Liam Lawson - "The Shield"
Heated Love - You were only a family friend of Liam Lawson so you didn't expect to be invited to the Bahrain Grand Prix. The heat wasn't the only thing you needed to worry about.
Lando Norris - "Little Lando"
Our Doggie - Part 1 - Part 2
After McLaren let you watch your boyfriend interact with the animals from the Battersea. One dog found a clear interest in you instead....
Second Choice Best - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6
Your best friend, Amelia married a mafia boss but the second in command has his eyes on you
Carlos Sainz Jr. - "Chilli"
Real Love - Part 1 - Part 2
You and Carlos were just supposed to be a PR couple for less than a year but someone decided to catch feelings....
Enemies Though Generation - Part 1 - Part 2
Out of all the people Carlos could fall in love with, he fell in love with you. Max's older sister....
Charles Leclerc - "Lord Perceval"
A Lover's Touch - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4
In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one....
Max Verstappen - "Mad Max"
Need Saving - Save You - We're Saved - My Saviour
You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay.....
Not Just Nice Part 1 - Part 2
Being Max's childhood friend means that you always get to see Max's good side but what happens when you think his true feelings are him just being 'nice'.
Real In Your Eyes - Real In His Eyes
Max asks you to be his girlfriend for his father to get off his back and fortunately Jos falls for it. Unfortunately you fell for it too.
Her Teammate - His Teammate
You and Max are teammates. You hated his cockiness and his flirting but when he crashes badly, you forget about everything else.
Lewis Hamilton - "Billion Dollar Man"
Wild Imagination - Show You Domination
You were just an interviewer for the Met Gala when you were able to meet the Sir Lewis Hamilton.....
Summary: Your life took a complete turn the moment you made one single decision: to help a billionaire with something so trivial that only a psychopath like him would mistake it for love.
Titus has found a lovely new obsession to focus all his energy on now and you're unsure how you're going to make it out of this unscathed…
Word Count: 20.3k
A/N: I had this itch to write a slow burn, grumpy x sunshine fic with a splash of angst, yearning and fucked up manipulative behavior so this is what I cooked up.
I will note, you call him "sir" and he really likes it! Because I like it! Whoops!
For a full list of warnings, you can check out the fic on my AO3. Though this one is quite mild compared to my other fics so you can go in blind if you want to!
Oh, and of course, there will be porn! Hope it's a fun read ♡
You let out a little yawn in the elevator after you drop off your thirtieth delivery for the day. Usually you don't do this many, but the fine dining restaurant you normally work at cut your hours so you've been needing to work on the apps to make ends meet.
You've been up since the crack of dawn and now the sun has set. You're ready to go back to bed.
Your eyes shift to the man in the elevator with you. He definitely is dressed like he is meant to be here. It is a luxury high rise that has both a hotel and residences. You just dropped off food for some rich asshole who barely tipped. You wonder if he is one of those rich assholes.
You glance downwards and notice that there's a tiny tear in his dress pants. He looks like he's dressed to go to some fancy event. He probably shouldn't have a noticeable tear like that. People in his world would spot it.
So, you tap him on the shoulder, saying, “excuse me, sir.”
Titus Danforth turns to glare at you. Here we go again, he thinks to himself. You must know him from somewhere. Though, he doesn't know many people who wear cheap, wholesale clothing that is likely made of plastics.
You must want his money, then.
But you point to the hem of his dress pants and ask, “do you want me to fix that for you? There's a snag. You must've caught it on something.”
You pull out a small sewing kit from your bag, which you have since sometimes you have to mend your work clothes on the fly. It helps your coworkers too, since fine dining requires a certain level of pristine.
He blinks at you, surprised. It's such a tiny tear that he wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't said anything.
But his father would've definitely scolded him if he saw it.
There's no time to go back to his apartment and change. He needs to get to this fundraising gala right away. He spent a little too long fucking the help.
Titus looks up at the floor count. He knows there's a private floor that only certain members in the building have access to. He goes to scan his keycard and hits the thirteenth floor.
“We'll get out here and you can do it.” He shouldn't be accepting some stranger's help so he definitely can't be seen taking it.
For all he knows, you snagged his pants and this is some kind of ploy to get a pay out from him.
But he doesn't think that's it.
You must just be a good samaritan because the moment he sits down at one of the plush benches by the elevator, you are on your knees in front of him, sifting through the threads you have to find the one that matches his pants the best before you start sewing it back up.
Titus likes the look of you on your knees. You're very pretty. Much prettier than the maid he has been fucking.
You're so focused on mending his pants that you don't notice the way he's staring at you, like he could swallow you up with just his gaze.
You make a little small talk, completely oblivious to the desire in his eyes, “are you heading somewhere fun?”
“I wouldn't call being stuck in a room full of boring rich people fun.” He tells you and his heart pounds a little faster when you giggle.
That's a real laugh. Titus is used to hearing the dry, fake ones people give him, in a meager attempt to show him interest. You're genuinely amused.
“I totally get you.” You say back, still chuckling under your breath. “That's how I feel every time I go to work.”
“Do you usually deliver food to this building?” Titus doesn't know why he's asking. He shouldn't care. You're just a delivery girl.
But then you shake your head, your words intriguing him, “I usually serve at Opulence but they cut my hours recently. They hired this TikTok influencer and she's been driving in business so they've been giving her most of my shifts. I just deliver when I need to get by.”
“Opulence? The place that makes the cabrito asado?” Titus has eaten there a few times. His father loves that dish, since it's an herb-crusted, slow-roasted young goat on a bed of microgreens.
“Yeah, that's it! Though, I've never had it.” The restaurant owner doesn't provide free meals and the chefs are super stingy with their ingredients, since they're so expensive. Even the nice ones won't let any of you have a taste, besides that one influencer girl. She got to try everything to post about on her social media.
You're trying not to be envious but…you definitely wish you could do something like that. You can't afford the equipment, however. She has the latest phone model. Two of them actually, one for work and one for personal use. You're still using the phone you got on a deal a few years ago.
“You haven't eaten anything at the restaurant you serve at?”
You shake your head. “I can't afford anything on that menu. I can barely afford my rent as is—ah, shit, sorry, I keep complaining. Ignore me. You don't want to listen to some stranger yap.”
You do the final tie to secure the thread and cut the remaining with your compact scissors. You brush your hand over the fabric one last time then show him.
“Does it look good to you?”
Titus is impressed. It doesn't even look like there was a tear to begin with. “Have you done this a lot?”
“Oh, all the time! The owner is very particular about how they want us to look at all times. Even the littlest of snags will get you sent home and most of us can't afford—shit, sorry, I need to stop doing that! Bad habit…” You catch yourself before you complain about money again. You're sure a man like him doesn't even think about money.
Titus definitely doesn't. The idea of not being able to afford anything is a bit ridiculous to him. He could buy the world if he wanted to.
He could buy you the world if you wanted him to.
What a strange thought.
Why did that pop into his head?
Maybe because you get up and ask for nothing in return for helping him.
“All good?” You gesture to the elevator buttons. “Ready to go?”
“I should pay you for the help.” What the fuck is he saying? He has never offered to give anyone money before. At least not like this. He has offered money to people to get the fuck out of his way. Or to get something he wants.
Is that what this is? Is he doing this because he wants you?
You wave him off. “This cost nothing. Just a smile.”
You flash him a happy grin and he…can't help but smile back. Especially when you beam at him so brightly, like pure sunshine.
“I love ending my day by making someone smile.” You nudge him playfully as the elevator doors open then step inside.
Titus doesn't know what to make of that. Being touched so casually normally repulses him. But with you, he wishes you'd stay close to him.
“When do you work next? Maybe I can tip you then.” Again, he doesn't understand why he's saying any of this. The words just spill out.
“Hmmm.” You don't have your schedule yet. You should be getting it tomorrow, since it'll be the start of the week. “I won't know yet. If you want, you can call in and ask when I'm working. I just need to tell them your name so they know I'm okay with you knowing my schedule.”
Technically, it's not a good idea to let a customer know exactly when a server will be on shift. But since it is a fine dining restaurant, if a wealthy customer does want a specific server, the server just has to make note of the customers they don't mind sharing their schedule with.
“You don't know my name?” That's shocking to Titus. He is one of the wealthiest men on the planet.
“Oh shit, are you like super famous or something?” You scratch your head, trying to parse out who he could be. “My bad…I work so much that I barely have time to keep up with anything.”
“Titus.” He tells you. “Titus Danforth. And you are?”
You tell him your name and then give him another beautiful smile. “I will definitely look you up later so that if you do come into the restaurant, I will for sure know who you are, I promise!”
The elevator doors open so you head out first then turn around and wave goodbye to him.
“See you later, Titus!” You say his name so sweetly that…
He'll think about his name leaving your lips any time someone says his name from then on. Like when he's fucking that maid of his the next day and she's screaming his name and he's wondering what his name would sound like on your lips if you were bent over in front of him.
That might be the only reason he's able to finish today. He's been struggling this whole time to stay hard. His mind is so consumed by thoughts of you that he can't seem to cum unless he imagines it's you.
This can't be healthy. Though, he has never been mentally healthy before.
“I need you to get the fuck out.” He tells his maid the moment he pulls the condom off. “I don't want to see you again.”
“Titus—” She gasps when he wraps his hand around her throat, stopping her from speaking another word.
“I don't want to hear my name come out of your mouth ever again. Now, get the fuck out.” He tosses her towards the door. “You're fired.”
She scoffs and then heads out. He knows she'll likely sue him but he has the footage to prove it was all consensual. His lawyers will guarantee that he wins the case.
Titus grabs his phone, searching up the number for your restaurant. He debates calling.
Should he see you?
Why does he want to see you?
You're just some pretty girl who helped him out with a little thing. You definitely have looked him up. Your entire opinion of him has likely morphed once you realize how rich and powerful he is. You wouldn't want him for him. You probably want him for his money now that you know. And he definitely shouldn't want you.
But he calls anyway.
“This is Opulence, how can I help you?” The voice is so familiar. That's because it's your voice. You ended up being called in to fill for the hostess today.
“I'm looking to inquire about a server's schedule. How do I go about doing that?” Titus doesn't realize it's you until he tells you your name.
And you giggle that beautiful giggle that he is growing too fond of. “Oh my goodness, is this Titus? How are you! I didn't think you'd call in so soon. I haven't even looked you up yet. I was so tired after working that I—shit, sorry, I'm doing it again…babbling on and on.”
“It's alright. I don't mind.” What the fuck? Of course he minds. He hates it when people blab on and on.
Why is he acting like you're special?
Maybe because you are, when you tell him all cutely, “aw, you're so sweet. I knew I'd like you. I'll have to sneak you something good when you come in. I'm serving this Saturday if you want to stop by!”
“You aren't working all week?” Today is Sunday. Is your next shift really Saturday?
“Ah, yeah. It's okay. I'll be alright. Saturdays are typically good days so I should make a decent amount!” You are wildly optimistic, despite the struggle to make ends meet. “Should I book you a reservation or do you want to just pop in? I'll try to leave a table standing for you if you want!”
“You would do that?”
“Of course! How about I do that and if you show up, you show up! If not, the restaurant will live with one less table to serve. They make plenty of money as is.”
