#And there was more on the windscreen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sincerelyneo · 2 months ago

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life is a highway | n.jm

“i wanna ride it all night long”

💿now playing: life is a highway by rascal flatts

❯ summary: Being a nervous learner driver is hard enough, but throwing in your older brother’s hot, smug, patronising best friend to be your instructor? Yeah...definitely not making things easier.

❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: enemies to...fuck buddies? smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, arguing, hate sex, public sex, car sex, swearing, heavy petting, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, dirty talk, very tame degradation kink, literally them just arguing with each other for the entire 3k words.

an: this is very influenced by the british driving experience—hence the manual car propaganda.

Look, driving a manual is hard. There’s just too much stuff to remember all at once—gears, pedals, mirrors, observations. Honestly, you don’t understand why anyone who values their sanity would choose to drive a manual car. If it were up to you, you’d be driving around in an automatic. But it’s not up to you. Because your brother, Mark, is paying for your driving lessons.

And Mark, being the car-obsessed gearhead he is, insists that everyone should learn manual—“So you can drive any car, no limitations,” he preaches. Even when you dragged yourself through the front door on the Friday night of your third failed driving test, you thought maybe, just maybe, your stubborn older brother would show a little grace. Let you switch, take the easy route.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he did something worse.

He sent Jaemin.

Na Jaemin.

Mark’s old college roommate—who, according to your brother, is the best teacher in the world, a saint suited with endless patience and encouragement. But if those qualities exist, they’ve never made an appearance around you. Because, from the very first lesson (four torturous sessions ago), Jaemin’s been nothing but a snarky, patronising ass.

You hate him. And he hates you—clearly.

Sure, you may have driven on the wrong side of the road once. And stalled on a hill. And very nearly veered the two of you into oncoming traffic. But those were all accidents—you’re a learner. It’s not your fault.

Honestly, it’s Mark’s fault.

Because you’re already a nervous driver, and throwing in a hot, built guy who slouches into the passenger seat like he owns the car doesn’t exactly help. Not with his long legs spread wide, and that muscled arm draped casually along the window, long fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the doorframe.

It’s a distraction. He’s a distraction. A hot, smirking, condescending distraction with perfect teeth and zero empathy.

“The light is on green,” Jaemin says flatly.

You blink. “W-what?”

He doesn't even turn to look at you. Just gestures lazily toward the windscreen. “If you stopped checking me out, you’d see the traffic light has changed. That means go.”

Your jaw drops, and you finally peel your eyes off him, squinting at the green hue now glaring in your face. “I know, asshole.”

“Then go.”

You want to scream, but you don't. Instead, you slam the clutch, jam the car into first gear with more force than necessary, and the car jerks forward. You thank God, because you just narrowly avoidied stalling again, but Jaemin is never grateful.

“You’re snapping the clutch up too fast,” he comments. “You have to find the bite, then add gas. Keep revving the engine like that and you’re gonna wreck the clutch.”

“I was not revving the engine,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. But of course, that doesn’t stop him.

“You were. Because you’re scared of stalling. But if you actually planned ahead and stopped rushing—”

“I won’t stall, yeah, yeah, I know.” You cut him off, gripping the wheel tighter.

“Then apply it.”

You’re about to lose it. You hate the way he talks to you like you’re ten years younger than him—like you’re some clueless kid. It makes you want to punch him in that smug mouth of his. But that’d only prove his point that you’re immature and feed his ego.

So, you grit your teeth, suck in a breath, and try to ignore the way your heart’s thudding against your ribcage and your palms go slick on the wheel. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. But he makes it impossible to concentrate.

“You can’t drive around in first gear, this is a thirty zone.”

“I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t—fuck—pull the car over!”

His voice slices through the air and your stomach flips violently. You yank the wheel toward the kerb, the tires bouncing as the car lurches to a halt. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaemin’s lip twitch (about to make some smartass comment about you mounting the pavement) but the fury in your expression makes him think twice.

The second the engine cuts, you explode.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, unbuckling your seatbelt and twisting in your seat to face him. “If you hate this so much, then don’t show up! Mark’s not forcing you to sit in this car with me, Jaemin. I could find someone else to help me.”

“Oh, totally. I’d love to make room for driving instructor number eleven,” he bites.

"Then do it," you sneer, slumping back into the driver’s seat with a shrug, arms folded tight across your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Seriously, Y/N, I’m trying to help you," he says. "But you don’t listen. You never listen—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you actually helped. All I’ve heard for the past four weeks is how shit I am at this.”

“Because you’re not even trying! You act like my help is beneath you. You refuse to take any criticism.”

“Beneath me?” You laugh, bitter and breathless. “I’ve failed my test three times, you absolute dick! I clearly am trying! I’m trying so fucking hard. And all you do is sit there and mock me, which just makes it worse.”

“You need tough love! This isn’t a joke—driving is serious. People's lives are on the line. Your life is on the line.”

That makes you swallow.

“If you’re talking about that time I almost hit that cyclist, that wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere!”

Jaemin scoffs, shakes his head and tongues the side of his cheek. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You’re so terrified of failing again, so you never give yourself a real chance to get it right. You can’t let go of your pride, so every little mistake makes you panic, and you do something stupid. And then you blame everyone else for it.”

Your jaw drops. Then a furious exhale leaves your lungs. “You are—unbelievable. You’re such a—”

“You’re not listening to me,” Jaemin growls, cutting you off. “Again. You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care. Fuck you—”

But before you can finish the very creative insult forming in your throat, his hand shoots out—fisting the front of your hoodie, yanking you toward him. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Brutal and angry and heated.

You freeze. For one heartbeat. Then another.

Your whole body goes still—except your lips, which betray you, parting instinctively for him. You sink into it before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it might steady the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. It doesn’t.

Because he tastes like cinnamon and black coffee. So fucking predictable. So him. And, of course, unfairly good. Which just pisses you off more. He tastes good, and you like it.

The kiss is harsh. Messy. Teeth knock, lips drag, because even now, the two of you are fighting for control. There’s no rhythm. No grace. Just lust and resentment colliding together in the ugliest way possible.

His hand grips your hoodie tighter, like he doesn’t trust you not to pull away. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him for kissing you. He didn’t expect you to gasp, to open your mouth and let him in. Let his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and so damn hungry.

You feel the press of his thumb against your sternum, the subtle tremble in his wrist, and it hits you—weeks of tension finally snapping loose.

It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s—what the hell are you thinking?

You pull away first, shaking his grip off your hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaemin blinks, looking just as stunned as you feel—pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I don’t know... you just—fuck, you drive me insane," he mutters. "I just wanted to shut you up."

“Oh, so your first thought was to kiss me?” you snap, swiping your sleeve across your mouth like you can erase the feel of him. A small part of you is glad it doesn’t. “That’s how you deal with people who annoy you? Because if so, you need a HR department!”

“No,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “You’re not just people. You’re—you’re impossible to be around.”

"Maybe you’re the one with the issue!” you hiss. “Plenty of people enjoy my company. You just don’t know how to be around me without being a smug, condescending prick!"

His expression twists "I’m trying to fucking help you," he says. "But, clearly, you don’t want help. You just want to fight, don’t you? You want to pick a fight because that’s all you know how to do."

“Because you infuriate me!” you shout. “You barge in here, all patronising and hot, acting like you know everything, acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’re better than me—”

You don’t get to finish.

He lunges across the console before either of you can think better of it, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Again.

His seatbelt strains as he twists toward you. You meet him with equal force, kissing him back like you can knock some sense into him with your mouth.

He groans into it, deep and guttural, and then he’s hauling you closer, shoving his seatbelt over his head and dragging you half onto his lap. The centre console digs into your hip, but you don’t care. Your knees press against the door, your hand grips the headrest behind him. Every inch of the car feels too small for the way he’s kissing you. Too hot.

His hands are everywhere. One tangled in your hair, the other pressing flat against the small of your back like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You gasp when his mouth trails briefly to your jaw, your throat. “You’re such a jerk,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Shut up,” he mutters, before his lips crash into yours again.

And you do. You shut up (for once) letting him kiss you breathless while his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, calloused pads dragging over overheated skin. You shiver, nerves buzzing from the way your body is betraying you in all the worst ways. With the worst person,

“You're a nightmare,” he growls against your mouth.

“So stop kissing me,” you bite back, fingers fisting his t-shirt.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Your back hits the glovebox as he shifts, pulling you fully into his lap. Your knees knock against the dash, thighs bracketing his hips, breath catching as you straddle him in the cramped passenger seat. Your head tips back, knuckles going white where they clutch his shoulders.

“This is so stupid,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Say that again when you’re not grinding on me.”

You shove at his chest—but not hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”

His hands slide lower. Gripping. Pressing. Desperate. “Oh you’re going to.”

He rolls your hips against him, firm and rough, and you feel him—all of him. Hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The pressure sends a jolt through you, because if you’re really ‘going to’ fuck him, the size of him already has you intimidated.

You whimper despite yourself. It’s pathetic. Weak. And it turns him on so damn much.

His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck—why can’t you make those sounds with me all the time,” he groans, voice hoarse, “instead of running that pretty little mouth?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just keep grinding down, breath catching with each pass over his straining cock. You’re soaked. Your jeans are too tight. Everything is too hot. Too much.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He huffs a laugh, then brushes your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear. Teeth grazing. “We’ve already established you’re going to,” he smirks. “But first—”

His hand slides between your bodies.

“—you’re going to get yourself off on my thigh like the filthy girl I know you are.”

You’re about to repeat those two words again, but he captures them with a kiss—swallowing them down with a simple swipe of his tongue before he looks down to where you’re rutting against him.

You’re not sure when your jeans became the enemy, but they are now—tight, rough, in the way. Every twist of your hips adds to the unbearable friction, your breath catching in your throat with every grind. You’re not supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not with him.

But Jaemin’s thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—God, his hands—know exactly where to go, how to hold you steady and drive you crazy in the same breath.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he grits, fingers digging into your waist. “Can’t follow a single instruction when you’re behind the wheel, but now? Suddenly you’re fucking little miss obedient.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both.

“You think you’re funny?” you hiss, but your voice cracks as his thigh flexes, and your hips jolt in response. “You think you’re winning right now?”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek—just shy of a kiss. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, condescension dripping from every syllable, “I know I am.”

“You’re soaking,” he adds, palm skating down your front before slipping inside your jeans, into your panties.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable, smug bastard I’ve ever met,” you pant against his mouth. “And I hate you.”

“Good,” he breathes, before surging forward again.

His mouth trails downward—jaw, neck, collarbone. Tongue licking over one of the few marks he just made. Your hips jerk when he bites, just a little too hard—and he groans like he felt it in his own skin.

“Can’t believe you’re this wet for me and still have the nerve to talk back.”

“I can multitask,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist as he reaches for your jeans. He pauses, looking up so his eyes meet yours—and for a moment, the lust between you stutters.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, low and serious.

You hate how long you hesitate. Hate how breathless you sound when you whisper, “No.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then your jeans are open, and his fingers slide into your underwear—hot, teasing, and maddeningly slow. You cry out, head dropping to his shoulder, clutching at the back of his neck as two of his fingers start to circle your clit.

“God, you’re shaking,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna cum like this? From barely anything? What happened to all that attitude?”

“Shut up,” you whimper, grinding shamelessly into his hand. “Just shut the hell up—”

“Not a chance.”

His fingers dip lower, circling the wet entrance of your pussy before he presses in deeper, and your whole body tenses, that coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Come on, sweetheart. Prove me right. I love it when you do.”

You hate him. You really do. But your body doesn’t care. It burns and trembles and demands more. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he curls his fingers just right—and then you’re falling apart, hips jerking, a strangled cry ripped from your throat before you can stop it.

Jaemin doesn’t stop until you’re trembling in his lap, wrecked and slick with sweat. When you finally lift your head to look up at him, he’s watching you intensely. Quiet for once. Hell, if you knew letting him finger you would shut him up, you’d have let him a long time ago.

Then, slowly, patronisingly slowly, he pulls his hand from your jeans, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

You slap his shoulder. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins around his fingers. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, still breathless. You glance down. His hands are still on your hips. “Let go of me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans in, lazily sucking another finger. “I already did.”

Your hand moves before you think—gripping his chin, nails digging into his jaw. Not a slap. Not a kiss. Just heat. Just challenge.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” you whisper. “Keep pushing, and I might actually lose control and kill you!”

That look flashes in his eyes again—that dangerous glint that says he likes it when you fight. But instead of rising to the bait, he just smirks.

“I am pushing,” he says. “But you’re the one currently dripping down my thigh. So tell me, sweetheart…” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Who’s really in control?”

You don’t answer. Just stare. Flushed. Still trembling, still aching. Then, leisurely, you lean in—close enough that his breath stalls.

“I am,” you bite, nipping his bottom lip as you yank his hoodie up over his shoulders. “And I’m going to prove it.”

He grins—wild and eager. “Then fucking show me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hoodie, dragging it off with enough force to make his smirk falter, only slightly. His eyes are black now—blown wide with want, with need—and for the second time ever in his life, Jaemin is silent.

He just watches.

And you take.

Your mouth slams into his, teeth biting at his lip before you drag your mouth down to his neck, sucking onto the skin to return your own mark. His hands fumble with your jeans again, this time yanking them down your thighs enough to slip your panties to the side.

You help shove his sweatpants down past his ass—just far enough to free his cock. And then he’s wrapping a hand around himself, fisting his length with slow, deliberate strokes—taunting, as you watch with parted lips.

He’s so big and thick and pretty, your brain starts pounding like it’s bitten off more than it can handle. You hesitate for a moment, but then you remember—this is about proving you still have control. You want this. You want to prove him wrong.

So, you slide back into his lap, straddling him fully, your bare skin meeting his with a gasp that rips through both of you. His hand slides between your thighs again, not to guide—just to tease. Just to feel how ready you are.

“Scared?” he mocks in a we whisper.

You glare, reaching down to line him up with your pussy. “Shut up.”

Then you sink down—slow, agonising—and you both break at the same time.

“Fuck—” he grits, head falling back, eyes rolling. “You feel—holy shit.”

You can barely breathe. He’s thick, hot, stretching you just past the edge of pain—grounding you in something that feels too good to be allowed. It’s not fair that a guy like him gets to be this good at fucking. But here he is. Fingers digging into your hips, guiding you into a rhythm that’s filthy, desperate, and anything but slow.

You ride him like it’s a fight. Like you want to ruin him. And he meets you stroke for stroke, jaw clenched, sweat collecting at his temple as your bodies slap together—fast, ruthless. No pretense. No sweetness.

Just want.

Just need.

Just hate.

“I hate how good you feel,” you choke out.

He bites down on your shoulder. “Say it again.”

You moan, louder this time, not caring about the volume or the fact that you’re fucking your instructor at the side of the road. Not caring that it’s Jaemin.

“I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate you, I hate you so much—”

His hand snakes up to curl around your throat. It’s not tight but barely there. A light pressure, just enough, to make your head spin.

“Then cum on my cock,” he growls. “One more time. Hate me for it.”

And you do.

You shatter around him, body convulsing and twitching as your mouth falls open in a broken sob that catches against his lips. He follows a heartbeat later with a ruined, throaty moan, driving into you one last time as he spills inside you—deep, hot, messy.

And then it’s quiet.

You stay there, slumped against his chest for a moment. His hand drifts up your spine, strangely gentle now, thumb brushing the back of your neck. But then, a moment later, it does hit you.

You scramble off his lap, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, panties already ruined as his cum starts to leak out of you. You refuse to meet his eyes.

“I still hate you,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, casual as ever, tugging up his sweatpants with a smirk. “I’m giving you another lesson tomorrow. Same time.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting in a car with you again.”

“You’ll show,” he says,” Because you want to pass your test, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” he chuckles, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Now that I know you can follow instructions, if you listen to me—I'll make you cum again. You seemed to really enjoy yourself.”

You hate him.

#nct smut #jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #jaemin x reader #kpop smut #nct hard hours #nct scenarios #nct one shot

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macawthestarwing · 1 month ago

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YES MY FELLOW INANIMATE INSANITY DRAGON DRAW-ER YES BEAUTIFUL

YES ANOTHER WINGS OF FIRE X INANIMATE INSANITY AU YEEEEESSSS

But like seriously I'm so proud of these drawings I LOVE how they came out and I just want to explode because I love them so much and it would be greatly appreciated if you rebloged this!!! I have also FINALLY decided to give windscreen Mic a dragon design!!!(still workshoping tho) OH RIGHT MY DRAGON DESIGNS WILL BE ON MY ARTFIGHT!! (Linked under as well as a little rant)

If this does well and doesn't flop PLEASE DONT LET THIS FLOP OMG PLEASE then I'll post more about my silly little dragon AU :3

OH DEAR LORD ALOT OF UM DRAGONS!!! Umm okkk so I might have made a little wings of fire inspired ii au,

Ok so I'm kinda taking inspo from the jade mountain academy for hotel oj, except hotels oj is really just a bunch of dens that all of the contests stay in, all connected within the mountion so most of the rooms are connected one way or another, not all rooms have an exit out of the mountain so some of the contests have to go through the mountain to get to the main exit.

I would imagine oj and paper probably have a room near the entrance of the "hotel" because they are the managers of it an need to see all who gose in and out, and most of the time at least one of them is awake at all times, so basically normal cannon stuff (I'm pretty sure thats cannon seems like It would be)

DO NOT ASK ABOUT THE OJ DESIGNS I DONT HAVE ONE YET I KNOW IT LOOKS BAD 😭😭

#wings of fire #inanimate insanity #wof #ii #ii taco #microphone ii #inanimate insanity tacomic #windscreen mic (tacomic fanchild)#yay more dragons

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moonchildstyles · 5 days ago

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the bunny

the swan final part: tonight marked the end of swan lake, but there was still so much more y/n wanted

wordcount: 18k+

—————

(Y/N) bounced on her toes as she stood around her apartment building. Her tote bag, packed with snacks and a change of clothes, hung from her shoulder. From where she stood, she could spot her car in its usual parking spot.

A smile bloomed on her features when a familiar sleek SUV pulled into the car park. She couldn't see through the glare on the windscreen, but that didn't stop her from picturing the raspberry lips and lily pad eyes of her... Harry.

Or whatever he was to her. Her best friend maybe? If having a best friend meant wanting to kiss all over his blushed face until there isn't a piece of him she didn't know.

It'd only been a week since he spilled his secrets to her on her sofa while she sniffled through a runny nose and hid her face in his neck in a way to both comfort him and to hide the blaring light from her sore eyes. He hadn't been able to stay too much longer after that intimate moment on the couch, but Harry had made a point to stay in contact with her everyday since.

It had started with check-ins to ensure she felt better through her illness, but hearing about her symptoms only lasted for a few messages each day before he was texting her just to hear from her. There was no longer a veil between them, that thin separation that had formed from Harry's cautiousness and (Y/N)'s constant reminder of what she didn't know. Now all of that was gone, leaving only everything easy.

That quiet affection she'd been holding for him no longer had a roadblock stopping her from getting butterflies in her stomach and a giddy pattering of her heart when she saw him. She no longer forced herself to wait a couple of minutes when a text message came in from him. When she returned to the stage after a couple of days of recovery, she didn't hesitate to look up at his balcony the second she touched the boards.

When Harry pulled up to the curb in front of her, she barely waited long enough for him to put the car in park before she was bounding towards him. Pulling open the door, she hopped in before he even had a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt in an attempt to be a gentleman and grab the door for her.

"Hey you," she chirped, her grin scrunching her eyes.

"Hi," he greeted, a shy smile on his lips as a soft pink glow emerged over his cheeks. He made no move to pull away as she settled in, instead lingering his gaze on her.

"Thanks for picking me up today," she said, dropping her bag at her feet as she shifted to face him as much as she could in the passenger seat. "You're really okay with waiting so long after the show?"

He didn't hesitate before he was nodding his head, matching her gaze earnestly. "Of course. What else do I have going on?"

There was a moment as he gazed at her that felt far too intimate for the front seat of his car in the middle of the afternoon, the weight not quite matching the levity of his tone. He mimicked her body language as much as he could with the steering wheel in the way, his eyes stitched to her own before they shattered into a soft blink, lashes fluttering as the grazed his cheekbones. It was the kind of look filmed in a perfume ad with the fragrance meant to be selling something dreamy and alluring. (Y/N)'s skin warmed at the look.

Breaking eye contact as she reached for her phone out of her bag, restless fingers adjusting her leg warmers as if there weren't supposed to be so many folds in the scrunched fabric.

"I don't know, but definitely not work," she attempted to tease, hoping her words came off as unbothered as she wished she was. It was an inside joke of their's, something (Y/N) pointed out when they had spent a few nights in a row with Harry shamelessly texting her into the late hours of the night.

"Definitely not," he played along, grin stretching his raspberry lips as he finally pulled away from the curb. Heading out of her complex, he peeked at her from the corner of his eye. "I meant to text you before I left m'place, but did you want to stop at Coco's on the way?"

(Y/N) lit up at the mention of her favorite cafe, the warm tension that had squeezed her stomach leaving her in an instant. Her mind was now filled with the cafe's specialty matcha menu—including their year round raspberry cold foam topper.

"You already know what I'm going to say."

Harry let out a laugh at her words, already taking the turn to set them in the direction of Coco's. "Jus' thought I'd ask before I started driving you all over town when 'm supposed to be taking y'to work."

Laying her head against the rest, (Y/N) traced her eyes over the lines of his profile with what she was sure was plain affection swimming in her features. He had such a nice nose.

"I wouldn't have questioned it," she admitted, settling in as she watched him, "Did your morning get any better?"

He sighed as his hands flexed around the wheel. Earlier in the day, Harry had told her he was visiting one of his galleries a little further out of town only to walk into one of their featured artists crying as one of their paintings was sold off to a collector. A painting that they had already made money on when selling it to Harry's gallery, and would be earning a portion of commission on from this sale. It was the kind of situation that wasn't written about in business manuals or HR policy books.

"'M talking to an HR rep to see if there's anything we can do contract-wise about getting involved in any sales, or if they just won't be a features artist anymore. I felt bad, but there's nothing I can do once the paperwork is signed."

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth. She didn't envy him in the slightest. "Did they say anything after they stopped crying?"

"They didn't. Stop crying, I mean."

Picturing a clean, modern art gallery with glamorous canvases hung on the walls, a patron eagerly admiring their new buy while someone stood sobbing was... hard at the least. All while Harry was supposedly looking on, attempting to diffuse a situation he wouldn't have even had to deal with had he stayed within the confines of the city that morning. It wasn't funny exactly—it wasn't funny that someone was crying over a piece of their work—but it felt like something out of a silly movie. The more dramatic she pictured it, the more comical the moment felt.

Stifling her growing amusement, (Y/N) covered her mouth. "That's so sad. I hope they're okay."

Another peek at her from the corner of his eye. "Y'can laugh—'m sure 's even more uncomfortable than what you're picturing. 'S alright."

"I feel so bad, though," (Y/N) insisted though she couldn't quite hold back the airy giggle that escaped her. "That's so sad."

"Don't feel too bad," Harry countered, pulling up to one of the few street parking spots in front of Coco's, "From what I hear, after I left they went after the collector and tried to get him to give it back. By yelling. In the street."

"Oh!" she bubbled, allowing a wave of laughter to take her this time. Drama in the art community—who would have seen it coming? "That's not quite right."

"Exactly," he mused, moving to unbuckle his seatbelt while eyeing the short line through the flossy front windows of the cafe. "Jus' want your usual?"

"That's what I was thinking," she answered, plucking her wallet out of her tote bag, "Hopefully they still have some raspberry—"

"Y'don't have to go in if y'don't want," he cut her off before she could reach for her own buckle. "It looks a little busy inside."

She followed his line of sight and did see a handful of people waiting for their drinks with a line of three deep waiting to order. It wasn't super busy, but it was definitely a bit more than she'd like to deal with right now in her warm up leotard.

"Are you sure?" she pressed, slipping her card from her wallet.

Harry decisively nodded his head. "I think I remember your order, so I should be alright."

(Y/N) tipped her head, hand stalling with her card. "You do?"

As far as she remembered, she only texted it to him once almost a week ago when she had mentioned this cafe in the first place. And it was really just a one a.m. babble about how more places should offer raspberry cold foam.

"Iced matcha with oat milk with vanilla and as much raspberry cold foam as they'll let you get away with. Light ice, too, so it doesn't get all caught up on the lid when you're trying to drink."

He said it without a shred of doubt. He didn't think he remembered her order—he definitely remembered.

"That's it," she said, a breathy laugh filling the air between them. Blinking herself out of her head and the implications she was spinning, she offered her card out to him. "Just tip whatever you want."

Harry barely glanced at her offering before a small pinch formed between his brows. "I've got you, don't worry."

"No, Harry," she insisted, "Just take it, you're already driving me."

"'M alright," he dismissed, moving towards his door. "Lock everything while 'm gone, I'll keep it running for you."

"Harry, reall—"

He was already rounding the bonnet of his car before she could even finish her words.

She really wanted to be offended. He shouldn't dismiss her offer of paying for herself, especially when she was in the middle of her debate. She was a working woman in a big city who could take care of herself just fine. She didn't need Harry to buy her little drink before she went on stage as the prima ballerina of Swan Lake.

But it sure felt nice.

He didn't even entertain the idea, dismissing it wordlessly. He already decided he was taking care of it all when he offered the detour, she figured. All after he had read off her order as if from memory and not a throwaway text sent in the middle of the night.

She attempted to bite back her smile as she slid her card away.

—————

"Jeez, since when was this supposed to be happening?"

Harry's muttered huff carried over the quiet radio as he made a second U-turn to head back towards the theater. The car park outside the stage door was already small enough, but with a section of it being corded off by a slew of construction vehicles—despite the work being performed on a neighboring building. All that was left was street parking for the time being. At least until five p.m.

Nonetheless, Harry parked his car off in one of the slim street parking spots and started calculating what time he would have to come out and move it to avoid getting towed.

"Sorry," (Y/N) said, a frown on her lips, "If I had known this was going on, I wouldn't have made you drive me."

"'S not your fault," he waved off, peering out his window with a stern brow to look for any oncoming cars before pushing his door open, "Ready?"

"Oh yeah, sorry," she scrambled to grab her tote and her slick iced matcha.

She caught up to him while digging through her bag for her phone, hoping there was some kind of message from any of the others about what to expect with the construction crew outside. From her periphery, she thought she was catching up to Harry and following his cue as he crossed the street.

Until an arm shot out across her chest before she could step onto the asphalt. (Y/N) jumped back, finally looking up from her bag to see Harry looking down the road with his jaw set in a harsh line.

"Hold on," Harry murmured, corralling her closer to him as a car went barreling past.

"Oh," she sounded, looking up at him and the way he practically scowled at the car even as it grew smaller in the distance. "Thanks."

It was so silly, so bottom of the barrel, completely bare-minimum, but there was something about him grabbing her like that to keep her from walking into the street like that. He didn't shout or push, just quietly pulled her to his side.