Titus doesn't get you at all. You don't know who he is but you're giving him the five star treatment regardless.
Would you do this for anyone?
He doesn't like thinking that you would. That he isn't special in any way. That you're only doing this because you're just a nice person in general.
He wants you to only be nice to him. He wants to monopolize your attention.
“When do you get off work?” He asks.
“I close on Saturday, so last reservation is at 9:30PM.” It goes completely over your head that he's asking when you're done with work. Other people would take that as a flirtation. You're too innocent to think of it as anything but a simple question.
“Then book me a table at 9:30PM.” He decides that's when he'll see you, so he has the chance to see you after work too.
Even though Titus is unsure if that's a good idea.
“Alright! Just you or are you bringing someone special?” You're only asking because you need to know how many people to put down on the reservation.
But Titus thinks you're asking because you want to know if he's single. “Just me. I don't have anyone special.”
“Well then, we definitely should fix that.” You say to him, chuckling. “You're way too handsome to not have someone to spoil. I can ask around to see if any of my regulars are single. They're all around your age, super rich too! I can play matchmaker for you.”
He doesn't want anyone special. He just wants you. But you aren't even putting yourself on the menu. You don't even consider yourself someone he would be interested in. Probably because you're so much younger than him and in a completely different tax bracket…
“Do you have anyone special?” The question leaves his lips and he regrets asking. It's too forward.
But again, you're totally oblivious to it, since you're so used to customers asking you all sorts of personal questions. You don't see it as anything out of the ordinary. “Oh no. I've never even dated anyone before. Too busy working, you know!”
Titus should not be happy to hear that but he is. He is very happy to know that you've never dated anyone before. Because that means there's a chance you've never been with anyone ever before.
And now he's invested in you.
His lovely new obsession.
“Maybe we can change that. I'll see you on Saturday.” He says, smirking into the phone.
You don't notice anything strange in his wording and just say back, “see you then, Titus!”
You hang up the work phone and go back to prepping the restaurant to be open. The hostess always comes in early in case people call in to make same day reservations, so you're glad you came in and caught Titus's call. You really need to look him up.
You make plans to do so when you get home but then you get a notice from your landlord saying that you have a week to move out since their kid flunked out of college and needs the room back.
There goes your cheap rent…
You then spend the rest of the week stuffing everything you can into your car and throwing out everything else. Thankfully the room was furnished so you didn't have any furniture to pack but…now everything you own is in your car.
You've been calling different listings for places to live but no place at the same price point as your old place stays available for long enough. By the time Saturday rolls around, you're still unhoused and living out of your car.
You have to buy a gym membership so you can shower and get ready for work. There's no way you can show up looking like you've been sleeping upright for the last few days.
You feel like shit but you still put on your best smile when you get to work. You could use the tips for your deposit.
But tonight, no one seems to want to tip you, specifically.
You didn't realize they booked you with that influencer girl, so most tables are requesting her. Which is totally fine, it makes sense that people would want to come to see someone they follow online.
You have a handful of regulars who tip you alright so you know you'll make it through this shift with some money in your pocket. Less than you'd hope, but enough to be okay.
That's about to change real quick.
Because the owner of the restaurant comes and grabs you, yanking you off the floor to ask you, “what the hell is Titus Danforth doing here?”
“Oh, he's here already?” You look at your watch. It's fifteen minutes before his reservation. You didn't realize he was an early bird or you would've had his table ready sooner.
“What do you mean “oh, he's here already"? You knew he was coming in?”
“Yeah. I booked his reservation.”
“You booked…” The owner looks like they're about to throw a fit. “Why didn't you tell me you booked a reservation for Titus Danforth? The books only had his initials!”
“That's…what we always do?” You're not supposed to put full names down, in case someone hacks in and sees an A-list celebrity has a reservation and then tries to come in at the same time.
“Do you not know who he is?”
You shake your head. You have been so busy all week that you haven't gotten to looking him up just yet. He must be a big deal if the owner is going nuts over him being here.
“He is one of the wealthiest men on the fucking planet and you reserved him a standard table.” The owner pinches their brow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Excuse me?” You didn't realize part of your job description was to research every wealthy person on the planet in case they show up here. Nor did you realize that being verbally abused over and over was suddenly an okay practice to do. “Look, I'm sorry, but—”
“Get the fuck out of my restaurant.” They point to the staff room, which has the private entrance/exit so customers don't see you leaving or entering the building. “Get your shit and go. Thankfully we have an actually competent server to help Titus Danforth tonight. We don't need you anymore.”
You can't believe this. You're seriously getting fired because you didn't know who Titus is. This is actually ridiculous.
“You know I just got evicted, right?” You had told them when it happened, in hopes you'd get more hours.
“I don't give a fuck about your sob story. Just get out of my fucking restaurant now.” The owner shoves past you to go to the front of the house, presumably to talk to Titus.
You let out a sigh. You did want to see him. You brought him something you figured might make him smile.
So when you spot your now-ex coworker, the influencer, in the staff room on her break, you open your locker and grab it, giving it to her.
“Hey, you're going to serve a Titus Danforth in a bit. Could you give this to him for me? I wanted to give it to him myself but I just got fired so I got to go.”
“Oh shit. Is it because of Titus? Did he cuss you out or something?” Her words strike you as strange.
“No…? Does he do that?” She would know, since she's all over that online drama stuff.
“Oh yeah, all the fucking time. He gets people fired wherever he goes, like even over the tiniest little thing. I heard he's a fucking prick.” She takes your gift for Titus, looking at it. “Are you sure you want to give him something? Are you a fan of his? I know some billionaires have fans but I wouldn't pick him as my choice…”
“Just give it to him, please. Tell him it's from me and that I'm sorry I couldn't be here.”
“Alright.” She tucks it into her apron. “Good luck. Sorry you got fired.”
You shrug and wave goodbye as she heads out onto the floor. It does suck that you got fired but life happens.
What can you do about it but move on?
Titus can't seem to move on, though.
He hasn't spotted you at all since he got to the restaurant. He came early in hopes of just watching you work for a little prior to you serving him. He expected to see you.
But the person serving him isn't you.
The owner personally apologizes to him for not booking him a private booth but managed to get one situated for him, despite it being a busy Saturday night. Titus couldn't care less where he sat. He's here to see you and that's it.
But you aren't the one serving him for some reason.
So he asks the server where you are and she tells him, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Danforth. She was let go because she didn't know who you were and booked you at a standard table. The owner never wants their VIPs to ever be booked at a standard table. She should've known better.”
Titus scoffs. “What the fuck? I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her. I have come here maybe twice with my father. He's the VIP. I'm just a regular customer. She booked me correctly.”
“You're a Danforth, sir.” Titus does not like the sound of the word sir coming out of anyone's mouth but yours.
“Where is she?” Titus looks around. “Did she leave already?”
“Yes, I think so. She probably finished packing up her stuff and left. She did tell me to give you this, though. And to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't be here.” The server hands him a little box.
He opens it. It's…a small sewing kit. The same one like you had in your bag.
With a cute note attached saying: For any future repairs ♡
You had planned to tell Titus that you'd show him a few different ways to sew up a snag, to go with the gift, but you can't now obviously. You probably will never see him again.
You put all your work stuff with the rest of your things in your car, sighing. You didn't think you'd be off so early, so now you have to figure out where to park. Most places aren't free to park until 10PM so you could wait in your work parking lot until then but you don't really want to stick around a place that fired you…
But then, you look up at the sky and decide it's okay to stay for a little. You'll miss working here. It's just a few miles out of the city, in a beautiful part where plenty of wealthy people live, with barely any light pollution.
There's so many stars out tonight.
You sit up on the hood of your car, staring up at the night sky from this vantage point one last time. You're so engrossed by the sight of the stars that you don't notice a figure walking up to you until a shadow engulfs you.
You turn your head to see… “Titus?”
How did he find the employee parking lot?
It's quite an uphill trek from the restaurant, which is on purpose since the restaurant valet would prefer to not have any “ugly” cars parked in that lot.
Titus just stares at you, at how pretty you look in the light of the stars and the moon. How they seem to add an extra sparkle in your eyes. How he is so grateful he caught up to you before you left.
There was no way he was going to wait any longer to see you again.
He wasn't going to let some fucking stupid restaurant owner get in his way.
“I heard you got fired.” He says to you, noticing how cleaned up you look in your work attire compared to the casual clothes from before. “I didn't end up staying since you weren't there.”
“Aw, you should've at least enjoyed the food.” You feel bad he just left.
“Did you like working at that restaurant?” He asks because he just bought it and if you wanted to, you come back to work there. He won't tell you he bought it, of course, but he would get you your job back.
But it doesn't seem like you want to, from the way you shrug. “It was nice while it lasted. Maybe this is the universe telling me I need to be somewhere else.”
“What do you mean?”
You pat the hood of your car, inviting him to sit with you. He would never normally do this. Especially on an old car like yours. But he does, for some reason.
For you. To be next to you.
Titus sits beside you in his designer clothes and you giggle, pulling your knees up to your chest, leaning your head against them as you look at him. “We really are from two different worlds, aren't we?”
“Are you going to move?” He noticed all your things packed in your car.
“I don't know.” You look back up at the stars. “I don't have a place to stay right now. I don't have a job. I don't have anything besides what I got right here.”
Again, he just stares at you. But this time, it's because he has never met anyone like you before. He has met people who are desperate, who would do anything to get out of whatever hole they dug themselves into.
But, despite whatever life has thrown at you, you don't show any signs of that same desperation.
You actually seem content to just look at the stars in the sky, basking in the moonlight, enjoying the moment, ignoring the reality of your situation for a second.
“Do you like stargazing?” You turn your head towards Titus again.
“I don't really look up.”
You chuckle at that. “I guess when you're one of the richest men on the planet, you only look down, right?”
“So you looked me up?” Titus figured you would eventually.
But you shake your head. “I didn't have any time to. Had to pack all my stuff into my car this week since I got evicted. I just heard that from the owner. Sorry, bad joke.”
“What else did you hear about me then?” He wants to know what you know.
“My ex-coworker said you're a fucking prick.” You reply, followed by another cute laugh. “I wonder what you must've done to give the internet that impression.”
“You don't think I'm a prick?” He would understand if you did. He is a fucking prick. The worst of the worst.
But you don't judge people based on the words of others. Maybe that is naive of you but you like to believe most people are good people. Though you have no clue who you're sitting next to right now…
“Do you want me to think you're a prick?” You nudge him playfully like you had before. “I can do that if you want.”
“How can you be so…normal around me? After learning who I am?” Titus hasn't noticed any change in your behavior.
You're acting exactly like you had when you first met him.
“Am I supposed to act a certain way around a man with money?” You tilt your head at him, feigning befuddlement. “Should I get on my hands and knees and beg you for a crumb of your wealth, sir?”
Yes. Titus wants to say but then you laugh, obviously having said what you said as a joke, so he bites his tongue. But it's hard not to imagine you on your hands and knees, with his cock buried inside of you from behind, moaning beneath him.
He needs to figure out how to curb his desire for you. This is getting out of hand.
Especially when you nudge him again and point at the sky. “Look, or you'll miss it!”