Very dreamy, Siobhan would say. Very, very dreamy, (Y/N) agreed.

"Yeah," he said, still looking rather irritated as she blinked up at him, "People need to be more careful. He didn't even look at us."

"Right," (Y/N) nodded, hyperaware of the way his arm slid around her until his hand was wrapped around her wrist.

There was a moment, standing where they were on the pavement for a beat, where his hand stayed right where it was. She wasn't sure if he could see her from the corner of his eye with the way he was carefully patrolling the street in front of them. But she still moved her hand that much, shaking off his own until she was lacing their fingers together.

Harry's only noticeable reaction came in the form of a flutter of his lashes and a soft flush touching his cheeks.

He didn't speak again as he walked with her, their hands laced together between them, towards the stage door. He made a point to keep his eyes ahead, all while (Y/N) happily followed with the straw of her matcha tucked between her lips. She couldn't help her smile, especially not when he squeezed her hand as they passed the construction crew on break. He kept her particularly close after that.

"Do you want to come in with me?" (Y/N) asked as they approached the stage door, hands still laced together.

"I've got to track down Ariel," he sighed, already peering around to the front office area, the space she spent most of her time prior to showtime. "I'll see y'after, though, yeah?"

"Yeah," (Y/N) nodded, already looking forward to whatever bouquet of flowers he would surprise her with. Especially since she didn't spot even a single petal on the way here—how he would get a new bouquet between now and showtime, she wasn't sure but she looked forward to the reveal nonetheless. "See you later, Harry."

"What was that word?" Harry mused, cutting himself off just as his eyes lit up, "Merde!"

(Y/N) let out a boisterous laugh at the pronunciation she had vaguely taught him through voice notes a few days prior. How he'd been a part of the arts for this long and hadn't heard of the French slang for good luck, (Y/N) couldn't believe it. She did have a fun time teaching him, though.

"Thank you," she beamed, "I didn't think you'd remember—we talked about that at like four in the morning on a Wednesday."

Harry only shrugged, a bashful smile on his lips as he dropped his gaze to their twined hands. "I've got a good memory."

It was the way he looked at her through his lashes, the squeeze of his hand around hers, that carried with her even after they said goodbye and Harry waited for her to be safely tucked behind the stage door before going off in his own direction. Not even placing the straw to her matcha between her lips was enough to keep a smile from blooming across her features.

"Hey," Lydia chirped, slowing down her bustling as she caught sight of (Y/N). Her gaze turned suspicious as she took in the light glowing through her expression. "What's got you all happy?"

"Nothing," (Y/N) shook off, starting towards her dressing room on light feet. "Just excited for the show."

"That's good," Lydia mused, clearly not believing (Y/N)'s words. "Good matcha at least? From Coco's?"

"Oh yeah. No where else to get the right cherry foam that doesn't taste like cough syrup."

Lydia fell into step with (Y/N) as they traipsed through the backstage area. "I thought you weren't going there for a while since you’re broke?"

(Y/N) laughed at her words, remembering the exact day she had made the declaration after looking at her bank account after a night out. "Well, I didn't pay for this one so it doesn't count."

"Oh?" Lydia trained her surprised gaze right on (Y/N)'s giddy smile. A slight narrow thinned her eyes.

There was a part of (Y/N) that knew better than to start blabbing about Harry to each of the dancers. She'd seen first hand just how quickly news traveled amongst the cast—as well as just how long a rumor could linger within the company and be spread as fact.

But, (Y/N) knew she had nothing to be ashamed about. She knew the truth about Harry and the messy past he held. It wasn't so bad if the girls knew, she thought. If anything, maybe if the rest of the company could see there wasn't anything to be scared of when it came to Harry, it would lessen the claws that had hooked into him years ago.

"Harry got it for me."

As expected, Lydia's eyes widened, brows shooting halfway up her forehead. "Oh. I didn't know he was here already."

"He drove me today actually."

Lydia paused. "Is your car acting up again?"

"No," (Y/N) chirped, stepping carefully over a set piece. "He just offered to pick me up today since we were going to the same place anyway."

"Oh," Lydia parroted, the gears beginning to turn in her head as she shot (Y/N) a pointed look once they were outside of the dressing room door. "Are you guys... together? I know he's been around a lot more, but..."

(Y/N) shrugged, absently taking a sip of her matcha, "I wouldn't say that. We are friends, though. He helped take care of me that weekend when I was sick."

This seemed to be more than Lydia had hoped for when she started this line of questioning. (Y/N) caught the way she peered around them, spotting the stage hands on the other side of the stage before training her gaze pointedly on (Y/N).

"Is everything... okay? Are you okay?"

(Y/N) blinked. She had counted on this being one of the questions, though that didn't really ease her any. "I'm fine—really. It's not really my story to tell," she started, lowering her voice, "but you guys do need to know you're wrong about Harry—about all of the rumors. I don't blame anyone for worrying or anything, but I promise you it's not at all like what people were saying. I really am okay." Lydia scanned her eyes down (Y/N)'s form as if to corroborate her story. (Y/N) tried her best not to be offended. "I just want you guys to give him a chance," (Y/N) pressed onward, "He's incredibly kind and very forgiving given the circumstances around here. It's really okay."

Lydia rolled her lips between her teeth, dropping her gaze to the floor between them. A beat passed before she perked up again. "You understand how I feel too, though, right? How we all feel? Being nervous for you and everything."

"Of course," (Y/N) chirped, a soft smile on her lips, "You just have to trust that I'm telling you the truth."

"I do," Lydia immediately answered, nodding her head as if to self assure her words, "He has been really nice when he's hung around. I'll back off a little—sorry."

"It's okay. That's all I'm asking," (Y/N) smiled, collecting her friend into a short hug before backing towards her dressing room. "Warm ups at four, right?"

Lydia, eyes finally free of that lingering doubt, nodded her head. "Right."

Sealing herself away with her matcha and tote bag in her dressing room, (Y/N) could only assume that her words would be spreading through the company soon enough. There would be a few messages from Siobhan and Kingston most likely, but she hoped this would only ease things for Harry. Even if a few less suspicious eyes landed on him, that would be enough, she thought. If only Lydia came out of this believing that (Y/N) knew better about these rumors, she'd take it.

Anything to make things easier for Harry. Anything she could do for him.

—————

With Kingston holding her hand, (Y/N) was guided offstage as the raucous applause from the audience died down. The curtain had closed, leaving only a gauzy projection of the Swan Lake title card on the velvet.

Another successful show. A breath of relief deflated (Y/N)'s chest.

With each step they hustled back stage, stray flower petals fell from the fluff of her skirt, creating a trail that followed her through the set pieces. Kaleb—in full monster Rothbart regalia—followed behind them, decidedly less out of breath since getting to spend the final moments of the show pretending to be dead behind a cliff. With her own breathing finally regulating and the sound of the crowd outside waning, she turned to Kingston.

"I'm so sorry I kicked you—I didn't think I was that close," she bubbled off, sure he could still feel the weight of her pointe shoe kicking at his shin during a twirl as the black swan.

"You kicked me?" he questioned, blinking owlishly at her.

(Y/N) laughed, familiar with the game he was playing. "Stop it, I know you felt it. Do you think anyone else noticed?"

"Maybe the tears in my eyes, but I'm sure they think I was just really into the story."

"Stop," (Y/N) laughed again, collecting Kingston into a hug. "I really am sorry. I hope it doesn't bruise too bad."

"It wasn't that bad," Kingston reassured her, dropping his playful act as he pulled away from their hug, "I really didn't feel it, and I doubt anyone noticed."

"Let me know if it hurt later, though," she pressed, "I have a bunch of that lotion so I can give you some if you need."

"It's fine, (Y/N). Really." Kingston flitted his gaze over her shoulder, spotting something in the way of her dressing room. "Besides, I think you'd got more exciting things to worry about tonight anyway. Hi Harry!"

(Y/N) couldn't help the way she perked up, whipping her head around to find Harry standing at her dressing room door. A large bouquet of roses was tucked in his hands, petals a delicate pink with velveteen leaves of lambs ear stuck in between. Though he was still just as reserved as usual as the cast began pouring back in, a grin unfurled on his lips when he caught her eye. Though, he, of course, still politely waved at Kingston, keeping from shouting across the space.

"Oh," she sounded, glancing back at Kingston though it was hard to take her gaze off of Harry for long. "I should... Do you think he's waiting for me?"

"No, the pink roses and the ribbon with little swans on it is for me. Duh."

Another peal of laughter came from (Y/N) as she playfully pushed her Prince Siegfried. "Shut up. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, babe."

Kingston sent her off with a push to her back, flower petals falling from her flowing skirt as she bounced over to her Harry. A few stage hands and members of her wedge of swans stopped her to congratulate her on another successful show or to bid her a goodnight, though she wasn't the only one catching attention by her dressing room.

More than one cast member or production aide stopped to say hello to Harry. One of the swans, hairpiece already slipped off with a makeup wipe clearing away the feathers painted on her skin, even stopped to compliment Harry on the flowers and ask him if he was going to be in house again for tomorrow's show. Even from where (Y/N) was standing, still working her way over expensive set pieces and bundles of cords and ropes and light fixtures, she could tell Harry was taken aback. She could only imagine the stuttering response he gave and the polite thank you that followed, though the flowers were all the florist's work. Because he was a modest guy. Kind to a fault.

It'd been only a week—only two days in theater with two extra rehearsal days at the studio—since (Y/N) had confided in Lydia. Though, that seemed to be just enough time for everything to be spread around like she hoped. Even time for opinions to be shifted and minds to be opened.

By the time she made it over, (Y/N) had also discarded her hairpiece and attempted to brush all of the petals from her skirt.

"Hey," she smiled, reaching for the door to her dressing room, "How did you get back here so fast?"

"I know the stage manager," he teased, following after her into the quiet of the green room.

"Right," she laughed, taking a seat at her vanity to start unlacing her pointes. "It looks like you made a few friends out there."

Harry shrugged though there was a distinct flush touching his cheeks. "I don't know. I think everyone jus' liked the flowers I got for you."

"Those are for me?" she sang, batting her eyelashes at him in faux-innocence.

His grin only widened as he passed them along, the parchment paper crinkling under her hands. "I jus' found them on the way in. Didn't know what to do with them, so y'can have them I guess," he teased despite the bright eyes that watched for her reaction.

Touching her nose to one of the buds, (Y/N) pulled in a deep breath. The velveteen floral scent of the roses, backed by the slightly sweet scent of apples from the lamb's ear. The furls were soft under her touch, the fuzz on the lamb's ear feeling like a peach.

"They're really beautiful, Harry. Thank you." She beamed up at him as she delicately examined the arrangement. A card placed securely amongst the flowers brandished a familiar, rudimentary drawing of a swan. Almost identical to the one she had tucked away at her house.

While she hadn't ever doubted that those first flowers came from Harry, especially as the show went on for weeks without a single person claiming them. But this, the little sketch with blocky lines, was the confirmation she needed to send her heart soaring out of this theater and up to the stars.

"'M happy y'like them," he murmured, growing shy with his knuckle coming up to nudge at the tip of his nose. He cleared his throat, a blush on his cheeks even as he steered the conversation elsewhere, "Did Ariel want to meet with you tonight?"

(Y/N) shook her head, admiring her flowers still. "Not tonight. We're close enough to the end of the run that I think she just wants us to have fun."

"That's good," Harry insisted, "Y'can have an early night then."

Right, (Y/N) thought. All she needed to do was get unready and Harry would take her home until she would see him again tomorrow for the next show. Something in that thought dampened (Y/N)'s mood, picturing herself with her bouquet of flowers alone in her apartment. She was on too much of a high to end her night like that.

While she didn't necessarily have the energy for a night out, having some company for a night in didn't sound so bad.

Blinking up at him, (Y/N) wished she knew what he saw on her face that had his pupils dilating and mouth puffing into a small gape.

"Are you doing anything tonight, Harry?"

—————

Harry gaped, brow furrowed with chopsticks hovering in the air, up at her television screen. (Y/N) couldn't see a scrape of comprehension as he took in the film playing before them.

"This is the movie that made y'want to be a ballerina?"

(Y/N) let out a peal of laughter, pausing in her own take down of a spring roll. "Yes! Is that so hard to believe?"

She followed his gaze to the bright t.v. The lights in her apartment had been dimmed to give the ambiance of a movie theater despite the less-than-movie-theater kind of budgeting that went into the film playing for them. The animation was rudimentary, blocky and singular in the details of the characters. Nonetheless, (Y/N) still admired the colors and the fluidity of the movements. The voices and scenes were a comfort, taking her back to a time when the world was everything and anything she wanted it to be.

Including a dream to be a ballerina in her own Swan Lake. Just like Barbie.

"Is this a real movie? In theaters and everything?" Harry pressed, still determined to figure out how a children's movie starring Barbie set (Y/N) off in her dreams to pointe across the boards herself.

(Y/N) canted her head, rolling his question around. "I don't think it was in theaters, no. I think it was straight to DVD or something. I had the Barbie to match."

Harry made a small huh as he took in the beginning scenes of Odette's story. It wasn't too different from what she acted out every weekend, though there were definitely a few discrepancies. Especially when it came to some of the child animals. And Rothbart's daughter. And the unicorn.

Barbie was an original, what could she say?

Nonetheless, (Y/N) was not immune to the nostalgia she felt watching the story play out and the feeling in her chest when the music played.

"Will you just watch it, please? I'm letting you in on a secret, you know," (Y/N) playfully chided, bumping her shoulder to Harry's. "It's good, I promise. It has a better ending than our's anyway."

"We'll see," Harry countered, though (Y/N) was sure she already won with the way he looked at her with a small smile.

Silence settled between them as the movie went on, only being interrupted by Harry when he laughed at the serious moments with bad animation. Even that couldn't keep (Y/N) from falling into the scenes playing out in front of her. She enjoyed it too much, remembering her days of rewinding Odette's transformation into a swan, the nights she would spend staying up too late to learn the dances before her parents would hear her stomping around and send her to bed. There had been plenty of throw blankets that had been makeshift gowns, the fabric tied around her waist with a voluminous train as she twirled and twirled in her bedroom. (Until her gown would get twisted around her legs and send her off balance anyway).

This movie was the reason she spent an adolescent birthday at the ballet, where she saw the real story with real Barbies and ballerinas and swans on stage. This was where she began her journey to where she was now.

On screen, Odette and her Siegfried (aptly named Daniel, as Ken didn't really look like a Siegfried here) danced along the shore of the lake, looked on by the creatures of the forest as they fell in love with every step. This had always been one of (Y/N)'s favorite moments of the movie—the central love story coming together over the most beautiful of soundtracks.

With his chopsticks picking through the carton of rice in front of him, Harry nudged her gently. "We tell each other secrets now, right?"

"Of course," she muttered, shooting him a small smile, "I just told you my favorite movie is a Barbie movie from 2003, so we better be sharing secrets. I feel an uneven balance of embarrassment right now."

Harry dropped his head, a lopsided smile on his lips as he looks to the grains of rice he was pushing around with his chopsticks. "'S—uh—... I know Kingston isn't interested—would never be—and I've gotten better about it since the show started running, but 's hard not to be a little... jealous when you're dancing up there with him."

It took less than a second for (Y/N) to hear his words, a moment to comprehend and register the meaning, but far longer to react. All she could feel was the flutter in her chest, the squeeze of her lungs. Her stomach even hurt with the way it was immediately full with something so warm and floaty and full.

Jealous. Harry was jealous. Jealous of Kingston, who was not shy about his sexuality and how it very ardently did not include women. All because Kingston had the role of playing her love interest and got to dance with her.

All because Kingston got to be close to her.

Attempting to not look as giddy as she felt, (Y/N) absently poked at the last spring roll on her Styrofoam box. "Really?"

Harry shot her a look from the corner of his eyes, the apples of his cheeks going pink in the limited light from the movie. "Yeah," he mumbled, "'S not serious or anything, but... yeah."

"You know Kingston would never with me, right?"

"I know, I know," Harry waved her off, forcing a short laugh out, "'S just—'M sure being up there with you... it's something special. 'S hard not to imagine... Nevermind." Cutting himself off, another short, airy laugh replaced Harry's voice as he shook his head.

(Y/N) didn't know what she was feeling. How to describe the kind of energy coursing through her. She felt giddy and excited, eager to start an adventure that could last them all night. Though with all of that excitement, she felt knocked off balance. Butterflies bat at the chambers of her heart, but their wings anchored her to the ground instead of floating off into the sky.

She just hoped, so badly, she wasn't reading this wrong. That Harry was saying what she thought he was. That he was confessing to a feeling she had wrapped up herself and put away for no one else to see.

Forcing out a small laugh, she attempted to come off not nearly as giddy as she felt. Nudging his side, she dropped her gaze to his hands, too nervous to look at his face. "Ooh," she sang, a teasing sound that hid the tremor in her body, "You wanted to be close to me instead?"

A single dimple dented Harry's pinked cheek as he looked at her. "You know that."

She swallowed, mouth dry. "Do I?"

Harry tipped his head, feigning thought as the movie scenes flashed across his face in strobes of pink and blue. "I guess I do give every dancer bouquets after every show, drive them around town, and text them all night long. I have been giving some mixed signals."

A bubble of laughter burst out of (Y/N) then. Her skin warmed as he listed out all of these ways he'd been showing he cared for her. Wanted to be at her side. His teasing voice, the way he plays with her only made her that much more antsy sitting next to him.

These moments—a confession of feelings, if that's what this was becoming—could be over Chinese takeaway and a childhood film. It could be with stray glitters stuck to her skin and fly away hairs that didn't quite have all of the gel brushed out. It could be with a bruised foot from the amount of fouettés she'd performed earlier in the night and Harry's placemat littered with stray grains of rice from the amount of times he lost control of his chopsticks. It could be with dried roses pinned to her walls and Tupperware she'd been meaning to return to the owner.

"Maybe," she started, speaking through her smile, "you just have to be a little more clear."

Harry looked at her then, lilypad green flecked with specks of warm gold. The space between their cushions suddenly seemed too big. Too wide for what she wanted.

It was hard to tell with the way her thoughts tangled and diverged all at once, just who closed the distance first, but that didn't really matter when the end result came with her lips pressed to his.

It was sweet and careful the way he pressed into her, the ridges of his mouth lining up with hers as if made to fit. Dinner was pushed to the side in favor of reaching for one another, chopsticks rolling to her rug. Harry held her steady with his hand on her cheek as he tipped his head just so, deepening their short kiss into something more languid. The tip of his nose glanced along her cheek, the touch eliciting a small smile on her puckered lips.

Of course Harry felt it, pulling away just enough for the full of his mouth to still graze hers. His own lips upturned into a smile. "What?"

"Nothing," (Y/N) giggled, reaching up to take his jaw in her hands, "Your nose just touched me—tickled."

"Oh," he breathed, dotting a kiss to the corner of her mouth, "Sorry."

"No, no," she shook off right away, chasing his mouth for another long kiss, "I like your nose."

"Yeah? That's a new one." Her smile only widened when she watched him cross his eyes, scrunching his nose.

Tipping his head with her hands on his jaw, (Y/N) pressed a kiss to the tip of his scrunched nose. "It's a pretty nose."

Harry didn't respond with words, only pulling her back to his mouth. Their lips slotted together with her bottom one between his two. It was sweet and new, both of them feeling out what the other liked with tips of their head and presses of their mouths. It'd been a while since she had a first kiss, but she didn't remember the learning phase ever being this thrilling.

His stubble prickled under her hands as he pressed into her mouth that much more, feeling the give her lips underneath. The way his jaw worked as he kissed at her bottom lip, a slight draw of his tongue running along the pillow. There was nothing urgent about the way he tested the waters, tasting her kiss. Just the want to know her, to feel her, the way she was eager to know him.

Harry was the first to draw back as the ending credits of the movie started playing. The flashes of white across the black screen shone over their features, glancing over the light in his eyes and the shine covering his mouth. The very tip of his nose now sported a stray fleck of glitter, no doubt caught from grazing her cheek.

A bright smile bloomed across her lips.

"What?" Harry asked again, the pad of his thumb running along her soft undereye.

(Y/N) swiped at the glitter, removing the fleck from his skin. "Nothing. I just like your nose."

He kissed her again.

—————

27 shows done, only 3 to go! Merde everyone!

(Y/N) smiled at the mass text that was sent to the whole company from Ms. Ariel. This was the last week of the ten week run that their Swan Lake production had done, with only three more shows standing for the weekend.

While this was now (Y/N)'s fifth production with the company, this final set felt so much more significant. Not only because she was the prima and would be retiring Odette after this Saturday night, but with everything she'd learned these last ten weeks. Not even including the months they spent rehearsing and preparing for the show in the first place.

She had been deemed principal worthy with this role. She had given the performance of a lifetime, enough so that people noticed and wrote articles. The success of the show was something she'd never seen coming. While she was no Misty Copeland, there were people who knew who she was and had come to the theater to see her dance. There were articles written praising the way she embodied her dream. It was a hard thing to let go of.

But, there was always Harry, she thought. Harry who was the reason her apartment was full of bouquets—both dried and fresh. Little cards congratulating her, singing her praises, or boasting an unskilled sketch were filling a drawer in vanity. Evidence of him came in the form of her Netflix history now being an amalgamation of their tastes thrown together. While she knew where her car keys were, there was no reason to look for them half the time when Harry was already waiting for her downstairs, ready to take her wherever she needed to go and make a day out of it. She no longer stuffed the feelings away when she was reviewing a manuscript and the male love interest's features suddenly resembled Harry in every way.

Even the times at the theater before and after shows had shifted some. The thin ice Harry had been skating on when it came to the dancers and crew had melted away, leaving him on solid ground. While no one had made it as close to him as (Y/N), there were still more than a handful of dancers and crew members that no longer cringed or whispered when Harry came into the room. Instead, (Y/N) was proud to hear the greetings he would get, small talk always being extended to him even if he still grew bashful under the attention.

Harry wasn't afraid to walk into the theater or studio with his hand wrapped in hers. The grand bouquets were always handed to (Y/N) with dancers coming by to praise the fragrance or the arrangement of colors. He didn't worry about anyone seeing her duck into his car after the night had ended. Things had brightened for him here.

(Y/N) may be letting go of Odette, but she would always have this Harry.

A service had been done to her that she had never seen coming. Only three shows left.

—————

(Y/N)'s hand absently worried the strap of her tote bag hanging from her shoulder. She could feel the thread she was picking at beginning to loosen, and she knew she needed to stop. But if she stopped, she wouldn't have anything to concentrate on to keep her from crying.

Ms. Ariel was standing in front of the company with the director, orchestra conductor, and the department heads as they gave their final night speeches. Even Harry was up there shadowed in the back, the face for all of the patrons that helped put the show on this season.

It was something that happened every season as each run came to a close. (Y/N) had cried before their last show on her first production (a rendition of Magic Mirror with distinct Snow White elements. She had been a bunny), but she'd been able to be put together in the productions that followed.

Until tonight.

It hadn't felt real until she and the rest of the company were herded into the front of the house and sat in rows the same way they had been during their final meeting right before rehearsals had started for Swan Lake. Now, here they were with their send off for the season. Odette's final night on the boards.

Siobhan reached over the arm rest and patted (Y/N)'s leg, a sympathetic smile on her face with her own eyes glossed with tears. (Y/N) couldn't look at her if she wanted to keep it together for a moment longer.

Once the director took his step back, Ms. Ariel took the center stage.

"I know we all have to start getting ready, so I won't keep any of you too much longer. Just know that this has been a bigger success than any of us had seen coming—all thanks to all of you. Without your help and hard work and love for the show, we wouldn't have made it so flawlessly through these ten weeks. This has been a one to remember and one that will set us up to be remembered. Merde!"

A round of applause sounded through the theater as the cast and crew stood from their spots. Before long, as expected, a huddle formed in the main aisle. As with the end of every production, there was always a big group hug orchestrated right before everyone would scatter to put on the show for the last time.

(Y/N) was readily pulled right in by the rest of the swans and Kingston, unable to keep her tears in this time. If anyone noticed as they all huddled in, no one said anything. Words of congratulations and gratitude were shared among the moving pieces that made the show possible, the murmurs roiling into a quiet purr in the middle of the theater. (Y/N), arms around Siobhan and Kingston, squeezed them tight. She could't wait to see who she was at the end of the next production.

Soon enough, Ms. Ariel dismissed everyone with the reminder that there was still work to be done. All of the fonding and celebrating was to be scheduled later tonight.

—————

Patting a tissue under her eyes, (Y/N) could only halfway concentrate on catching the tear before it had a chance to ruin her makeup. The other half of her concentration was being spent on the next tear that was working its way out of her other eye.

It'd been like this off and on since she started warm ups, this roller coaster of emotion following her through her hair and makeup, into costuming, and now when she typically flitted about the backstage area and chatted with her colleagues to keep her nerves down before the show. Instead, she was spending her final night as Odette hoping against all odds that no one would be able to spot the tear tracks in her makeup.

A gentle knock came to the door of her dressing room.

Swallowing around her dry throat, (Y/N) quickly patted around her eyes once more with a sniffle of her nose before calling out, "Come in!"

Instead of Ms. Ariel or Kingston being unveiled behind the door, Harry stepped in. He was clad in one of his signature suits, the creamy sage color tailored to the contours of his frame with a black button down stitched underneath. The hue made his eyes impossibly brighter as they landed on her, a look of sympathy landing on his features.

"Y'alright?"

That was all it took before she was tearing up once more, voice thin. "Yeah, j-just excited."

"Oh, love," Harry crooned, passing the room to her vanity in quick strides. Before even her first tear fell, he had her gathered in his arms. "I know," he murmured into her slicked back hair, "I know."

"I don't know why I'm so emotional," (Y/N) blabbered, doing her best to keep her face angled just right so she didn't blink away her mascara.

Harry only squeezed her tighter. "This show meant a lot to you, that's okay. You're allowed to be sad 's over."

"But," she breathed, taking a moment as her voice shook, "But, it's not like I'm not going to be in more shows. I-I just feel silly."

"I wouldn't," Harry said, pulling away from her to get his eyes on her own, "This was big, and y'did so amazing. I don't think any of our shows have ever been so positively reviewed until you. You're going to have more opportunities like this, but that doesn't mean y'can't be sad that this one is over. 'M going to miss this too, you know."

"Really?" she sniffled.

"Oh yeah," Harry smiled, thumbing at a tear under her eye, "Y'made this one of m'all time favorites, love. 'M going to miss seeing y'be the best swan ever up there, but I know this isn't going to be your last time as the prima."

"I hope not," (Y/N) laughed, the sound watery and thin.

"'M far from the only person so impressed by you. You'll have more moments like this, (Y/N). But 's okay to be sad that this one is over."

(Y/N)'s bottom lip wobbled, another round of tears collecting in her waterline. "Thank you, H."

A small smile graced his features before he pulled her in for another hug. "I've got you, love. Always."

She didn't let him go until they heard the first notes of the prologue on stage.