Titus looks up and a shooting star blazes across the sky, drawing a line of light for just a moment before disappearing.
“Did you wish for anything?” You ask him, still displaying that brilliant smile he's growing to love.
“No. Did you?” Titus doesn't make wishes. He can get whatever he wants.
Except you and your free spirit. “I wished for a sign from the universe to tell me where to go next.”
You're like a pretty bird, ready to soar towards your next adventure. You never stay in one place for too long.
Titus won't have that. He needs to cage you. To keep you.
So, he says to you, “do you want to work for me?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Doing what? Do you own a restaurant I can serve at?”
He literally owns the place that fired you but…he won't tell you that now.
Instead, he tells you, “I recently fired my personal assistant so I'm looking for a new one. You'd get your own room in my apartment and you can buy food and other necessities on my card.”
“What does a personal assistant for Titus Danforth do?” You lean your head against your knees, looking up at him. “Am I writing emails all day or…?”
“Just whatever I need help getting done for the day.” Like getting off. He really wants to get off. He hasn't cum since he fired that maid. He wants to cum inside of you.
Maybe even without a condom.
You don't seem to notice the lust in his gaze at all. Probably because no one has ever looked at you like that before.
“You should get someone with actual personal assistant experience.” You definitely aren't the right fit. You've mainly worked in restaurants, minus that singular stint you did at a retail store in your teens. “Also, you definitely shouldn't hire someone you've only known for like an hour.”
You chuckle, the sound so intoxicating to him. Little do you know, you have been on his mind every second of every day since the moment you left his sight. He tried his best not to let his mind wander to you but it always did.
“I was following your lead. The universe brought you to me when I needed a personal assistant and the universe brought me to you when you needed a job. Is that not a sign?” He manipulates your wish and uses it against you.
“I guess you're right.” You tap your finger against your lips, which makes Titus stare very closely at them, wishing he could kiss you. “But still, you barely know me.”
“You barely know me.” He counters and that makes you laugh again.
“Touché!” You lean against him a little as you giggle then move away. “Alright, why not! If I'm horrible, you can always fire me. I heard you're very good at it.”
Titus will never get used to the casual touches you do. You are so relaxed around him. You should be more guarded.
You have no idea what he has in store for you now that he has you in his grasp…
You don't get what Titus's last personal assistant must have done to get fired. This has got to be the easiest job you've ever had. And the benefits are incredible!
Titus gave you a super nice car, completely paid off, since he doesn't want his personal assistant to be driving something dingy. You have all brand new, designer clothes in your closet that fit you perfectly and match your style. He apparently had people come over once you moved your things in to sift through your closet and figure out what you would like so that you had clothes to wear when you went out with him.
You go out with Titus a lot. Mostly to restaurants he's scoping out, thinking of buying or investing in. You and him eat and drink and laugh and chat so much that you're shocked this is even considered work.
Your paycheck is also enormous too and he even helped you set up a high yield savings account at the bank his family runs with a very good rate.
You're making more money now than you have your entire life.
You don't have anything to use it on, either. Titus pays for everything, always. You try to pay sometimes, for groceries or for household goods, but then he just adds the money to your paycheck when you do, effectively zeroing it back out. You get that he is obscenely wealthy but you don't want him to always have to pay.
“It's an insult when you try to pay for me.” Titus tells you as he drives the two of you from the airport to a resort on the tropical island he's thinking of investing in.
“This rental car cost like a tenth of my check. You could've let me pay for it.” You pout at him and he shakes his head at you.
“A tenth of your check is not even a penny to me.” He will not have you spending any money when he has plenty.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot I'm in the presence of an almost trillionaire. My apologies, sir.” You exaggerate a bow then giggle.
It has been months since Titus hired you to be his “personal assistant” and he still hasn't touched you. He has no idea how he is keeping it together, especially when you laugh so beautifully like that all the time and jokingly call him sir.
You are so playful and so cute that he just wants to eat you up.
But you are horribly oblivious to any and all of his advances.
You two go out to eat and you think it's just work. You two stay in a hotel suite together and you think it's just work. You two go on vacations together and you really, truly, seriously think this is just a work excursion.
That is totally why Titus paid for the all inclusive resort package for the two of you that includes a private pool attached to the room.
Though this time, he made sure there was only one bed. The last few times, the hotels and resorts you've been to have had other rooms available to swap to, so you and Titus have never had to sleep in the same bed.
That changes today. He booked out all of the available rooms to ensure you had to sleep in the same bed as him. You can't avoid him now.
“Are you sure this is okay?” You stare at the king sized bed in the very nice room. “I can sleep on the floor. Or the tub. I've done that before when I've crashed at people's places.”
“I'm not letting you sleep in a tub.” The idea makes him grimace.
“I'm surprised there isn't like a couch or something.” You would assume a fancy resort like this would have more furniture in the room but there's really only the bed and the desk and you can't sleep in a desk chair for a week.
Titus made sure there was no alternate sleeping places. They took the couch out and rearranged the furniture to make it look like this is what the room should look like. And Titus told you that you shouldn't ever look up anywhere you and him go since he wants you to experience it blind to get the best feel for the place. You listen because he's your boss.
Now you're going to be sharing a bed with your boss…
“There really weren't any other rooms?” It's a huge resort. Though, it does look like there's some kind of convention going on.
It's packed on the island right now!
“Is the idea of sleeping with me that horrible?” Titus tries to be playful with this question but there's a bite to his tone he can't hide.
You, again, are oblivious to it. “No, not at all. I just feel bad because you probably don't want to sleep with me.”
“I don't mind.” He wants to desperately.
“Hopefully I'm not a weird sleeper.”
“You've never slept with someone before?” He finally has a chance to casually ask this question.
“I've shared a bed with friends on trips and stuff like that to save money.” Again, it goes over your head that he's not referring to real sleeping. “They've never complained but like what if I kick you in my sleep? I would feel so bad!”
“That should be the least of your worries.” You'll be lucky if you have the opportunity to actually sleep.
“I know. If you don't think it's a big deal, then I shouldn't worry about it.” You appreciate that he's looking out for you.
Titus has no idea how you got to your age and you're so fucking oblivious to the fact that he wants to pin you down on this bed and fuck the brains out of you.
Maybe it's because you don't see him as a man. You only see him as your boss. You haven't put it together in your mind that he should be someone you should be careful around.
But you aren't careful at all.
You casually touch his arm when you're walking past him so you don't accidentally bump into him on the way to the closet to unpack your things. You place your hands on him to straighten out his clothes without warning. You nuzzle your cheek against his shoulder then flash him a big smile whenever you feel like bothering him with an ask of something kind.
Like, “can we get smoothie bowls? Please!”
“Please what?” He pokes your nose and you laugh, knowing what he's looking for.
“Please, sir. Can we get smoothie bowls?” You bat your eyelashes at him, like you always do.
It takes everything in his soul not to grab you and kiss you. He opts to clench his fist tight and gives you an even tighter lipped smile in response.
“Sure.” His heart races at how happy you look.
“Great, I'm starving and that place looked so good.”
It's one of the restaurants in the resort. A cute hut that makes smoothie bowls. It should be included in the resort package, though Titus wouldn't care how much it cost regardless.
As long as he gets to see you all giddy to eat a colorful bowl of fruit layered on top of a smoothie, he would pay anything.
“You know, you haven't called Pepper back.” You manage Titus's personal cellphone and his father recently sent him a bunch of potential matches for marriage.
Titus went out with one of them as a formality but hated being there. It meant he wasn't with you that day and he hates not being with you. Everyone else in his world is dull and power-hungry.
You're a breath of fresh air.
Except when you push him away from you. “She seemed really nice. She sent the yummiest fruit basket to the apartment. I was just thinking about it since these fruits are just as yummy.”
Titus digs his spoon into the smoothie bowl the two of you are sharing because he didn't want to get his own and you offered to share yours with him so he could try it. The fruits are good, in season, ripe, sweet. Like how he imagines you must taste.
“You do realize if I get married, you'd be out of a job.” Titus is harsher with his words than he intends but he can't hide his annoyance that you don't view him as someone of interest. You never look flustered around him.
Not even when he pulls you towards him by wrapping his arms around your waist so that someone doesn't bump into you as they run by. His hands linger at your sides. You don't seem startled at all that he's touching you.
“Oh my goodness, that person almost rammed into me!” You catch your breath, your heart racing. “Thanks, Titus.”
You pat him gently on the chest, then look up at his face. He almost flinches when you reach up and cup his jaw with your hand. He almost expects you to lean up and kiss him.
But instead, you wipe a bit of smoothie off the corner of his lip and then proceed to lick it off your thumb. “You had a little drip. Can't have you walking around with—”
Titus can't stand it anymore and just kisses you. His arms hook you in closer to him, locking you to his chest, before his lips crash down onto yours.
You don't know what's going on.
You've never been kissed before.
Is this a kiss? Why is Titus kissing you?
His lips are so soft against yours. You don't know what to do.
Should you kiss him back? But he's your boss…
A weird feeling pangs in your chest. The one you've been avoiding. Ignoring, because you figured it was just silly to imagine that he likes you.
Now that you're getting some proof that he does, maybe even just physically, you're suddenly afraid that everything is going to change. And you don't want things to change. You liked how everything was.
“Titus…” You breathe out against his lips when he finally lets you swallow air again.
You don't have any words to say. You can't form the sentence you want to speak aloud. Because you should tell him not to do that again. That he's your boss and you're his assistant.
But instead, you ask him, “is this why you fired your last assistant?”
Your words catch him by surprise. He wasn't expecting you to ask that of all things right after he kissed you for the first time.
“What are you talking about?” His head is all over the place, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to kiss you again but you're looking at him with such devastation in your eyes. And he can't help but like the look of it.
Because is this not that same envy you had for that influencer?
“Did your last assistant…let you kiss them? Was that in their job description…” Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel nauseous from the fear that everything is going to change forever. “Because I-I don't know if I can do that if it is.”
“You don't want to kiss me?” Fury causes Titus to dig his nails further into his fist, his palm bleeding.
There was always a chance you didn't like him. That your sweetness was just a facade.
Is that what you're showing him now? That you weren't the genuinely aloof, adorable girl he wants so badly to fuck up?
You glance down at his fist, at the blood dripping from it. “Titus, your hand!”
He watches as you grab a hold of his hand, opening his fist up, seeing the way his nails had dug into his palm.
“Oh no, shit, I knew we should've gotten manicures before we flew here.”
The edges of his nails are all sharp since it's been a while. You were planning on booking one of the resorts’ manicurists to come to the room. You should've thought of this sooner.
You quickly grab some napkins and apply pressure to the cut. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?”
“I just kissed you and you give more of a fuck about my hand?” He yanks his hand out of your hold. “Are you fucking serious?”
Your throat is closing up. This reminds you of when the owner of the restaurant yelled at you. Only this time, it's Titus. And seeing him angry with you scares you to the point where you can't control the tears that are blurring your vision.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” You try to find some words to say but none of them will come out. You're so nervous all of a sudden.
Titus has never seen you like this before. Flustered, scared, anxious, delicious. He wants more of this side of you. The one that you've been hiding under that confident mask of yours.
The girl underneath who wants nothing more than to be spoiled rotten.