—————

Lifted over Kingston's head, (Y/N) let her tears freely fall as Odette. A blissful afterlife with her Prince laid before her while all of her cursed swans were left to freely roam in their original forms.

Tonight, these crystalline tears had little to do with the love bursting from Odette and much more to do with the gratitude in (Y/N). She would never have another night exactly like this again, with these exact people and this exact audience. She couldn't keep her eyes from sweeping across every face every time she twirled out.

Though it was hard to keep from falling into the pattern of looking right up on the balcony. Right where Harry sat, his own eyes glossy as he gazed down at her so adoringly.

With her arms raised around her, (Y/N) floated like a swan over the boards, a beaming smile on her lips with her eyes fluttered to a close.

—————

Still in her bow, the curtains dropped over the entire ensemble gathered on stage. Ms. Ariel and the other department heads still had their bundles of flowers clutched to their chests—all gifted by the cast and crew—even when the only stage light could be seen peering under the hem of the heavy velvet curtain.

The final set piece for the story—the glade with which a finally human Odette and Siegfried danced together for a blissful eternity—was frozen in time around the. Stray flecks of faux-snow and glitter from the costumes littered the boards, all complimented by stray feathers scattered about. Flowers still littered the stage that had been thrown at their feet. The limited light from under the curtain bounced across the final moments of this set's life.

Another set of tears touched (Y/N)'s eyes, tears she saw mirrored in Kingston's gaze when he looked down at her. A bright smile took over his features before he pulled her in for a hug. It wasn't long before the rest of the cast and crew were there in the huddle with her. This group huddle felt tighter and warmer than the pre-show snuggle, leaving (Y/N) to feel every bit of the drop now that she was leaving the stage as Odette for the last time.

(Y/N) could have stood there for hours before Ms. Ariel, her voice coming from somewhere in the crowd, reminded everyone of the group reservations that were made for later in the night. A post production celebration that occurred after every wrapped run, though this one felt particularly special for (Y/N).

At that, the group scattered, dancers moving to change out of costumes and crew working to break down the sets. (Y/N) and the swans stayed in their costumes as long as they could, flitting about to help take down the glade and stack away the rest of the pieces until a new home could be found. Flower petals and feathers followed their steps, flecks of glitter marking who had helped where until the stage was back to a base of brown boards with bare bones behind the curtains. The audience had long since gone home by the time (Y/N) made her way to her dressing room, deigning herself to shed her Odette costume at last.

Sitting at her vanity, she spotted Odile's tutu hanging on the rack behind her. The black jewels gleamed. around the onyx feathers, sending shadowy rainbows over the long tulle skirt of the human Odette dress. Her toes went numb just looking at the black pointes strung up next to Odile.

(Y/N) was going to miss her, too.

The last look at swan Odette came in the form of the costume being strung up on the padded satin hanger, laid against the plain wood of the dressing room door. The tutu sparkled even under the low lights, matching the stray shimmer that stuck to (Y/N)'s skin. She hoped she would have a hard time ridding herself of the sheen.

A knock came on her door, jostling her costume. The tutu flounced at the contact, a small smile drawing on (Y/N)'s features at the sight. Just like when she twirled and jumped.

"Yes?" she called, pulling Odette off of the small hook embedded on the door.

As expected, Harry was unveiled as he pushed open the door, a shy smile on his lips. "Doing alright?"

"Yeah," (Y/N) chirped, her own features twisting into a smile. "I'm not crying anymore, if that's what you were wondering."

Harry cooed at her, his smile turning upside down into a sympathetic frown. "Love, that's making me sad. Don't say that."

"I'm sorry," she laughed, bagging up the outfits just as the costume department requested, "But it's true. I think I'm all done, though. I'm going to miss it but at least I have all the videos and things to look back on. Maybe in a couple of years I'll try to convince Ms. Ariel to do the show again."

"I don't think that'll be very hard," Harry mused, holding out his hand as she approached him. "Do we need to take those anywhere?" he asked, jerking his chin towards her costume rack.

(Y/N) shook her head, looking forlornly towards the covered outfits. "Lea said we could leave them wherever tonight."

Lacing his fingers with hers, he matched her gaze with his lilypad eyes. "Did y'want to get out of here, or do y'want to take one last look around before?"

Brightening at the suggestion, (Y/N) peered around him out to the empty backstage. "Are we allowed to do that?"

He shrugged, "I have a key."

As if that proved anything, (Y/N) thought. Nonetheless, she eagerly nodded at his idea.

With their hands twined, Harry carefully guided her over the stray set pieces stacked on top of one another, ropes and cords and light fixtures being avoided as well. Until they were stepping out on stage.

The house lights were still on, leaving the rows and rows of seats exposed. All empty. Though it appeared someone tried to clean up the stage, there were still lone feathers and flakes of fake snow stuck in the grooves of the wood.

Without the sets, the stage didn't look all that important. Without her costume and the watchful eyes of her audience, there was the facet of being the prima (Y/N) no longer had.

But that feeling in her chest hadn't changed. It wasn't hard to call forth those memories in her tutu with admirers watching every lithe move of her body and strong push of her legs. It felt wonderful—full of wonder, to be specific.

"So this is what y'see every night," Harry mused at her side, gaze cast far out to the back of the theater. "How do y'do it?"

(Y/N) hummed, bright smile on her lips. "I usually just kind of focus up there. It makes it a lot easier."

Pointing to a specific balcony, (Y/N) waited as Harry followed the line of her hand. It didn't take long before pink was staining his cheeks and the tops of his ears, a bashful smile on his lips.

"Every night?"

"Every night."

She wondered if Harry was realizing just how many faces she saw each evening while spinning and twirling on her toes. How easy it would have been to pick a new one each time to focus on, beam her smile or direct her frown to. Instead, she always came back to him. Even before their time together became something tangible.

Using her grip on his hand, (Y/N) tugged her towards him, growing antsy under the silence after her small confession. "Come here. Dance with me." Harry blanched at her request, earning a bubbling giggle from her. "You've seen the show enough to know the dance," she pressed, already hooking his hand over her ribs the way Kingston did earlier in the night.

"I don't know, (Y/N)" he countered though he didn't stop her from moving his hand wherever she wanted, "We don't even have the music. We'll lose count."

"I'll hum it for you, it's fine." When he didn't look particularly convinced, she fluttered her lashes up at him. "You said you wanted to be Kingston sometimes, right? Here's your chance."

Unsurprisingly, Harry blushed at her poking, though it did seem to work with the way he solidified his grip on her. "Um, is this before or after y'jump off the cliff?" he murmured once (Y/N) hummed the promised song.

"After," (Y/N) laughed, dropping her hands to his shoulders, "This is the epilogue."

Despite the small panic that was brewing in his eyes, Harry did let a small smile slip. "I do like the epilogue."

"Really?" she asked, leading them in rudimentary steps that had them spinning in a slow circle. Without pointes, some of the moves would be impossible, but hopefully Harry wouldn't mind the difference.

He nodded. "Y'look the happiest then."

(Y/N) held that thought with her as she let her features mold into a grin. Harry allowed her to lead them as they moved across the boards in clunky steps. It was far from the scene critics raved about, but it may be (Y/N)'s favorite rendition she'd ever been a part of.

Harry held her close, keeping her steady as she got ambitious and split her leg up high behind her. The form was wobbly through her sneakers, but he still looked at her in awe as she barely twirled.

"Ready for a big one?" she asked, twirling back into his chest.

"What big one?"

"The lift, remember?" (Y/N) could only laugh when the color seemingly drained from his face. "It'll be fine, just hold me."

Though he needed a bit of instruction on where exactly to hold her—tight around her waist, high enough that he could feel her ribs under his palms—he did as instructed without a qualm. On a three count, Harry lifted her over his head, leaving her to do as Odette with her legs extended into a split. It lacked a bit of the drama that the fluttering skirt reserved for Odette's afterlife had, but it worked fine enough in her tights.

She continued to hum the song for Harry, even when she peeked down at him, only to find him looking up at her so adoringly. She hadn't been aloft for very long before Harry was carefully lowering her to him once more. Her body brushed along his with the slow movement, the thin cover of his black button up doing little to hide the ridges of muscles that blocked his abdomen. The strength in his hands, muscles corded up his arms and strapping across his shoulders kept her steady, even as she wrapped her legs around his hips once she was level with him. He didn't stop her as the soft of her thighs closed around his middle, ankles crossed at his back. He only pulsed his hands around her waist, the green of his eyes deep enough to suck her in when she dared to meet them

The song died in (Y/N)'s throat. This was a different number, one not performed on the stage for others to see. One that she didn't perform with Kingston—not with the way her breath grew a bit more shallow.

Her hands on his shoulder shifted until they were coasting up the sides of his throat, thumbs touching the hinge of his jaw. Harry's own hands moved until he formed a bar with his forearm across her back and another hand rounded under her thighs. She didn't direct him into any other moves despite the both of them knowing this was far from the production's choreography.

Harry's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze dropping from hers only to land on her lips.

Surging forward, (Y/N) had a stray thought hoping that he didn't mind the taste of her stage lipstick. If she had known this was how she was going to spend the prelude to dinner, she may have actually wiped her makeup off. Though she didn't let that stop her from letting Harry suck her bottom lip between his two, getting a taste of her mouth.

There was something more urgent to this contact that hadn't been there the other times they'd locked lips. Harry pushed that much harder, pressing into her lips as if wishing to leave his indent. He didn't care when the tip of his nose smushed into her cheek or grazed the bridge of his own when he canted his head just right. Puffs of breath fanned between them the few seconds they broke apart. Moving distractedly, (Y/N) ran her fingers through the waves of hair framing his face, pushing back the baby hairs that tickled her skin.

Without thinking, she curled her fingers in the strands, pieces getting caught in the fray until a light tug was delivered to the roots. A low, rumbling moan escaped Harry, dripping over her mouth.

(Y/N) sucked in a breath at the sound, thighs pulsing around his middle. Had he always done that when she ran her fingers through his hair? Or was this new?

Before much more jumbled contemplation could occur, Harry pulled away. His typically pink cheeks were branded a warm red, lips swollen and spit slicked. He loosened his hold on her, signaling her to land safely on the floor.

"We—um—we should get with the others," he said, the suggestion coming out uncertain.

She lagged in response. Dinner was quite possibly last in line of her needs at the moment. Though this prioritized need was new—added to the list only within the last handful of minutes as she felt the stretch of his body against her own—it felt terribly important compared to everything else.

Nonetheless, (Y/N) nodded her head, knowing they both had a responsibility to show face at this dinner.

"Right," (Y/N) muttered, sounding just as unconvinced as he was, "Right."

Harry's hand stayed tight in hers as he escorted her out to his car.

—————

"Ms. Ariel, can we do Midsummer's Night Dream for the summer production?!"

Kingston's tipsy outburst had come after prodding from many of the swans, who were also on the same level as him if the empty drink glasses were anything to go off of. (Y/N) watched in amusement as Ms. Ariel peered down her nose over to where Kingston was standing up from their table.

"Maybe."

(Y/N) was sure that when Kingston groaned and fell back into his chair, laughter from the dancers around him erupting, that this had been just the reaction Ms. Ariel had been going for. As stoic as she could be, she had a had time biting back her smile with her own margarita half drunk in front of her.

"Is that the third time he's asked for a different show?" Harry murmured into (Y/N)'s ear, too quiet for the rest of the guests at the table to hear.

"The fourth," she corrected, turning until her lips were level with his ear, "I'm pretty sure we are doing Midsummer's Night Dream though. She has to be messing with him."

Harry let out a soft laugh at her whispers. "'M sure of it."

Leaning back in her chair, she watched the rest of the show move on around them. She and Harry had been the last to arrive to the dinner reservations, leaving them to catch up to the room that was already buzzing with post-show energy. Gone were the weeping and tear tracks, now was the time for speculating about the future and raving about the time had on and off stage during the Swan Lake run.

Once butting into their saved chairs with the rest of the swan wedge and Kingston, (Y/N) had soaked it all in, feeling a sense of deja vu to a night so similar to this ten weeks ago. Though this time, she was much more sober and Harry hadn't had to be dragged to her side. Instead, she had stuck right with her the whole night, keeping a hand on her knee even as he was pulled into different conversations with members of the cast and crew.

Despite her mind being tugged into the memory of whatever it was that had threaded between them on stage at the theater, this was a welcome distraction. This was all (Y/N) had hoped for when she started sprinkling in her defenses of Harry to the company: for him to be given a chance. Though the taxes of being a social butterfly came with more effort than she was sure he had planned on expending tonight.

While everyone was fixed on the game being planned between Kingston and Ms. Ariel, (Y/N) leaned across Harry to reach for the glass of wine they had agreed to share for the evening. She pressed her lips to the rim where her lipstick mark—though faint given the fact much of it had been rubbed off not too long ago—taking a sip with the weight of Harry's eyes on her.

"Hm?" she hummed, bouncing her brows above her head as she caught Harry's gaze.

With a blink of his dark lashes, Harry shook away the gloss that had formed over his eyes. "Nothing, sorry. How are you feeling?"

His question came with a squeeze of his hand over her knee, the fabric of her sweats giving against the pad of his thumb.

"Tired," she admitted, rolling her neck, "I think the last ten weeks are starting to set in a little."

"Yeah?" he pressed, a furrow in his brow, "Anything hurt?"

"Not yet, but that'll happen in the morning I'm sure." Nothing quite like finding immaculately colored bruises all over your feet after having the time of your life the night before. She would gladly be taking these next two weeks of break to soothe her limbs.

"Is there anything I can do to make it better?" Harry asked, mouth still in a frown though there was something brighter floating in his eyes as they scanned over her form.