Without letting you say anything else, Titus scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the room. You cling onto him, shocked that he's carrying you so easily.
Though, should you be shocked?
You have seen him practically naked before, wearing only his boxers around the apartment. You know he works out because he has a gym set up. You have watched him exercise before.
But for some reason, the thought of him without any clothes on is making your heart flip flop on your chest. You've never felt whatever feeling is stirring inside of you.
Is this…lust?
Titus opens the door to the room and then proceeds to toss you onto the bed. You scramble to sit up, backing up until your back is against the headboard. He climbs onto the bed like a predator stalking its prey until he has you trapped beneath him.
Your heart is going to leap out of your chest at this point. You've never seen Titus look so…hungry before. Like he wants to devour you whole.
“I don't care to wait anymore.” He tells you, looking you up and down like he's planning out how to feast on you. “I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you fight back. I fucking don't care anymore. I'm done waiting for you.”
“Wait, wait, Titus—” You can't stop him from kissing you, his lips sealing over yours, stealing your breath away when he slips his tongue into your mouth. The warmth of it mixing with yours makes you dizzy.
You didn't realize kissing could feel so…hot. You taste the smoothie bowl, that sweet fruit flavor on his tongue. You like it a lot. You like kissing him a lot.
That's why you have to stop him. You can't be doing this. He can't be doing this. He's about to marry someone else. His father will make sure of that. And then you'll just have been some blip in his memory.
That's all you'll be.
And you don't want that.
You want to be able to remember your time with Titus fondly.
“Please, Titus, let me talk.” You beg against his lips.
“I'm not going to stop so don't waste your breath.” He goes to kiss down your jaw, to the column of your neck, placing a bite right in the center that stings and shoots a tingle down to your core, something you've never felt before.
“I don't want you to stop.” Your words flip a switch in his head and he lifts up from your neck to look at you, confused.
That wasn't what he was expecting. Nor was he expecting the tears that are welling up in your eyes. They aren't from fear.
They're…from sadness.
Longing to be specific.
Yearning, more like it.
“But you need to know if we do this, you're going to break my heart.” You go to wipe the tears that spill from your eyes with your hands. “So if you want to do this, we can. But it will hurt me more than you will ever know.”
“Why?” He doesn't understand.
How can he break your heart when he doesn't even have it yet?
You cup his face, pulling him up towards you so you can lay your forehead against his, before you tell him, “because I know I'm just one of many people you've done this with. You like me now, sure, but there's no guarantee that'll last. And you can't promise me it will. I won't believe you. But…”
You let out a sigh, before you lean in and press a kiss on his lips. He's so stunned to feel you kiss him.
He's even more stunned when you tell him, “I don't mind if you break my heart. I just want you to be aware that you will.”
You give him a soft smile, like you always do, and it burns a hole in his chest.
“You aren't one of many.” He knows that to be a fact. He has never wanted to spend time with anyone like he has with you.
“Then tell me about the person before me. Did you kiss them too?” You know the answer from the look on his face but you want him to say it.
“I didn't have a personal assistant before you.” That's the honest truth.
But you know it's not the full truth. “Who did you have before me?”
“She was just a maid.”
“Will I be “just a personal assistant” one day?” Your words make him ache in ways he never thought possible.
“No.” He shakes his head. He doesn't want you to just be a personal assistant to him.
He wants you.
“Did you break her heart?”
“We just fucked. That's it. I didn't feel anything for her.” The words slip from his lips and you catch them.
“You feel something for me?” So this isn't just physical. What is it then?
“You have to understand.” Titus won't hold himself back anymore. “You are never going to be able to leave me. I would rather kill you than let anyone else have you.”
“Then kill me.” You pull his hands up to wrap around your throat, wanting him to squeeze. “Because I'd rather die than know one day, you'll leave me for someone else. For another pretty girl who caught your eye. I'd rather die than witness someone else having you after I've gotten a taste.”
“Then why did you push me towards Pepper?”
“That was before I knew you felt the same way about me that I do about you.”
You can't help yourself. You lean in and kiss him again, just so you can remember the feeling of his lips on yours before you die. Those soft lips. How you yearn to feel them all over your skin.
But the moment you do, your heart will surely shatter.
“I don't want anyone else but you.” He says so clearly that you almost believe him.
“Maybe for right now.” You brush your nose against his, that playfulness still shining through even in your despair. “But you should be honest with yourself. You don't want a relationship with me. I know you don't.”
You don't know how to explain it. But you're sure Titus doesn't want you to be his girlfriend. Or his wife.
He just wants you to be his.
And you can do that.
You can be his.
But it will hurt you tremendously in the process.
Is he willing to do that to you?
Titus moves his hands off of your neck and then gets up from the bed, straightening himself out. Then, he goes to the phone at the desk, dialing the front desk.
“I need another room.” He says to the receptionist, who is fully aware of all the rooms he has booked. “Either one that connects or a suite with two bedrooms. Just pick one and send the keycards here.”
“Right away, Mr. Danforth.” They hang up and before you have time to process what's happening, there's a knock on the door.
Titus grabs the new keycards and goes to pack your things up back into your suitcase and then he does his own. You're sitting there, stunned.
Because you realize he wanted to sleep next to you. That's why he booked this room in particular. There were rooms available. But he wanted to share a bed with you, so he convinced you there weren't.
And now, he doesn't anymore.
Because hurting you is something he can't do, for some reason.
He liked seeing you shy and flustered but hurt…that didn't spark what he thought it would inside of him. What it usually does inside of him.
When he gathers everything, he tells you, “come on, let's go to our new rooms.”
“Titus…” You're speechless for once. You normally have a quip of some kind but…you don't right now.
“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. You can't mean anything to me and I would be a fucking idiot to think you could. I was just thinking with my cock. It won't happen again.” Titus gestures for you to take your bags. “Now come on, we have a resort to check out. Let's get to work.”
And that's all it is.
Work.
Because that's all it will ever be, right?
“A little birdie told me something interesting.” Ursula smiles that wicked grin of hers at Titus, while they're having brunch at the Danforth Resort together. “You haven't fucked your personal assistant yet. It's been over a year. I find that impressive, Titus.”
“Who the fuck would tell you something like that?” He rolls his eyes at her.
She's telling the truth, though. He hasn't fucked you. He hasn't even kissed you since that time.
“Your housekeepers will do anything for a little extra cash.” She only had to add a bit more to their checks to get them to spill the details about you and Titus. “From what I hear, your personal assistant is more like a roommate you pay. And you don't even fuck her. That's just weird.”
“It's weird that you give a fuck about who I'm fucking.”
Ursula shrugs. “I give more of a fuck that you've been acting like an asshole because you're all pent up. Just go fuck one of the people you have on speed dial and get it over with already.”
“Okay, I will.” He leaves the table then, done with this brunch.
But he doesn't go to one of the many fuckbuddies he has.
He just goes straight home to you.
Because he doesn't want to fuck anyone.
It's like there's something wrong with him. If he isn't thinking about you, he can't get hard. His body won't let him fuck anyone else.
But maybe that's his heart getting in the way.
You and him have found that rhythm from before again, albeit with a slight change. You do get flustered whenever he touches you now. And you don't touch him as casually as you used to anymore. He likes that you're finally seeing him as a man. But he hates that you no longer feel relaxed around him.
You apologize a lot more now. You aren't as playful because you're nervous you'll say something you shouldn't.
It's killing him inside.
Especially on days like today, where you seem like you're back to the way you were before, smiling at him when he gets home, “welcome back! How was brunch?”
“Horrible.” He pulls off his dress shirt, tossing it into the hamper.
You hand him one of the softer shirts he wears at home and he slips it on. He catches the way your eyes linger on his body for a second before you shake your head, like you're trying to shake away the thoughts you were having.
You distract yourself by asking, “did you bring me that pastry?”
“Fuck, I forgot.” He was in a rush to leave.
Usually when he goes to brunch with Ursula at the Danforth Resort, you would beg him to get this one pastry for you since it's a specialty dessert there. He always got it for you, so he could watch you happily devour it.
“Oh it's okay!” You wave him off. “No big deal. I will just dream about it until next time.”
“We can go right now.”
You look at him like he's gone crazy. “You just drove back. It's alright. I don't mind waiting.”
Waiting. Titus hates that fucking word.
He hates waiting. He hates it so much. He hates that he has to wait and wait and wait until everything falls into place so that he can have even the slightest chance of being with you. Of making you his, forever.
You seem content to wait but he doesn't know for how long.
He knows you've been looking for another job.
He knows you've been talking with other men.
Sure, they're "just friends” of yours but…he can't stand it.
He can't take another day of waiting for you to be his.
He needs this to work.
Titus cannot live without you.
So, he waits for everything to align exactly the way he needs it to.
Then, he will make you his.
But plans never do go the way he thinks.
Because you've caught the eye of a certain member of the High Council.
“Ignacio?” You see him at one of the events Titus brings you to and he comes rushing up to you, giving you a big hug.
Something that makes Titus's jaw tighten.
“Now where have you been, mi cielito?” He swings you around, making you giggle. “I have missed having you serve me. Opulence has declined since you left.”
“I got fired.” You tell him as he sets you down.
“They fired you? But doesn't Titus—”
When Ignacio meets Titus's deadly glare, he doesn't say another word.
Instead, he clears his throat and goes, “well, regardless, they were sorely mistaken in choosing to let you go.”
“If I knew you'd be here, I would've brought you something.” You used to bring him cute little charms for his guns.
“What are you doing here? I heard Titus had a personal assistant but I had no idea it would be you. How did you two meet?”
“It's a funny story.” You say with that soft giggle of yours.
Titus is learning right now that you show that side of yourself to others. Not just him. Ignacio seems well versed in how precious you can be, his eyes roaming your body. He must like how gorgeous you look in the designer dress Titus picked out for you for this event.
“Would you like a drink? I'd love to hear about it.” As much as Ignacio wouldn't want to light any fury in Titus, he has missed the chats you two used to have so he is willing to risk it.
Titus opens his mouth to answer for you but then you go, “oh sure! Titus, you don't mind right? I'll be right back!”
Of course he minds. Of course he fucking minds. You're not supposed to want to spend time with anyone except for him.
And yet you're choosing Ignacio? Over him?
He can't stop you from walking away. He can't stop you from smiling at Ignacio as you hook your arm in his, doing that affectionate cheek rub against his shoulder, making Ignacio pinch your nose in response. You laugh so beautifully as the two of you chat about something Titus is too far away to hear.
Ignacio touches you so casually, like the two of you have a deeper relationship. But you told Titus you never dated before.
But you never told him if you ever fucked someone before.
From the way Ignacio is holding your hip with one hand and his drink in the other, Titus can't help but imagine that you aren't the innocent girl he thought you were. Especially when you smile all bashfully before placing your hand against Ignacio's chest, using your finger to draw little circles over where his heart is.
“I think your boss wants me dead.” Ignacio whispers to you. “You shouldn't glance over there. You'll see quite the death glare.”
“He won't do anything to you, don't worry.” You know Titus won't.
“I heard a rumor about you.” He has been meaning to ask, since now he knows you're Titus's personal assistant. “You haven't slept with him. Is that true?”
“Is that…surprising?”