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth. She had an idea, though it didn't necessarily have much to do with avoiding any aches in the morning. It would make her feel better though—possibly even ready her to see the day tomorrow.

If he wanted to anyway.

She had paused long enough that Harry flitted his gaze back up to her own. That brightness she had spotted looked a bit more like a warmth now that he wasn't shying away from her gaze—a smoldering burn behind the moss of his irises.

"Did you have to go back home tonight?" she started with, a lilt to her voice as if she weren't leading into taking him home with her.

Surely, he had to have felt the same way on the stage as she did. Right? Otherwise he wouldn't have kissed her the way he did, held her so tight against his body, dent the soft of her waist with his fingertips as if to keep him under her skin forever.

Harry shrugged. "Not really. Why?"

A soft smile curled her lips as she gazed at him, her lashes creating a frame around his face. "Did you want to come back to mine instead? We can watch some more movies."

He let out a laugh at her movie suggestion, the activity growing into an excuse to get him in front of her television before she showed him a movie he'd never heard of from her childhood.

This time it was him reaching for the wine glass, peering at her from the corner of his eye as he pressed the rim to his lips. Right over the print of her lipstick. He took down the rest of the alcohol, the last two gulps staining the center of his mouth a soft red.

The sight mimicked the freshly kissed pout she had given him in the theater.

"I think we could do that," he nodded, glancing at the time on his phone, "Ready to go now, or want to wait a little?"

Casting her eyes around the room, (Y/N) could see the way everyone was still entrenched in the energy of a newly closed show. So many of the girls were still clad in their swan accessories, some with feathers still drawn in white paint across their cheeks. Even the backstage crew wasn't immune to the fun of the night, specks of glitter and fallen snow having clung to their clothing. The department heads and Ms. Ariel were even in their own eased bubble, different from what the start of the production run did to them.

It was a perfect night. The right ending to one of the most memorable runs she was sure to ever have.

And (Y/N) was ready to go home.

She looked at Harry with a barely stifled grin. "I'm ready."

—————

(Y/N) sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair. The damp strands were finally free of the layers of gel taming them away during her performance, and the tension headache she was getting had finally ceased. The warm water of her shower had done wonders to loosen her muscles and make her feel real again.

Finishing with rubbing lotion into her hands, she left her bedroom to find harry just where she left him on her couch. On the television there was a movie playing, though it didn't seem he was paying much attention to any of the scenes. Instead he was wrapped up in a binder clipped bundle of pages splayed open in his lap.

"Is that one of my manuscripts?" she asked, dumping her used towels and dirty clothes into her hamper.

Harry, with a furrow in his brow and fist under his chin, nodded his head. "Yeah. This is the one y'were telling me about the other day?"

"No, that was a different one. I just got that one this morning before I left."

(Y/N) felt a bit restless as she watched him on her couch. It would be annoying in any other context, but him being sat there with his legs spread wide, his pistachio colored trousers stretched over his thighs. He made himself at home right in the middle of the sofa, taking up space with his broad shoulders. The look on features was tense, concentrating fully on the manuscript in his hands as if it were a thesis paper. She wondered if this was what he was like when he was working, looking over the financials or critiquing art he wanted to buy for the galleries. She wondered if Harry knew that some of the reason people were so intimidated by him was because he was just really hot; it was hard to interact with him normally.

Not for the first time, she thought about what it would be like to tag along with him to those visits to his properties. She was so used to seeing Harry bashful and letting her make way for him in the world of ballet, she wanted to see what he was like when he was in his chosen environment. When he was the one that held the knowledge and connections and confidence.

The ghost of his hand on her leg, the way he had held her when taking Kingston's place on stage, the sight of him pressing his lips to the same spot she had sipped from the wine glass—it all lingered over her. There was a pitch in her stomach that tightened and hadn't loosened through the night. It made her skin crawl, every cell seemingly urging her next to him; to convince him to get his hands on her once more, his lips on her own.

Realizing she had been staring at him for far longer than would be appropriate even if he was her bonafide boyfriend, (Y/N) shook her head, blinking away from him. She took her time heading towards the kitchen and filling her water. She should be too tired to even be thinking like this—to be rubbing her thighs together and spreading her fingers through her hair as if they were as satisfying as Harry's touch. She had just concluded a ten week run in her dream role, she should be exhausted, not verging on needy.

Clearing her throat, (Y/N) called over her shoulder, feigning nonchalance, "Did you want any water? Or did you already get yourself something to drink?"

A beat passed with no response.

"Harry?" she tried again.

"Hm?" he answered, shifting in his spot though a glance in his direction granted only a view of the back of his head. He was still reading.

"I asked if you wanted something to drink," she repeated through an amused smile.

"'M alright, love. Thank you, though."

With her own cool bottle in hand, (Y/N) gave in and crossed her apartment to settle into the cushion beside him. As predicted, the manuscript was laid out in his lap, with a heady amount of pages already turned.

"Is it any good?" she asked, attempting to peer over his shoulder to see what exactly had taken his attention, "I don't even remember the description of it that the publisher sent over."

"'S... something," Harry mused, clearing his own throat as he peeked at her from the corner of his eye, "Have y'read it at all, yet?"

A pinch formed between her brows at the vague review he gave to something he couldn't seem to put down. "No," she started, "Is it weird, or something?"

Harry rolled his lips between his teeth. "I wouldn't say weird, jus' not what I was expecting from something called"—he flicked to the plain white page acting as the cover—"In The Margains. I thought these people were supposed to be librarians."

The pinch in (Y/N) expression only deepened at the extra information Harry prattled on about. Sidling up next to him, she got a clearer view of the typed passages open in front of him.

Reid hoisted me onto his lap, strong hands holding the swell of my ass tight. He tugged me tight to his chest. The feel of his starched shirt against my breasts was a stark reminder that he was clothed and I was not. I was at his mercy, the twinkling stars I could spot through the skylight were silent observers to my submission.

"You like being my whore? Is that why you're so wet, Maggie?" His voice was as rough as his touch as his hips shifted under mine. Goosebumps textured my skin as I clung to him. He took my silence as an answer enough, amusing enough for him to smirk at me. "You think everyone would still think you're nothing but a cute little librarian if they knew you've been letting me in after hours just to fuck you against the shelves?"

I moaned.

(Y/N) stopped reading then, unable to go any further when she could feel the way her cheeks were heating up. This was definitely not what was included in the blurb the publisher had sent over—she would have remembered.

She felt embarrassed as if she had been the one to write this kind of smut, taking the manuscript from Harry's hands. He let her flick through the pages he'd already passed, spotting much of the same occurring so early in the story. She could only imagine what kind of development was created through the rest of the pages.

"I am so sorry," she bubbled, frantically taking the pages away with the rest of the manuscripts she was in the process of reviewing and editing. "I had no idea that it was that kind of story. I wouldn't have left it out for you."

She couldn't help the air of laughter clinging to her words, the sound lacking humor when she felt so awkward.

Interrupting her rush to reorganize and somehow hide what he had already seen, Harry dropped a hand onto her own. She stilled under his touch, letting him collect her until she was settled once more against the cushions and Harry was carefully holding both of her hands in one of his.

"'S okay," he insisted, a faint smile on his features, "I don't know why you're getting all upset. 'S fine, love; 'm not mad if that's what you're thinking. I don't mind if those are the things y'read, I jus' wasn't expecting it. That's all."

(Y/N) opened her mouth before closing it before anything could escape. She felt like a guppy, mouth dry and gaped as she tried to speak.

"They're not all like that," she settled on, mumbling the insistence, "You know that."

"I know," Harry laughed, clearly not as disturbed by his discovery as she was, "But it would be fine if they were. I don't know why you're all flustered."

(Y/N) blinked, lashes fluttering as she fixed her gaze on their folded hands. For some reason, being on the boards of the stage, if Harry had picked up on the direction of her thoughts, it didn't feel so bad. She was already so used to performing when she was up there. But here, in her apartment with her full laundry hamper and mismatched—though still pink for the most part—decor, it felt so much more vulnerable. If he knew what was in her head here, it would be real. She wouldn't be making a show of it, using the confidence of a spotlight and predetermined choreography. Every move would be her own doing.

If he knew that she'd made a bit of a habit of seeing his face as the love interest in her manuscripts, it wouldn't be because of a script or a plot line. It would be because she saw him in everything and wanted those intimate moments with him.

"I don't know," she got out, a light-hearted laugh accompanying the words though she felt far from light.

Harry shifted in his spot, his grip on her hands moving until he was using it to tug her into his lap. (Y/N) moved pliantly, eager to be in his arms and hide her face against his throat. He may be able to feel the heat emanating from her cheeks that way, but at least he wouldn't be able to see her face and the open book her expressions were.

He smoothed his hand over her drying hair, toying with the ends while his other arm created a bar around her back. He held her close to his chest, so similar to the way he had back at the theater. Though this time, the thin bed shirt she wore was little protection as her breasts squeezed against the planes of his chest, the buttons of his suit jacket denting her softened skin.

"I thought it was nice, you know," Harry prattled, his voice a low mumble the same volume as the quiet movie on screen. "The book."

(Y/N)'s features twisted up where she was hiding in his neck. She felt him laugh more than she heard it, surely able to feel her reaction. "You think so?"

"That part was a little intense," he clarified, "But the rest of it wasn't so bad. They seemed very in love at least. He took care of her."

The rumble of his chest against her was a surprisingly comfort that had her limbs loosening. She could equate it to the roll of a car coasting down a straight shot, leaving her to daydream out the back window and settle into the upholstery.

She did the same in Harry's lap. Her thighs bracketing his hips curled tighter around him, holding her closely as the knobs of her spine relaxed. She fell against him, her body conforming to his own.

"You think so?" (Y/N) mumbled into his neck.

His hand on her back ran up the length of her spine, fingers gently denting the flesh. He hummed, another calming feeling that had her burrowing closer. "I do." He paused, throat bobbing next to her face. "She kind of reminded me of you a little."

"Really?"

"Mhm. She was sweet," he mused, his hand returning to her hair as he tucked through the strands to graze the back of her neck, "Took care of her friends. Talked a lot,"—that was said with amusement, enough so that had (Y/N) laughing into his neck even as she scolded him with a Heyyy—"I pictured her as you."

A smile lingered on her lips even as she registered what he was saying. Harry had cutely pictured the main character of the manuscript as her. Did that include the more scandalous pages he perused?

The idea had that tightening in her stomach returning with all of the force that had waned as they talked. She hoped he didn't notice the way her thighs pulsed around his hips.

While (Y/N) couldn't quite see Harry as that particularly main character, he was a regular in her casting calls for these books.

Grateful for her hiding place, she let the words fall out. "I've pictured you before. For my books."

His hand in her hair stuttered. "Yeah?"

She nodded against his throat. "Yeah. For most of them, actually."

A beat passed. Harry's chest rose against hers in a heavy breath.

"Even for—um—books like that?"

If his murmured question wasn't enough, the shifting of his hips under hers made it abundantly clear what Harry was going for with his line of questioning. Through the threadbare material of her bottoms, she could clearly feel the outline of something more pressing against her from Harry's lap. More than just the square of his phone or the stiff form of his zipper.

(Y/N) couldn't find words. Instead, she nodded quietly into his neck.

His hand coasting through her hair found the back of her neck once more. Instead of a grazing touch, he gently cupped the nape and pulled her away from his own throat. He peeled her off of his chest just far enough to look at her clearly, even if (Y/N) could only manage to make eye contact with his nose.

"(Y/N)."

"Hm?"

His hand on the back of her neck tightened just enough, a pulse on the soft skin. (Y/N) flicked her eyes up to his finally. Blown pupils and a thin ring of forest green met her head on.

"What were y'thinking when we were back at the theater?"

Her breath caught. He wouldn't be asking if he didn't already have an idea. That was why he didn't look much surprised when she shared one word:

"You."

"I kind of hoped so," he smiled, dipping his head until their foreheads rested against one another, "What about me?"

The way he looked at her felt akin to an adoring audience member, waiting for the show of a lifetime. The kind of breathtaking moments that would linger with him for much longer than the duration of the show. Just like the way he had up in his balcony.

"Um," she started, tapping into a small reserve of that spotlight confidence to keep her form completely clamming up, "Just you. The way you were holding me. I could feel a lot of you when you helped me down, and it was... I liked it. Being close to you like that."

His hand on her back turned steely, pushing her heavily against his chest. His nose bumped hers, something that had her core tightening instead of an affectionate smile blooming on her lips.

"Like this?" he prodded.

While (Y/N) was used to feeling strength and lithe muscles on her fellow dancers, specifically the male ballerinas that were trained to lift her over their heads and to launch themselves over the stage in barreling moves. But this was different. Harry didn't have to worry about his muscle mass limiting his flexibility. He was able to be strong and hard, with cut lines and sharp edges.

It was nice. Very, very nice.

"Yeah," she breathed, her eyes hooded as she tipped her head just right.

The full of her lips had only a moment to graze against Harry's before he was finishing the job. That same urgency that had filled their kisses on stage had returned, filling the indents and ridges of her lips with his own. She could feel the way they swelled some against his kissing, only for his tongue to swipe out and soothe the irritation.

She didn't hesitate to part her lips for him, feeling his tongue sweep through her mouth. It was far from the first time they had made out like teenagers, but there was something more to every pressing and parting of their mouths. Heavy breaths fanned out between them, too busy tasting and trying each other to pull apart for air. The soft smacks of their lips meeting and departing filled the quiet of her living room.

(Y/N) wound her arms around Harry's neck, shuffling her that much closer to him. There were only mere inches of her body that weren't feeling some part of him. She could feel the hard lines of his body, the way his muscles moved under his skin with the express purpose of holding her.