Ignacio shrugs. “He is quite fond of the help, from what I hear. Fond of firing them too, when he's done with them.”
That you are well aware of. You've seen it before. Titus fired all of his housekeeping staff recently and hired brand new ones, who only come when you and him aren't at the apartment at all. You still don't know why he did that but you don't ask. It isn't your place to.
“If you need a job, I have many places you can work. Just give me a call anytime.” Ignacio puts his hand out and you give him your phone, letting him add his personal number to it. “I should let you go back to your boss now. Adiós, mi cielito.”
Ignacio kisses you on the temple before heading over to say hello to another set of patrons at the event. You make your way back to Titus, who has maintained his glare this whole time.
The question he asks you when you're back by his side startles you. “Have you fucked him?”
“What?” You raise an eyebrow at Titus, shocked he'd ask you something like that.
“I said, have you fucked Ignacio?” His tone grows harsher. “Answer me.”
“I have not fucked anyone.” You scoff, setting your drink down. You haven't even taken a sip and now you definitely don't want to.
Because you know the moment your inhibitions drop, you'll say something you really don't want to.
But then Titus goes, “I bet you want to fuck him.”
And you can't hold it in anymore. “Why do you care? I'm just the help. Though apparently you always fuck the help so maybe I'm not even that to you.”
You have never snapped at Titus like this before. That's why he has no idea what to say. He didn't think you had it in you to feel any kind of jealousy. You normally are so chill, even when he talks to other people.
Have you been harboring envy this whole time?
You hate to admit that. You hate when your mind trails to the fact that he has been with other people and that he will be with other people after you. That you aren't anything but this weird pastime of his for right now.
But that ends today.
You can't keep doing this.
You can't keep pretending like you can stay by his side and nothing has changed.
“I'm going to work for Ignacio.” You tell him straight up, even though you haven't formally agreed to anything. “So, you can go and hire some other person and fuck them because I do not want to be here when you inevitably do. I'm leaving to pack my things.”
But he doesn't let you leave. Not without him.
Titus grabs you by the arm and drags you out to the underground parking lot, where he has his car parked for the event.
“Let go of me!” You tug at him but he won't budge. “Titus!”
“Shut the fuck up!” He yells right in your face and you're so taken back that you can't speak. He has never yelled at you like that before.
It makes your heart race in ways you've never felt before.
He opens the backseat of his car and tosses you inside. Then, he gets in and shuts the door behind him, climbing on top of you.
You should've guessed what would happen next but you're still shocked when his lips come crashing down onto yours as his hands slide up your legs, hiking up your skirt. You gasp against his lips when he rips off your underwear, tossing it aside.
“Wait, wait—” Your pleas are silenced by his lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth to hold it hostage. You can't breathe. You're getting lightheaded.
It only gets worse when you feel his thumb trail down your bare pussy, a feeling you've never felt before. You squirm, shoving at him, trying to close your legs but he has your thighs pinned down with his knees.
You're trapped beneath him.
You're at his mercy.
You can't let him do this.
You'll never be able to leave if you do.
You pull his face off of you and he snarls like a rabid animal in response but you have to get your words out, “please don't do this. You don't want this. You don't want me. You know you don't.”
He lets out the most menacing laugh you've ever heard before he responds, “that's where you're wrong. All I have ever wanted was you. All I want is to do this with you. How dare you try to leave me. Don't fucking try to stop me now because you're never getting away from me.”
“For how long, though?” Your words freeze him in place. “Titus, I don't want to do this if you're just going to fuck someone else later. Let me go, please.”
“What will it take for you to believe that I only want you?” Because he can't let you go. He can't.
You're everything to him.
He'd rather die than ever let you go.
What will it take, though?
Horrible, sinful, ugly things cross your mind. Thoughts of you caging him as much as he wants to cage you.
You both falling into the trap that is one another.
“Stop right now and wait until I'm ready.” You lean up, pressing your forehead against his. “Because I will be ready. But I don't want our first time together to be in a car after a fight. Please, sir.”
You're playing dirty, pulling that out now. But it satisfies Titus enough to nod.
“I want to kiss and touch you whenever I want.” That is his only ask as part of this deal. “I will wait to fuck you as long as you promise you won't go.”
“Okay.” You press a kiss against his lips, one that he immediately leans into, savoring. You smile then breathe out, your warm breath like heaven on his lips, “I'm not going anywhere. I promise, sir.”
“No talking to other men. No looking for other jobs. You sleep in my bed from now on. You aren't allowed to think of leaving me.” He nips at your bottom lip, his teeth sinking in hard enough to make it bleed. “Got it?”
You lick your lips, tasting the iron, then you lean in, biting his lip until he bleeds, before you kiss him, mixing yours with his. Then, you tell him with a little brush of your nose against his, “as long as you do the same. You're mine, Titus.”
He lets out that dark chuckle of his, the one that he has been keeping in, the sinister laugh that is flooding his system with the darkness he has been dying to let out.
“I am going to fuck you up.” His devilish grin sends such a thrill through you.
“Only me, okay?” You don't want him to look at anyone else like this.
“Only you. You're my obsession.” His gaze trails down the length of your body and he groans at the sight of your pussy, his cock wanting to sink inside of you right now.
Titus settles for burying his face between your legs. You try to push him away, “Titus! What are you—”
“Keep your voice down.” He instructs, his hot breath tickling your clit. “Unless you want people to know I'm eating you out in my car right now.”
“Can't we wait until we're home?” Your words make him smile.
So, you consider his apartment home.
He likes that a lot.
“I'm done waiting.” He says right as he drags the length of his tongue along your folds, making your whole body shudder. His hand slides down to knead his cock through his pants, which is getting terribly hard at the sight of you trembling from his touch. “You taste exactly how I thought you would.”
“I've never done this before.” You're scared. It feels so intense, his tongue swirling around your clit, the stimulation shooting sparks straight to your core.
Tension is building inside of you, coiling in your lower stomach, threatening to burst.
“You've never cum before?” Titus grip his cock harder when you nod in response.
He will have to lock you up in the apartment from now on.
Because if you have never tasted pleasure before, if he is your first everything, how is he supposed to ever let you out of his sight?
He needs to corrupt you. He needs you begging for him to make you cum once you've grown addicted to it.
But first, he needs to show you how good it feels.
“Put your hands in my hair.” He commands and you listen, lacing your fingers through his curls. “Now listen carefully. Whenever I do something you like, you tug or I won't know, okay?”
“I don't want to hurt you.” You let out in a quiet little murmur that he finds so precious.
Because he wants to fuck you up even more now.
His sweet little innocent girl.
“That's not how you answer me.” He takes a bite out of your thigh as punishment, making you yelp from the sudden sting. “Do it right. Are you going to pull my hair when you feel good?
“Yes, sir.” You immediately tug when he dives back in, thrusting his tongue deep inside of you. You've never felt anything like this before. “Oh my—”
You can't breathe when his hand slides between your legs, his thumb swiping over your clit as his tongue ravishes your insides. You're pulling so hard on his hair, holding him there, the pleasure building so quickly that you're feeling like you're going to explode.
“Wait, wait, Titus, I'm going to—” You squirm when his fingers start playing with your clit, which is getting firmer from his touch, easier for him to rub methodically.
The tip of his tongue presses up against that spot right beneath your clit inside of you, teasing it back and forth, and your body gushes.
You bite down on your lip as hard as possible when your orgasm crashes through you, flooding every inch of your skin with an unfamiliar heat. It's like your core has been set ablaze, warmth pooling between your legs that Titus is lapping up with his tongue.
“Good job.” He praises you, seeing how hard you came for your first time. “You even squirted a little.”
“Sorry.” You feel so embarrassed.
“I hate it when you say sorry.” Titus leans back in, sealing his lips around your clit then starts sucking on it, pulling a scream from your lips at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
“Titus! Stop, I just came, you can't—” You cum again before you can get any more words out, your vision going blurry.
“Your clit is throbbing.” He flicks it with his tongue, your body convulsing in response. “That was your punishment for saying sorry. All I want to hear is “thank you for making me cum, sir”.”
He waits for you to say it. Your heart is pounding so hard in your ears right now that you're unsure if you heard him correctly.
But you say it perfectly, “thank you for making me cum, sir.”
“Good girl.” He pulls you towards him, kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pokes your nose with his before telling you, “now we're going to go home and I'm going to do that again. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” You nod. Then, you don't stop yourself from giving him a peck on the lips.
And Titus knows, in that moment, that he wants to see this look on your face everyday.
With that heat in your gaze that will only ever be for him.
The drive home is unbelievably uncomfortable because you're so wet between your legs and every bump in the road tortures your swollen clit. Not having any underwear on makes it way worse.
Then there's the traffic. So much traffic.
It's going to take forever to get home.
Titus glances over at you and he can't help the smile that forms when he sees you squirming. He really likes seeing you all hot and bothered.
That's why he decides to have a little more fun. So he turns to you and says, “hold up your skirt.”
“What?” You don't know if you heard him right.
“I said hold up your skirt. Do it now.”
“Titus…” You glance around.
You know the windows of the car are tinted but you both are stuck in bumper to bumper traffic right now. There's cars on all sides of you. Someone is bound to see your bare pussy if they happen to look in.
“I'll punish you with something worse if you don't listen.” He makes his threat and you swallow. You're unsure if you can handle another one of his punishments…
“Okay, okay.” You grab the hem of your dress with both hands and lift it past your hips.
“Have you ever touched yourself before?” He asks, his eyes darting between the highway and your pussy, one hand still on the wheel, the other hand unzipping his pants. His cock is going to burst out if he doesn't give it some relief soon.
You confess. “Not really. I've never really been interested in sex until…now.”
If Titus could pull over right here and fuck you, he would. You gulp when he turns to look at you, his gaze more intense than you've ever seen it.
“Why don't you try right now?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and you see it for the first time.
Technically, you have seen the outline of his cock many times before, since Titus likes to, on occasion, walk around in just his boxer briefs at the apartment. There was one day that you saw the tip of his cock peeking out but you tore your eyes away before they lingered too long.
Now, your eyes are locked on it, on the way his large hand barely wraps around it as he strokes it up and down. Your mind is going fuzzy at the thought that he's this hard because of you. That his cock is leaking pre-cum because of you. That he's touching himself to the sight of you touching yourself, your fingers teasing your clit like he had earlier.
“Dip your fingers inside of your pussy then rub your clit. It'll feel better.” He instructs.
You do as he says, gathering some of your slick onto the pads of your fingers and sliding back up to your clit. You let out a moan when you start to swirl those methodical circles like Titus had. It does feel much better.
“Thank you, sir.” You tell him and he groans in response, gripping his cock harder. His other hand is gripping the steering wheel so hard that you can see the whites of his knuckles.
“Cum with me.” He's getting close.
And he cums when you reply, “yes, sir.”
His release hits the dashboard and the steering wheel. He hasn't cum that hard in months. He could cum again from the sight of his leather seats slick with your release. He wishes he was between your legs instead of stuck in traffic right now.
You quickly open the glove box, pulling out the car wipes you keep in there, since you occasionally clean Titus's car as one of your work tasks. You quickly clean up for him.
Then, when you're done, you look down at his throbbing cock and Titus catches you licking your lips.
Before he can say anything, you ask him, “can I clean you up?”
“What if someone sees?” He says playfully, smirking.
You feel a rush of heat spread through you. You don't know what you would do if someone saw you with him in your mouth while he's driving. But you definitely want to do it.
“It's okay.” You decide you don't care because, “you wouldn't let them live if they saw.”
Titus lets out that sinister laugh of his, amused by your words. “I always knew you were a smart girl.”
You unbuckles your seatbelt and proceed to bend over until your face is right above his cock.
“Come closer.” He urges you to get on your knees on the seat, pulling your body closer to him. Then, you jolt when his hand slides down the length of your back, pulling up your dress until your ass is exposed. Then, he sinks two fingers into your pussy from this angle without warning.
“Wait, Titus—” Now, if anyone looks through the passenger side window, they have a clear view of him fingering you.
“It's okay.” He smiles mischievously. “I'll kill anyone who dares to look, remember? Just focus on cleaning me up.”
You turn your attention back to his cock, which is surprisingly still hard. You don't know what to do, especially when his fingers are thrusting inside of you, spreading you open in ways you didn't know possible. They're terribly distracting, pushing you closer and closer to your next orgasm.
You drag your tongue along the tip of his cock, licking up any leftover cum that's still leaking out. He rewards you by curling his fingers inside of you, making your hips buck.
“Put me in your mouth and I'll make you cum real hard.” He teases that spot inside of you, your body trembling in response.
You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock then sink down, letting him fill your mouth. You can't fit him all the way in. You barely make it halfway. But that's enough for him to reward you.
“Suck and lick me clean while you cum.” He then starts to move his fingers side to side rapidly, sending you into a frenzy from the sudden roughness.
You cum uncontrollably, drenching your legs as you suck his cock, your tongue swirling around while you do. You moan with your full mouth when Titus pops his fingers out of you. You pull off of him and help settle him back inside his pants.
“Come here and kiss me.” He gestures for you to kiss him, since he needs to focus on the road still.
You press a kiss against his lips then sit back down, buckling in again. Then you turn to look at him, watching him lick his wet fingers clean. That makes heat pool at core again.
“Did that feel good?” He has both hands on the wheel again, now that the bumper to bumper traffic has stopped.
“Yes, sir.” You say bashfully, your cheeks growing warm.
You've never felt anything like this before. But you want to do it again. The pleasure is incredible. The thrill is addictive.
But a strange pain pricks you inside.
You try to ignore it but it picks at you the entire rest of the ride home.
Titus is so eager to kiss you the moment the two of you are home alone but when he goes to do so, you do not seem to match his energy. You kiss him back, sure, but not with the passion he had hoped.
“What's wrong?” He cups your face with his hands, feeling how fast your pulse is.
“I don't know.” You can't quite put words to what's bothering you.
Maybe you're just overwhelmed. So much has happened. It's going to take a while to adjust to the new rhythm of things.
But you have a feeling that isn't what's lingering in your heart.
“Titus.” You say his name when your eyes meet his.
He likes the sound of his name from your lips, but not when you sound so sad. It makes him feel something in the pit of his stomach he'd like not to feel.
“Have you done that with anyone before?” You know then what is tainting your heart.
It is that ugly envy again. The fear that you are just another one of his playthings. Or worse, a hole for him to fuck and throw away.
At least before, you were like a companion. Like a glorified pet. You didn't mind that because you knew no one else had ever been that for him before.
This, whatever relationship you are in now, is something else entirely and you are afraid you've just fallen into a position that can be filled by anyone.
You yearn to feel special but you don't know if Titus wants to make you feel special.
You're about to learn the truth.
When he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, tossing you onto his bed. His sheets smell like him. Like the expensive soap in his shower and the cologne he likes to wear. It makes your heart ache.
Like his words do, “do you think I'd do that for anyone?”
Your throat is so dry all of a sudden. Swallowing your saliva brings no relief. You're so choked up from the fear.
You just mumble out, “I don't know.”
“I have never waited to fuck anyone in my life.” He climbs over you, trapping you beneath him. “If you were just a hole to me, I would've sunk my cock into you on your first day.”
“Then what am I to you?” You ask even though you know he can't give you an answer.
How can he? Titus could never marry you. Not with the kind of fucked up family he has.
So, what are you to him?
“Does it matter?” He doesn't want to put a label on this.
“I don't know.” You don't like answering like that but it's the truth. You don't know if or why it matters to you.
“You're mine. I'm yours. Isn't that enough?” He owns you and you own him. Mutual destruction.
“What if…” You whisper the next part because the nerves make your stomach twist, “I get greedy?”
“How greedy?” Titus likes this. This sudden turn.
At first, he was worried you'd try to run from this again and shove him away. But right now, you are pulling him in and not wanting to let him go.
“Have you…ever had a baby with anyone?” You ask because you're unsure. He could have children out there he has no clue about.
The chuckle that leaks from his lips sends shivers down your spine. “Are you planning to baby trap me?”
“You asked me how greedy…so I told you.” You may not be able to be his in any kind of official capacity but being the mother of his only child would put you on a pedestal that you can never be removed from.
“I've never fucked anyone without protection.” He refuses to stick his cock into anyone raw. There's too much risk.
There's no risk with you, his beautiful virgin who has never had anyone but him touch you.
“Are you going to wear a condom with me?” His answer to this question will tell you everything you need to know.
“The moment I get to sink my cock into your pussy, it's going in raw.” He smiles at how your expression shifts from that worry to delight. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir.” You pull him in for a kiss, sealing your words. “I would like that very much.”
“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” He's already raring to go again right now, his cock aching to be buried inside of you.
It's your turn to chuckle, letting him hear that laugh that is like music to his ears. “I didn't realize Mister Almost Trillionaire can't keep it in his pants. You want to fuck me that bad?”
“Desperately.” He finally allows himself to admit out loud.
“I don't want it to hurt.” You heard the first time always hurts.
“It won't.” Titus will prepare you well.
“Then, whenever you want, we can.” You press a little kiss on his cheek. “Just not tonight.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath. “What the fuck? Such a tease.”
“I want to sleep with you tonight. Just sleep. Tomorrow, we can do whatever you want. But tonight, I want to just lay and cuddle. Is that okay, sir?” You bat your eyelashes at him and he lets out a laugh in response.
“You know just how to push me.” He picks you back up into his arms. “You're getting in the shower with me. We're going to cuddle naked.”
“I'm okay with that.” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his nice cologne. “As long as we get to cuddle. I've always wanted to cuddle.”
“Is that the greed spilling out?” He asks as he opens the door to his lavish bathroom.
“Can I be more greedy?” You rub your cheek against his shoulder like you used to once he sets you back on your feet. “Please, sir?”
“What do you want?” He should not let you influence him so easily but it's hard when you're acting so cute.
“A hug.” You open your arms, since you and Titus have never hugged before.
He doesn't even think he has ever hugged anyone. Not like actually. He doesn't like casual touching after all. You've never tried to hug him.
But you want to now.
Titus steps forward, wrapping his arms around you and you smile all giddy, rubbing your face against his chest as you squeeze him with your arms. His heart is racing in his chest. He didn't know it was possible to find someone so adorable before.
“Now pick me up.” You beam a big smile at him as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Come on, please!”
He glares at you. You are getting bold. But he listens, picking you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. You giggle so beautifully, laying your head against his shoulder.
“I've always wanted to do this.” You pepper his neck with kisses before trailing up to his lips, giving him a little affectionate peck there. “Thank you, Titus.”
Oh, he's fucked. He's actually so fucked. Because he thought he would be the one fucking you up.
But here you are, being the brightest ball of sunshine he has ever experienced, melting his icy soul with a warmth he has never ever thought possible.
He might just fall in love with you…
Much to your surprise, Titus does not fuck you the next day. Actually, he doesn't even touch you, at least not sexually. He grabs a hold of your hand to tug you towards him for a hug. He kisses you. He cuddles you in bed or on the couch. But nothing more than that.
You don't ask why. You like these more intimate moments. But it's making it harder and harder not to fall in love with him.
You know it's silly, though, to think you could ever be his love. Everyone around Titus believes he's incapable of love.
Do you believe that?
You're…unsure about that.
If anything, you think he is very capable of love but he would never admit it. He would never tell anyone that he has all your favorite things memorized. He would never let anyone find out that he knows everything there is to know about you, like what makes you laugh or how much he loves your laugh.
Or how much he loves you.
He loves you.
He does.
He realizes that on the private jet ride to another resort, this time tucked away in the mountains, with a private hot spring in each of the luxury cabins.
You're going over the itinerary you put together, since you're very excited to go on a little vacation now that you and Titus are being more affectionate. Since it's in a more secluded place with little to no reception, he feels safe about just being himself. It's a resort meant for relaxation and restoration so no phone use allowed anyways.
And he knows he loves you because he's excited to spend quality time focused solely on you.
Because that must be what love is, right?
To want someone all the time, to want to be with them all the time.
“What are you most excited about, Titus?” You ask him once you finish reading off your list.
He can't really tell you that he's excited to fuck you every night this week until you're unable to walk so he just says, “it'll be nice to soak in the hot spring.”
You giggle, nodding in agreement. “Me too. I like that it's private so we can cuddle out in the open.”
Or fuck. He really needs to fuck you.
He can't wait any longer.
Titus hasn't touched you since that day. He doesn't really know why. He just figured he wanted to enjoy being affectionate with you for a bit. The kisses, the hugs, the cuddling, they all have been better than he thought. He never realizes it could be like this with someone. He feels so at ease around you. You make it easy to be himself.
You aren't afraid of his darker tendencies at all. You don't mind that he glares at the concierge for staring at you for a little too long. You aren't repulsed by his need to keep you close to him now that he is allowed to keep an arm around you at all times.
You quite enjoy being the object of his obsession. You have never felt so special before.
You wish this could last forever.
So, you have a little gift for Titus. One that took a lot of maneuvering to hide from him, since he hasn't let you out of his sight for very long these last few days.
You aren't sure when you want to give it to him but when the two of you step into the beautiful hotel room, you decide the sooner the better. You want to see him wear it right away.
“Titus, I have something for you.” You open your suitcase and pull out a flat velvet box you had been hiding from him.
He stares at it, not knowing how the hell you managed to buy something without him knowing. You are a sneaky girl, aren't you?
“What the fuck? Who did you bribe to buy that for you?” That must've been it.
“I'm not telling!” You knew he'd think that. “Just open it!”
You hand him the box and he scoffs. He can't believe you got him a gift. He should've gotten you something. He definitely will now. He can't have you get the last laugh.
But he hears your beautiful giggle when he opens it and shock colors his features.
Inside the box is a necklace delicately woven with thick black thread. In the center is a cute note attached that says: to the threads that bind us ♡
Then, you show him the matching necklace you're wearing around your neck.
And he has never kissed you so quickly before.
You smile against his lips, saying in between kisses, “I assume you like it.”
“Did you make this?” You must've. That's the only way you could've snuck it by him.
You nod. “It's a super high quality thread, waterproof, last longing, the works. You saw me order it. You probably thought it was just for my sewing stuff.”
Titus definitely remembers you ordering it but he assumed it was just a restock of whatever threads you already had. He had no clue you were making something in secret.