Between her thighs and under the heat collecting at the apex, (Y/N) could feel that hard ridge she had only grazed before. His cock pressed against the flimsy middle of her sleep shorts, the material beginning to soak as she had forgone underwear when readying out of the shower. (Her past self had such good hindsight, Present (Y/N) could have cried had she not been busy).

Before she was aware of herself, she was rolling her hips against his. His hand on her back and her own arms around his neck had her torso stationary against his, leaving her hips to move as she so pleased against him. The angle of his cock was just so that (Y/N) felt the ridges of his zipper hitting her clit.

The sensation was enough to have a breathy moan falling from her mouth. Harry eagerly consumed it, kissing her that much harder as he let her have her way for a moment.

His nose knocked into hers as he pulled away, his lips trailing over the apple of her cheek and down the line of her jaw. He couldn't get enough of her, even when his chest was heaving, searching for air.

"(Y/N)?" he crooned. A wordless nod of her head told him she was listening. "Wh-What do y'want tonight?"

"You—"

"I know, love," Harry pressed, drawing away to meet her eyes once more, "I know, but what from me? I-I don't want to do anything y'don't want."

It took her a breath to tap into her rational brain. What did she want tonight?

(Y/N) guppied before him, mouth opening without a word before falling closed again.

A soft smile took Harry's swollen lips. "Can I tell y'what I want?"

She nodded, fingers curling against his back.

He didn't drift his eyes from her, even when a soft flush covered his neck and worked up his features. "It's been a while since I've done anything... like this. ‘M worried I don't even remember how."

Despite the breathy laugh he let out, (Y/N) face twisted into a frown. "Don't say that," she whined, "You're doing perfect. I'm having a great time."

That was enough to have a bright laugh filling his chest—dimples, bunny teeth and all. (Y/N) couldn't help but to match his beaming smile as he tightened his arms around her in a clinging hug. The innocent contact grounded her as he spoke.

"That's good, love," he said, pecking a kiss to the bridge of her nose, "I jus' want to take care of you, 's all 'm trying to say. If 'm a little lost, forgive me, but I promise 'm trying."

(Y/N)'s lips fell into a pout as she listened to him. That wasn't at all what she was expecting him to say. Almost at the very bottom of the list of options she could think of.

"Harry," she cooed, craning her neck to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "Stop."

"Stop what?" he laughed, chasing after her kiss.

"You're going to make me cry, and that's not sexy."

Stealing the kiss he had chased, Harry shrugged around her. "Depends on who y'ask actually," he mumbled just before pulling away, "But I don't want to see y'cry right now. It'll make me sad."

"You're just cute, that's all," (Y/N) insisted, gentle smile on her lips, "I'm happy with anything you want. I trust you."

Those seemed to be the exact words Harry wanted, his eyes softening as he gazed down at her. One of his hands slid over her body until it was cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb running over her cheekbone.

"I trust you too, love. Thank you."

He dipped down then and smeared his lips over hers in a drawing kiss. (Y/N) gave into him without a thought, barely registering the way he was careful moving her over his lap until she sat with her legs on either side of one of his.

Harry shifted underneath her, his thigh coming up to press heavily against her core. (Y/N)'s breath stuttered, her legs tightening around his own. A part of her didn't really understand why he had moved her so; she had been right over his cock before, what was the point of being moved away. Before she could thread together any coherent thought, Harry dropped a hand down to her hip and started egging her on to move against him.

Her shorts did little to protect her as she was slowly dragged over the firm muscle of his thigh. The seaming of her bottoms pushed directly against her clit, with the heavy material of his trousers dragging against the sensitive inside of her thighs. It was a lot for being so little.

She clung to Harry, letting him get her started on grinding down on his thigh. It didn't take long for her to start taking over, moving her hips at the pace that felt the best. Harry's hand stayed a perfect anchor on her hip, but she was the one keeping herself so crushingly close to him, that rutted against him without much coordination. If not for the way he captured her mouth in a searing kiss, she would have slumped against him as a whiny mess with nothing to keep her upright.

"Harry," she murmured against his mouth, her hands gliding over his form until they were skating through his hair.

"'M here, love," he crooned, buttoning his mouth to hers as a languid moan bubbled from her throat. He bounced his leg under her core, the motion bringing her high against his chest with her clit smushing headily against him. "I've got you, 's okay."

"B-But," she started, only to have her voice go out when he rocked his leg once more. Rutting against his leg felt dangerously good given they were still in their clothes. True to his word, though, Harry kept his grip on her hip, his hand on her face looping around the back of her neck to keep her face titled against his lips. "But," she tried again, "But, you. Wh-What about you?"

He shook his head. "I told y'what I wanted," he murmured, decidedly a bit breathless even without his own pleasure being the forefront. "I want to take care of you. This is what I want."

"But—"

Using his hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her mouth to his once more. Their noses knocked, (Y/N)'s lips parted with a moan as Harry licked into her mouth. It was a wonderful distraction—the kind that left her with swollen lips and a jumbled head. All while he kept her moving against his thigh, even when her own movements lagged in distraction.

"This is what I want," he said again, this time the words dripping over her mouth, "Let me see y'feel good. I know you're gonna be so pretty when y'come on me, love. Let me see that."

She would get him next time, she thought. She'd take care of him tenfold the next time. But right now, if what he wanted was to see her come and feel good all from the few touches of his thigh against her pussy, she was going to give him that.

Their murmured words devolved into breathy sighs and moans that Harry swallowed, tongue tasting each of her cries of pleasure as if the sweetest wine. His mouth never strayed far from hers, though he didn't hesitate to drip his trail of kisses over her cheeks and jaw, down the curve of her neck.

"C-Can you—" she panted, cut off by a messy kiss pressed to the center of her lips, "Can you do that thing? Please."

She didn't have to see him to feel the lopsided curl of his lips. "What thing?"

(Y/N) shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind. "You know. The thing—when you—against me."

It was disjointed and breathless the way she talked. Words weren't coming to her as easily as the pacing of her hips.

Harry drew back from her just enough to gaze up at her, his eyes dark and wide. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, the skin already flushed from the time spent pressed against hers. His cheeks were a warm red under his spray of freckles.

Before she could whine about the space he was putting between them as he laid back against the cushion of her sofa, Harry bounced his leg between her thighs. It was just what she had been looking for, though he didn't stop with just the one. He made a rhythm with it, her clit hitting the corded muscles of his thigh, the material of her shorts completely soaked through and straining the harder she ground against him.

"This?" he finally spoke, his hand on her hip wiggling its way under the hem of her top.

She frantically nodded her head, hands sliding down until they were braced against his shoulders. "Uh-huh."

(Y/N) rocked against him with the added wave of his leg under hers in a near-frantic rhythm. She could hardly find her breath as she sat over him, thighs straining around him. From under the sound of her desperate breathing, the softest wet sounds came from between her legs.

"Harry, I—" she blubbered, eyes cinched shut.

"I know," he crooned, his hand working up the hem of her top until he was touching the bare skin of her midriff. "Keep bouncing on me, love. You're close, huh?"

"Yeah," she nodded, a moan forced out as a pit in her stomach opened up. It filled her middle, taking her breath away and sinking every coherent thought right into it. It only made her work herself harder against him, her clit surely swollen hidden behind the confines of her shorts.

"Like a bunny," Harry prattled, words leaning into a slur. His eyes were wide as he looked at her, hands drifting up her side. "That's the first time I saw you, you know that?"

"Wh-What?" she blubbered, a pinch between her brows. Did he expect her to have all cognitive function right now? When she had her head thrown back as he rocked his leg particularly hard under her.

"Y'were a bunny last year. In the show," he elaborated, sentences broken and heavy as his hand grazed the swell of her breast. "All sweet with your little tail and ears. Y'were so excited every night. I couldn't stop thinking about y'for months."

It was then that (Y/N) was able to recall a memory of herself prancing across the stage as Snow White's rabbit in last year's production. A grey tail had been pinned just above her bottom and ears were smoothed into her head. It wasn't an impressive role, leaving her time to join the ensemble and spend some time backstage even. But (Y/N) distinctly remembered how excited she was to be in her first role with the company, happy to be there every night even if she was on stage for less time than it took her to get her hair and make up.

"Y-you remember that?" she breathed, grip on his shoulders tightening with her nails scratching into the material of his suit jacket.

"Of course, bunny. Y'became m'favorite thing in the world right then." His dark eyes flashed up to hers, entranced with the way she moved over his thigh. "And now I've got y'right here. Bouncing like a bunny right on m'lap. You're m'bunny now, right?"

At that, he bounced his leg underneath her with his hands on her hips pressing her against him. The contact was enough to take her breath and send her eyes fluttering to a close. The pit in her stomach had finally found a bottom, where every bit of fiery want was being fueled.

It only needed a bit more kindling, a touch of kerosene before the whole thing was going to blow.

"I am, I am," she bubbled, using her grip on his shoulders to force him against her once more. She needed to feel him again, the weight of his body and the blocks of his muscles. She needed to know he was here, that this was Harry on her. Harry that she trusted and cared for and, god, was she in love with him? Or was she just so incredibly close that her eyes had changed to the shape of hearts? "Please, H."

He didn't waste a second to have her wrapped up in his arms once more. He hugged her to his chest as her hips stuttered before dragging heavily over his thigh. That was all it took then.

The pit in her stomach closed up and expelled every singe of pleasure that had devoured her. It was consuming her, tightening her muscles and squeezing between her legs. Her thighs around his own tightened until she was barely able to rock herself through the fireworks. She could vaguely hear him murmuring something to her as she shook in his arms, but she would have to ask him what he said later. She was too busy feeling every brush of her skin against her clothes, the press of his thigh against her pussy, the stitching of his trousers between her legs.

Her world began to broaden first with the sound of Harry's voice registering in her ear.

"You're so pretty, bunny, so so pretty," he murmured, lips pressed to the space before her ear, "I've got you, yeah? You're m'bunny now—I'll take care of you."

She was slumped into his arm, unable to hold herself up and steady now that everything of her had gone into the fireworks shooting through her veins. "Harry."

A smile bloomed across his lips then. The curls remained even when he drew away just far enough to match her shuttered gaze. His nose knocked hers as he pressed his lips to hers again.

The urgency was gone now, leaving behind only sweet affection. (Y/N) happily sank into the kiss, hugging him just as tightly as he did her.

"Back?"

She gently nodded against his kiss. "I'm back."

Another soft kiss was pressed to her lips. "Good. I was starting to miss you."

A quiet laugh fell from her then, the sound fanning between them. "Sorry."

"'S alright," he assured her, carefully repositioning himself on the sofa with (Y/N) still in his arms. "'S what I wanted, right?"

Her breath hitched when he shifted his leg underneath hers, way too sensitive to feel any more, even if only a graze. The way he had her moved, she could feel the lump of his cock pressed to her thigh, the ridges of his zipper still straining. Drawing back, (Y/N) matched his eyes as best she could through her hooded lids.

"Are you... sure?" she asked, dropping her gaze between their snuggled bodies, "About not—?"

The smile he gave her was affectionate, soft and swollen with the traces of her kiss written all over it. "'M sure. Today was your big day, wasn't it?"

"I guess so," she laughed, suddenly remembering that this wasn't the only major event of the night.

What a day she had. She had finished her run as Odette and within hours of the show's close, she had become Harry's bunny too.

He let her lay against him as he ran his hand over the planes of her back. It was a soothing motion, enough so that she couldn't help the way her eyes fell into a close, her cheek smushed against his shoulder. She would need to get up and clean up soon, she knew. At least change out of her shorts and get something for Harry to wear instead of his sodden trousers. But now wasn't the time, she decided.

Now was for listening to the pacing of his breathing, feeling the soft touch of his hands over her body. To bask in the feeling of being adored by someone she adored just as much. If not more.

"Are you staying tonight?" she asked, voice muffled by her squished cheek.

"Y'want me to?"

She hugged him that much tighter then. "You know I do."

"Then, I'll stay."

—————

(Y/N) practically crossed her apartment in record time after dropping her phone to her bed. Her tied back hair flopped over her face as she stumbled through unlocking her door.

"I'm so sorry," she bubbled before she had even pulled it open, "I just saw your text. I didn't think you'd be back so fast, so I put on my headphones and everything."

"'S alright," Harry laughed, arms laden with take out containers. She could smell their breakfast inside, arms watering. "I was there for only a minute, 's fine."

"Still," she insisted, locking the door behind her before prancing to the sofa to meet him there. "Thank you for going, though. Was it busy?"

Harry shook his head, laying out their meals with peeks into the boxes. "Not really. The drive was longer than the wait."

Snuggled into the corner of her couch, (Y/N) couldn't wipe the smile from her face. With her eyes trained on Harry, she felt the familiar beating of butterflies wings heading through her stomach and pumping of her heart's missed beats. He was always entirely too gorgeous, but this morning he was just so much more.

Maybe it was the borrowed clothes—a set Kingston had left behind after his weekend long excursion at her apartment when his was getting renovated—leaving him so soft and casual compared to the times she usually saw him. Maybe it was the mess of his hair on the top of his head. Maybe it was the pillow creases still denting his cheek from when they woke up next to one another. Maybe it was because she had spent such a special night with him, lips still swollen from the tastes she couldn't get enough of.

Maybe it was just because it was Harry and she was ninety-eight percent sure she was in love with him.

"What?" he asked, cheeks turning a bashful pink as he took her space next to her.

"Nothing," she crooned, snuggling into his side without a second thought. "I'm just happy you're here. Thank you."