“Sneaky.” He chuckles, and he finds it strange how authentic it is.
He hasn't laughed like that in a long time. Without fear of being seen as weak. It's a real, deep from the soul kind of laugh. One of happiness.
Maybe that's why the words leave his lips, “I love you.”
Because maybe, deep down, he wants to sabotage this. He wants you to rip out his heart and stomp on it so that he can never trust anyone ever again enough to show weakness. Because that would make him a Danforth.
But you blink back tears of joy and say to him, “I love you too, Titus.”
And in that moment, he realizes he isn't a Danforth.
He's just Titus.
And Titus is in love with you.
“I want to marry you.” His words catch you by surprise.
“What?” You never thought he'd ever say that. “Your father would…”
“I know.” He knows it's not possible, but not for the reasons you think.
Titus loves you too much to subject you to the trials of what it means to become a part of his family. The dirty, dark, fucked up secret he's keeping. The one he will tell you about one day, but not today.
Today, he wants to tell you, “I just wanted you to know that I want to. And I hope that's enough.”
You smile that lovely smile that has his heart racing. “More than enough. I want to marry you too.”
You untie the necklace and Titus holds still while you secure the knot around his neck. The two of you may never wear rings, but you will always be bound together.
“Now, can I please fuck you?” Titus cannot hold back anymore.
You giggle and then playfully say, “what would you do if I said no?”
“I might just pin you down and take you anyways.” It's a real threat because he is done with waiting.
“Can you wait just a little longer?” You bat your eyelashes at him, making him groan. “Just until we've unpacked and soaked in the hot spring once. Then, I'm all yours. But I know if we dive right in, we're not leaving that bed and I'd like to enjoy the amenities a bit before the love of my life fucks me silly.”
“The love of your life.” Titus grabs you and kisses you right then and there, the hunger in his kisses very apparent. “How the fuck do you expect me to keep it together?”
“I don't know, sir.” You giggle, brushing your nose against his cutely. “I guess you just have to figure it out.”
He growls, low, angry, menacingly. “You're on thin ice, love.”
“I can't wait to fall in then.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for another kiss that he instantly melts into.
Titus hates that you take your sweet ass time unpacking. He knows you're doing it on purpose too. Like you're just sitting there, sorting your toiletries. You've never done that before.
He knows you're just doing it to stall because you like riling him up. You will grow to regret testing him like this.
But he is patient. He is waiting so patiently because he knows the moment you're in bed with him, his cock is not leaving your pussy for the next week.
Maybe the next month.
Maybe the next year.
He could reserve this place for that long if he wanted to.
Maybe he will. Why not?
He's one of the richest men in the world.
He can spend his money however he wants.
“Are you coming in or not?” You call out to Titus, who is obviously lost in his own thoughts. You know you've teased him to the breaking point now.
Which is why you pull off all your clothes while he's watching before getting into the hot spring.
Titus practically rips his clothes off to join you and you laugh so hard when he grabs you and pulls you onto his lap the moment he gets into the water. He is desperate to touch your skin to his skin like this, his cock throbbing against your lower stomach.
“I could fuck you right now.” He whispers into your ear before nipping at your earlobe. “You're making it very difficult not to.”
“You promised me you would make sure it wouldn't hurt.” You don't want him to rush this.
“It won't hurt.” He's going to make you cum plenty before his cock does.
You hug him and then say into the crook of his neck, “I am a little scared…”
And, for some reason, Titus holds onto you a little tighter when you say that.
“What are you scared of?” He starts rubbing small circles on your back, trying to comfort you.
He has never comforted someone before. But he wants to for you.
“You might be too big.” You feel a little flustered saying that out loud. “Like, are you really going to fit?”
He groans then slaps your ass, making you shriek. “You scared the fuck out of me! That's what you're worried about?”
“It's a valid worry.” You squint at him. “Have you ever taken a cock that big?”
“I never take it.” He says with a smirk and you chuckle then smack his chest.
“See! You don't get it. It's intimidating…” You glance downwards, highly aware of how deep his cock would go inside of you when it does.
“It will be fine.” He leans in, kissing you on the cheek. “I promise, love.”
“I trust you, sir.” You lay your head back on his shoulder.
“You'll end up enjoying how big I am.” He'll get you to crave being filled up with his cock.
“I hope so.” Your words make his cock twitch. “It felt really good to cum. I bet it'll be even better to cum together.”
“You're killing me.” He grunts against your skin, digging his teeth into your shoulder because he needs some kind of relief. “I want to fuck you so badly.”
“Hopefully it's worth the wait.” You are a tad bit worried about being boring in bed. You're sure Titus has preferences you can't quite live up to yet.
“You are worth the wait.” Titus pulls you in closer, kissing you softly. It's the softest kiss he has ever done. So gentle, so sweet. “I don't want to be anywhere but right here with you.”
“Who knew you were such a romantic?” You giggle, hugging him tighter. “I love you so much, Titus.”
Now, he is officially done waiting.
Titus lifts you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist as he hauls the two of you out of the hot spring and back inside. He doesn't care how dripping wet he is.
He just needs you sprawled out on the bed in front of him as soon as possible.
He drops you onto the bed, climbing on top of you. You look up at him, and he knows that look in your eye is full of love.
“You have no fucking clue how much I've wanted you under me like this.” Titus stares down at your naked body beneath him, reveling in the sight of how shy and flustered you are. “You're so pretty.”
“Have you always been a flirt?” You giggle and he starts plastering your body with kisses, trying to draw more of that lovely sound from you. “That tickles!”
“Have you always been this cute?” His words warm your heart so much.
“I love you like this.” You tell him, seeing how relaxed he looks, the tension gone from his features. You brush your fingertips along his jaw until you cup his face. “Can we stay like this forever?”
Titus nods, pressing a kiss into your palm to seal his promise. Then, he starts to kiss down the length of your arm, until he reaches your shoulder. From there, he trails lower, to your chest. You bite back a sound when he drags his tongue over each of your nipples, which have perked up already.
“I've been waiting to do that and this.” He says before he takes one of them between his teeth, nibbling just enough to send shivers all over you. “Feel good?”
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
“It'll feel better with my fingers inside of you.” He nudges you to lay on your side, facing him. He spreads your legs, his hand slipping between them, groaning when he feels how wet you are for him already. “Is this for me?”
“Only for you, sir.” You wrap your arms around his neck, lacing your fingers into his hair, tugging it when he slowly thrusts a finger inside of you. That encourages him to add another, spreading you wide, helping you adjust to the size.
He latches back onto your breasts, playing with your sensitive nipples, swirling around the hard peaks as his fingers curl inside of you, looking for just the right spot to thrust against. You tug his hair when he finds it and moan when he starts to tease it, making you grind your hips against his hand.
“You better do that on my cock.” Titus is barely keeping it together. He wants to be inside of you already. But he promised he wouldn't let it hurt.
So, he needs to make you cum a few times.
You're getting close to your first orgasm already, the dual stimulation inching you closer and closer. Then, when Titus starts to palm your clit, you let go completely, letting the first wave of pleasure take over you.
He keeps his fingers buried inside of you, but starts to kiss down the length of your body. You know what's about to happen next, your hands still in his hair, ready to tug when his lips seal over your clit.
The burst of pleasure distracts you from him adding in another finger, the pressure building inside of you. You're clamping down on his fingers so hard. He wishes it was his cock instead. But he needs you to loosen up a bit more. You won't be able to take him if you're this tight.
“Relax, love.” His hand rests on your lower stomach, rubbing it gently. “You can take it. Just breathe. Focus on your clit.”
Easy for him to say. He isn't the one being pried open. But you close your eyes, tuning your attention to the softness of his tongue and the warmth of his hand on your skin. He eases his fingers deeper inside of you, until he's brushing up against a spot so deep, you start to squirm, tugging at his hair.
“Right here?” He curls his fingers and you squirt in response, finally loosening up, gasping for air.
That was more intense than the last orgasm. And Titus is tempted to tease you more, to thrust his fingers relentlessly right there, to see you convulsing and screaming. But then he sees that adorably flustered look on your face. He wants to enjoy that a little bit longer.
“Now imagine the tip of my cock grinding right here.” He pushes against that spot again, making your lower body shake so much that he has to hold you still with his other hand pinning you down by your stomach. “You'll be cumming like crazy.”
“I don't know if I can handle that.” You feel like you could pass out right now.
“You can. You will. Just enjoy it.” Titus starts to thrust his fingers in and out at a slow pace, letting you get used to the motion.
It feels better than you thought it would, the friction growing more and more intoxicating. You're going to burst at the seams again the moment he curls his fingers. He knows you will.
So, he doesn't. And you don't know how to react to the edging. You've never experienced it before, to be taken so close to the edge but then not all the way. He slows before you can cum then once you've rested enough, picks back up until you're close again.
“Titus, please.” You want to cum, your hips desperately grinding against his fingers but he won't let you.
“Ask properly.” He finally lets out that sadistic smile he has been dying to let free.
He loves seeing you like this. Your skin hot, your breaths heavy, your pussy aching to cum.
“Please make me cum, sir.” You plead exactly the way you figure he'd want you to.
And Titus rewards you well.
Maybe a little too well.
You're screaming his name when his fingers starts to fuck you without any care for how hard you're cumming on them. You try to pull away from him, to run from the sudden onslaught of pleasure but he's holding you steady, not letting you go.
Instead, Titus leans down, his lips sealing over your clit again, and when he lightly sucks on it, you're seeing stars in your vision, the orgasms compounding exponentially.
You don't know if you ever stop cumming. You definitely have soaked the sheets, along with his face. He licks it up happily, like it's his reward for making you cum so much.
You feel a little empty when he pulls his fingers out of you. You feel even more empty when he gets up from bed.
“Where are you going?” You try not to sound too sad but you can't control it.
“Just grabbing some water.” He cracks open one of the water bottles the place provides and brings it back to you, climbing back into bed. “I wasn't going to leave you.”
You didn't think he was but it definitely feels strange, coming down from the high of an orgasm. It's like it sinks all your other feelings down too.
“Come here, love.” He sits up in bed, patting his lap.
You straddle his lap, taking the water bottle he hands you and sipping it. You definitely needed to quench your thirst. Titus wraps his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest.
Then, he goes, “help me with the water. My hands are full.”
You chuckle, finding this a little silly but you lift the water bottle to his lips and help him drink. You set the empty bottle aside so you can wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head against his chest, just hugging him for a bit.
He rubs your back, trying to soothe any worries you may have had. Thoughts you shouldn't be having cross your mind and he catches the light sigh you breathe into his skin.
“We don't have to have sex tonight.” Titus might actually fucking die if he has to wait any longer but he doesn't want you to be scared.
He wants you to fully enjoy it with him.
But can you, when you keep thinking about…
“Does it bother you that I'm inexperienced?” A part of you is afraid that taking things so slow is a burden. It is, but that's not because of you. That's only because Titus wants to fuck you so badly that taking things slow is killing him.
But he's okay with the slow death.
Because he knows the pay off will be well worth it. “I like that you are.”
“Really?” You don't think Titus would lie to you. At least not right now.
“I like knowing that I'm going to be the only person who ever gets to touch you.” You truly are his in that sense.
“I wish I could say the same about you.” You feel selfish saying that, but you let it out anyways. “I feel strange when I think about you touching other people like you have to me.”
“I haven't touched them like I have with you.” That's the truth.
“What do you mean?” You can't imagine that's right.
“Do you really think I'd go down on just anyone?”
“Well…yeah…”
He glares at you. “And here I thought you didn't judge me.”
“I'm not judging you! I just figured you must like doing it since you're so good at it.” He had to learn from somewhere, right?
“You think I'm good at it?” He pulls you in closer. “Did I make you feel good?”
“Obviously.” You are not going to stroke his ego any more than this. “That's why I feel like…if you made someone else feel like that too, I…”
“If they came on my cock, then they came on my cock. I wasn't fucking them to make them cum. I was fucking them to make myself cum.” Which is fucked up to say out loud but Titus is fucked up and you know that so there's no point in pretending he isn't. “But with you, I want to make you cum. A lot. Especially with my cock.”
“So, that was all for me? You've never done that with anyone else before?” You hate asking but you want the confirmation.
“You're the only one I've ever wanted to touch. You're the only one I've held naked.”
“What?” That surprises you.
“I despise being touched, especially skin on skin.” His words seem a bit ridiculous considering the fact that you're naked, pressed up against him right now while he's completely naked too. “But I like touching you. Only you, love.”
“Is it bad that I like that?” You want things that are for you and you only.
“Is it bad that I really wanted to make you beg to cum?” He refers to earlier.
“Yes.” You take a bite out of his neck as punishment for that. “That was mean.”
“You liked it.” He smirks, pulling you in for a kiss.
You smile against his lips. You can't help it. You love kissing Titus so you deepen the kiss, your tongue tangling with his, enjoying his lips on yours for a bit longer.
He lays you onto your back, never breaking the kiss as he settles himself between your legs. You can feel his cock throbbing against your stomach.
“We don't have to.” He breathes out onto your lips. “If you're scared.”
You look down, contemplating how daunting the thought of fitting him inside of you will ultimately be. But you want to have sex with him. You want to feel that close with him.
But you need him to promise first. “The moment you fuck me, you aren't allowed to fuck anyone else ever again. I'll kill you if you do.”
“My sunshine has a dark side.” He likes this version of you. The possessive you.
“You're a bad influence.” You say with a big smile.
“Definitely.” He nods firmly. “Because if you even think about fucking anyone else, you're never leaving my bed.”
“I like being in your bed.” You confess. These last few days sleeping beside him have been so wonderful. “Can I stay there forever anyways?”
“You don't have to ask. You're obligated to because there won't be a day that goes by where I'm not going to be fucking you.” Titus has waited long enough.
From this moment forward, your pussy will keep his cock warm forever.
And you can't wait anymore either. “Then I'm ready.”
You expect to feel Titus's cock but he slips three fingers back inside of you, just to make sure. You wriggle a bit when he thrusts them in deep again and before you can say another word about how he's curling them, his lips press against yours.
You've never cum while kissing him before, the rush making you all lightheaded from the breathlessness. His fingers don't stop moving, fucking you through your orgasm, making another one build all too quickly. But he pulls out before you can cum again.
And this time, he lines up his cock, the tip of it pushing against your entrance.
“Now you're ready.” He says with a smile against your lips. “Deep breath for me, love.”
You listen, taking in a deep breath as he sinks the tip of his cock inside of you. Titus lays his forehead against yours, groaning at the feeling of how warm and wet you are wrapped up around him. He isn't even fully inside of you yet but he knows there's nowhere else he wants to be from now on.
You were expecting some pain but it's mostly that pressure that Titus has familiarized you with using his fingers. He helps keep your mind off the increasing pressure with his lips on yours and his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples as he sinks another inch of himself inside of you. You tug at his hair, wanting him to keep going, basking in the grin he gives you in response.
He's about halfway seated inside of you when he pulls off your lips to say, “I'm going to start moving now. You know what to do if something feels good.”
“Yes, sir.” You nudge him playfully with your nose and he nips at it with his teeth, his cock throbbing inside of you at your words. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Titus is so madly in love with you.
Because that's the only reason he's going so slow. If he had his way, he'd be pounding into you, forcing your pussy to take him instead of easing it into things. One day, he'll have his fun.
But today, he'll make love. He has always, secretly, wanted to fall in love. Maybe that's why when the opportunity presented itself, it wasn't difficult for him to dive right into you.
You're everything he isn't. The light in his darkness.
The love of his life, looking so beautiful as he slowly starts to move, finding a rhythm that adds a bit more of himself inside of you with each thrust. You tug at his hair when the tip of his cock teases the swallower spot closer to your entrance, so he makes sure to spend some time there before thrusting as far in as he can go.
“I'm going to cum if you keep doing that.” Your words don't dissuade him.
Actually, it encourages him to pull his cock completely out of you, the sudden pop pushing you over the edge, your orgasm overwhelming you instantly. He likes the sight of your body shivering all over from the pleasure. He likes it even better knowing it's because of his cock.
He goes to sink back in but you shake your head, saying, “wait, wait, I need a second.”
“No, you don't.” He knows you're just afraid to cum again so soon.
You are, because you cum the moment he thrusts back inside and then pulls completely out again, wetness pooling between your legs. That makes it much easier for Titus to slide back inside all the way, filling you deeper than he has before.
“I'm right here.” He presses down against your lower stomach, kneading where your womb is, the tip of his cock pushing right up against it. “How does it feel?”
“Too good.” You admit, feeling so shy at how easily he's making you unravel. “I'm going to cum again if you move.”
“You're very sensitive.” He's happy you are. He's going to drown you in pleasure.
“It's because of you, sir.” You pull him down to kiss you then you place a kiss against his cheek with such much affection. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
“You're going to make me cum if you keep acting so cute, love.” He peppers your face with lovely kisses, making you giggle.
“Cum with me?” You really want him to.
“Always.” He wants to cum feeling you clenching tightly around him from your orgasm.
So, he slides his hands down, grabbing a hold of your hips, and then starts to finally fuck you. You're not expecting to feel so much but his cock is rubbing up against every inch of your pussy with every stroke. It's going to be hard to hold your orgasm.
He feels the same. Now that he's wrapped so perfectly inside of you, he's getting close. He'll have to pace himself better next time.
But for right now, he is content to cum if it means you will too.
Your whole body tenses when he starts thrusting into you a bit faster, the sound of him slamming his cock inside of you filling the air. You tug him down so you can crash your lips against his, wanting to be kissing him when you both cum. His tongue slips inside your mouth, stealing your breath away, making you dizzy from how good everything feels all together.
You cum the moment warmth spills inside of you, unfamiliar but so very nice. Because you know Titus has never done this before.
And he desperately wants to do it again.
“Can I flip you over?” He asks, his cock still hard and throbbing inside of you.
“Don't you need a break?” You figured at his age, also being a man, don't they need time between?
“I need this. I need you. Please, love.” He just wants to pound you into the next oblivion.
You nod, letting him slip out of you before you flip over, getting on your hands and knees. Titus kisses a line down your spine, the sight of you like this better than when he would fantasize about it.
“My beautiful love.” He groans seeing the sight of your swollen pussy from him fucking you. “I'm going to fuck you up now. I'm not stopping, no matter what.”
Your toes curl at the thrill that sparks through you. “Go ahead, sir. I'm all yours.”
He growls, unable to keep the animalistic side of him any longer. “You are all mine. The very object of my obsession. I'm going to enjoy this.”
Your eyes roll into the back of your head when he thrusts into you from this angle, fitting so much more of himself than before. You're cumming already, your legs growing weak from the shivers. He smacks your ass, adding to the shakes.
“You won't last long if you cum that easily.” He makes it very difficult not to cum, though.
Titus doesn't ease you in this time. He pulls completely out of you then rams the entire length of his cock deep inside of you. Over and over, until you're squirting on his cock with every forceful thrust. You're digging your nails into the sheets, leaning your upper body down against the soft pillows to cushion how hard he's fucking you all of a sudden.
“Titus, it's too much, I can't—” He answers your pleads by sliding his hand between your legs and rubbing your clit with the same intensity as he's fucking you, pulling gasp after gasp from your lips.
You're going to pass out from the orgasms, your mind going hazing from the constant release.
“You're going to kill me.” You can't possibly keep cumming like this. You'll lose your mind if you do. “You need to stop—”
“It's okay, love. You can take it.” He feels you drench his fingertips when he says that, still abusing your clit. “Just let it happen. Cum your brains out.”
You opt then to just bite the pillow beneath you, muffling your screams as he pounds into you ruthlessly, his fingers rubbing your swollen clit raw. The pleasure is endless, sweeping over you in intense waves.
There's nothing in your mind except for Titus. He's consumed you completely. You call out his name as you cum again and again.
This is everything he has been dreaming about. You, lost in the euphoria, giving into him. You'll never leave him now that you've had a taste of what he can do for you.
“I love you.” He loops on repeat as his thrusts get quicker, his orgasm inching closer.
Your words in response are completely incoherent, just cute little mumbles. You're so far gone, which pulls the most evil laugh out of Titus.
You're an absolute mess by the time he finally cums inside of you, your body unable to hold yourself up anymore. He pulls out of you, letting you collapse onto your side and then he plops down behind you, wrapping his arms around you, spooning you. He places warm kisses along your shoulder blades, rubbing your lower belly as you come down from your intense high. You moan a little when his fingers press in, making you well aware of how full you are inside.
“Maybe we should get you some birth control.” He says, nipping at your earlobe. “I want to enjoy fucking you a bit longer before I put a baby inside of you.”
“I have the arm implant.” Your words make him still.
“What?”
You chuckle, flipping over to look at him, “you didn't think I'd let you fuck me that raw the first time, did you?”
“You sneaky little girl.” He takes a bite out of your neck in protest, marking you quite obviously. “How dare you hide that from me.”
“I didn't hide it. I just…omitted the truth?” You smirk, showing him that you aren't just a bundle of sunshine.
You trapped him just as much as he trapped you.
Truly his equal, in every way.
“You know I'm going to have to punish you for that, love.” He will have to think up something good. Maybe tying you down and edging you until you're crying and begging to be fucked.
“I look forward to it, sir.” You say with a big smile before pulling him in for a kiss. Then, you breathe out with all the warmth in your afterglow, “I love you, Titus.”
“You're lucky I love you, or I would be very fucking pissed right now.” He can't believe you hid that from him.
“Mmm, maybe I like you angry.” You nuzzle his nose with yours. “You're never angry with me. It's a nice change of pace.”
He glares at you. “You might be the only person in the world who wants to piss me off.”
“And you love it!” You wrap your arms around him, hugging him.
“Yes. I do love it.” He lets out a sigh of defeat, smiling as he hugs you back, loving that the two of you can cuddle like this.
He has truly met his match.
Because you're as obsessed with him as he is with you.
A/N: Are y’all impressed at my willpower? I wanted to challenge myself and not have them fuck right away and oh my goodness was that a challenge! I love writing smut so much (so of course I had to still add lots of naughty smut haha) but I was craving a lovey dovey, cutesy, fucked up slow burn after my last fic so I hope you all enjoyed this read! ♡
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