Harry answered simply with a kiss to the top of her head, his arm coming around her to squeeze her to his side.

"Before we eat," he started, reaching for another bag still packed at his feet, "I want to give y'something before I forget again. I wanted to give this to y'last night, but we got pretty distracted."

A small smile crossed her features as she watched him dig through his bag. It wasn't before long that she had a silver wrapped present in her lap. A card with a crudely drawn swan was on the front.

"You're getting better, I see," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his as she carefully tore the taped card from the top.

"By next year, I think you'll be able to tell what they are without me telling you."

(Y/N) let out a boisterous laugh, slipping her finger under the edge of the wrapping paper. Harry watched her intently until she had unwrapped a picture frame. The frame itself was painted in hues of watercolor pink and blue, a shimmering white sparkled in the morning sun.

Inside was a framed ticket to the company's Swan Lake production. The date showed it was from opening night—the show that had launched off the positive reviews and the videos (Y/N) would forever be able to look back on. Next to the ticket was a slice of the playbill, showing off her name next to the role of Odette/Odile.

"For you to remember," Harry murmured next to her.

The quickly cooling breakfast on the table and glimmering picture frame was forgotten in favor of (Y/N) collapsing into Harry. She hadn't realized there were tears in her eyes until she sniffled against Harry's throat.

"Don't cry, bunny," he crooned, hand on the back of her head to keep her cozy next to him.

She shook her head, nose grazing his throat. "I love it. Thank you."

I love you, I love you, I love you.

"'S the least I could do, (Y/N)," he answered earnestly, "Really. You've done so much more for me than I think you'll ever know."

I love you, I love you, I love you, "I love you."

Harry's arms around her stiffened for a breath. For a heartbeat, she wondered if he had heard her thoughts. That he hadn't wanted to hear what he did.

But that was before he was curling around her, holding her tightly to him with gentle hands. His lips landed on her hair, the tip of his nose grazing the crown of her head.

"I love you, too, (Y/N)."

The words she had thought she'd been repeating in her head had actually fallen from her lips. Harry knew she loved him. And he loved her back.

It was in a rush, the way she pulled her head from her neck and pushed her lips against his. It was clumsy and off center, but (Y/N) didn't mind. Not when she could feel him smiling into her kiss.

"I love you, bunny."

She drew away enough to catch the light in his eyes. Something so bright and joyous in his gaze that hadn't been there when they met.

"I love you, too."

She kissed the tip of his nose.

—————

the bunny made snow white's companion in the classic ballet, magic mirror.

that's it wooooo bunny h lives! thank u sm for reading, so sorry for any mistakes nad please let me know what you want to see next!

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jjscrybaby · 6 months ago

Note

I looooved your seatbelt rafe fic — could you do one with the same vibe (bsf rafe, Topper & Kelce)

with the shattered windshield prompt 🤞🏼

I love how he takes care of her 🤍🤍🤍🤍

prompt: ‘a shattered windscreen’ from @scealaiscoite

rafe cameron x fem!reader | hurt & comfort | (car accident not in detail, drunk driver not reader, protective!rafe)

just got out of the hospital and am stuck in bed, so figured i’d do a bit of writing whilst watching love island! this one isn’t great but in my defence i’m unwell🥲

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Rafe repeated, his legs carrying him through the wreckage around him. All he could focus on was you, sitting with your legs hanging out your car and an ice pack held to your head.

You looked up at the sound of his voice, tears welling up in your eyes at the sight of him. All the fear and anxiety vanished, replaced with pure relief. Rafe was here now, and when Rafe’s around you know that nothing bad is going to happen to you. You could see Kelce and Topper behind him, stopping to talk to the cops on the scene.

“Rafey,” you murmured as he reached your side, kneeling down in front of you just to tug you into his embrace.

“You okay? Are you hurt?” He pulled back to cup your face in his hands, eyes manic and wide as he scanned every detail of your skin to find a mark.

“Hit my head, but I got checked over and they said they don’t think I’ve got a concussion,” you explained, removing the ice pack to show him the bruise above your eyebrow. “I’m more upset about my car.”

He shook his head at you, letting out an exasperated sigh. “The last thing you gotta worry about is that. It’s fixed, a’ight? Tomorrow, I’ll take it in and get it sorted. The windshield’s smashed, right? Anythin’ else?”

“It’s all scratched,” you murmured, looking at him. You should’ve known, Rafe loves money but he loves you more. He’d spend every cent to his name if it meant you’d stay happy.

“We’ll sort it out,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Now, where’s the drunk bastard that hit you?”

“In the back of the car.” You pointed to Shoupe’s squad car, Rafe could vaguely make out the shadow of a young man.

He nodded once, beckoning Topper and Kelce over. “Take her to the truck, I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Where you goin’?” Kelce asked, his arm wrapping around your still-shaking shoulders to lead you.

“Just take her, man. Can’t you follow a damn order?” Rafe complained, mumbling to himself as he wandered over to the cops; pulling out wads of cash from his pocket.

“No way that’ll work,” Topper murmured, but was quickly proven wrong as Shoupe and the other cop walked away.

Rafe turned around and shot you a wink before he pulled open the door, the drunk who had hit you appeared for a split second before Rafe’s fist was in his face. You probably should’ve felt the urge to stop him, but he’d already paid for his time. You might as well let him finish.

#outer banks #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #obx

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theonottsbxtch · 7 months ago

Text

DONT WANNA BE SAVED | MV1

an: mafia!max i DO want to be saved, please do not mix me up with the main character she's just a bit silly. also single dad!max hmu, yeah? i hope you're aware of how much googling i had to do this for request because i know NOTHING about dressage.

wc: 6.2k

The rhythmic crunch of gravel under the tyres was the only sound that cut through the quiet tension in the air. Max Verstappen drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his sharp jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to venturing into parts of town that didn’t know his name, but for his little girl, he’d do anything—even if it meant swallowing his pride and knocking on the door of a horse trainer who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The GPS barked at him, announcing the final turn. Max squinted through the windscreen at the small, unassuming ranch sprawled out in the middle of nowhere. The place looked sturdy but unpolished, a far cry from the grand estates he usually associated with trainers who were supposedly “the best.” He cut the engine and stepped out, the crisp bite of the afternoon wind tugging at the tailored lapels of his suit.

The barn doors creaked open, and she emerged.

She was nothing like he expected. For someone with a reputation of being the finest dressage instructor on this side of the country, she didn’t look the part. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands falling into her face as she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. Her boots were scuffed, her hands calloused, and there was a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek. Yet, the confidence in the way she moved was unmistakable—deliberate, purposeful, like she could size him up in a heartbeat and decide exactly how much of her time he deserved.

Max straightened as she approached, his usual commanding air faltering under her cool, appraising gaze. “Mr Verstappen?” she asked, voice calm and low, though there was a slight arch to her brow as she clocked his expensive suit against the rustic backdrop.

“That’s right,” he replied, recovering quickly. “I called about my daughter, Stella.”

“I remember.” Her tone was unreadable as she wiped her hands on her jeans and extended one to him. He hesitated a second too long before shaking it. Firm grip. No nonsense.

“She’s serious about competing,” Max continued, trying to soften the edge in his voice. “I’ve been told you’re the best, and I don’t settle for less when it comes to her.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but not quite. “Dressage isn’t about settling or not settling,” she said. “It’s about discipline, patience, and trust. None of which can be bought.”

Max’s jaw ticked at the subtle dig, but he didn’t rise to it. He was here for Stella, not to flex his ego. “You’ll have all the resources you need,” he said instead. “Money isn’t an issue.”

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. “Good. Because if your daughter’s going to train with me, I’m going to need more than that.” She turned abruptly, gesturing for him to follow her towards the barn. “I’ll meet Stella, and we’ll go from there. But just so we’re clear—I don’t babysit, and I don’t do miracles.”

Max trailed behind her, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. She was bold, he’d give her that. Most people were too afraid to speak to him like that. Maybe she really was the best.

His shoes crunched against the gravel as he followed her into the barn. The earthy scent of hay and leather mingled with the faint sweetness of horses, instantly grounding the space. Inside, sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting golden streaks across the straw-scattered floor. A bay mare in one of the stables tossed her head, her ears twitching at the sound of their footsteps.

She leaned against the edge of the stall, absently running her fingers along the edge of the wood. “How old is Stella?” she asked, her voice carrying the clipped efficiency of someone who didn’t waste time on niceties.

“Nine,” Max said, stepping closer. “She’s ridden before, but it’s always been a hobby. Now, she’s ready to take it seriously.”

“Is she?” she asked, glancing at him.

Max frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is she ready? Or are you?” She crossed her arms, leaning her weight casually against the stable door.

His nostrils flared, but he bit back his instinctive retort. People didn’t question him—not in his world. But this was different. For Stella, he’d let his temper take a back seat. “Stella’s the one who asked. She’s determined, and I support her in whatever she wants.”

For the first time, her expression softened, just slightly. “Good. A lot of parents want this more than the kids. It shows in the way they push them, and that pressure never works. Horses aren’t machines. They pick up on that tension, and it ruins the trust.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he liked being lectured. “Trust, discipline, patience,” he said, his voice taking on a dry edge. “I got it.”

Her lips twitched again, and this time he was certain it was a smile, however faint. “You don’t strike me as the patient type.”

Max chuckled, low and sharp. “You’d be surprised. I know when to wait. I also know when to act.”

Something flickered in her gaze at that, but she didn’t let it linger. Instead, she straightened and pushed open the stable door, letting the mare step out. The horse was sleek and graceful, her muscles shifting smoothly under her polished coat.

“This is Luna,” she said, patting the mare’s neck. “She’s my best. If Stella wants to learn, she’ll start with her.”

“Stella doesn’t have her own horse yet,” Max admitted, studying the animal.

“Good. That makes it easier. Luna’s a good judge of character. If Stella’s nervous, Luna will know. And if Luna doesn’t trust her...” She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

Max raised an eyebrow. “What happens then?”

“She doesn’t ride,” she said simply.

He appreciated her bluntness, even if it grated at him. She wasn’t someone he could charm or intimidate, and oddly, that made him more intrigued.

As if sensing his thoughts, she brushed past him, leading Luna to a bridle rack. “Bring Stella by tomorrow. I’ll see what we’re working with.”

“And what about you?” Max asked, his voice dropping slightly, almost testing.

She turned, brow furrowing. “What about me?”

“You seem to have high expectations,” he said. “If Stella’s the one being judged, does that mean you’ve already made up your mind about me?”

Her gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching. “You’re not the one I’m here to teach, Mr Verstappen. But if you’re asking...” She paused, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I’ve met plenty of men like you. You don’t scare me.”

Max tilted his head, his mouth pulling into a slow, deliberate grin. “Plenty of men like me? Somehow, I doubt that.”

The month following his first meeting with her passed in a blur of early mornings, long afternoons, and the kind of quiet determination that Max had to admit impressed him. Stella had taken to the training better than he could have hoped, and her instructor—well, she’d more than lived up to her reputation.

She was tough but fair, demanding excellence without suffocating his daughter’s enthusiasm. Max had watched every session from the sidelines, arms crossed, keeping a respectful distance but always observing. And more than once, he found his attention drifting—not to Stella, but to her instructor.

There was something about her. A kind of grit that didn’t falter, even when she was teaching patience to a headstrong nine-year-old. Her quiet confidence didn’t demand attention; it commanded it. Max had seen plenty of people fake authority, but she wore it like second skin.

He liked that.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see her a month later, in a completely different world.

The pounding bass hit him first, reverberating through his chest as he pushed through the crowd. The club was dimly lit, alive with movement—people dancing, drinks clinking, laughter rising over the music. It wasn’t his usual scene, but a meeting had brought him here, one of those backroom negotiations that needed the anonymity of chaos.

He’d wrapped up the deal without trouble, but as he made his way back to the main floor, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

There she was, behind the bar.

Her hair was down, loose waves brushing her shoulders, and she wasn’t in scuffed boots or faded jeans anymore. Instead, she wore a fitted black top and a skater skirt, a thin chain glinting at her neck under the neon lights. She moved with an easy rhythm, pouring drinks and flashing quick smiles to the patrons leaning against the bar.

For a moment, Max thought he’d imagined it. But then she turned slightly, catching his profile out of the corner of her eye, and froze.

Her eyes widened for just a second—barely noticeable—but enough for him to catch it. She recovered quickly, though, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow as if to say, What are you doing here?

Max didn’t answer her unspoken question. Instead, he made his way to the bar, sliding between two drunken men slouched over their cocktails. He rested his elbows on the polished surface, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

“Mr Verstappen,” she said finally, leaning forward slightly. Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression—annoyance, maybe, or surprise. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place.”

“It’s not,” he admitted, letting his eyes roam the bottles behind her before settling back on her face. “But it seems I’m full of surprises tonight.”

She snorted softly, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. She placed it in front of him, her smirk sharp. “You look like you need this more than a whiskey.”

Max chuckled, low and rough. “Not here for a drink. Just curious.” He tilted his head, studying her. “Didn’t peg you for the nightlife type.”

“Didn’t think you were paying that much attention,” she shot back, wiping her hands on a bar towel.

“More than you realise,” Max murmured. He wasn’t sure if she caught the softness in his tone over the thumping music, but her eyes narrowed slightly, her posture stiffening.

“I could say the same about you,” she replied, shifting her weight. “What’s the boss of half the city doing in a place like this?”

“Business,” he said simply, straightening. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

She leaned closer, resting her hands on the bar. “You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

“Just one.” His voice dipped, his gaze unwavering. “Why are you here?”

She rolled her eyes, breaking the tension with a dry laugh. “It’s called having bills to pay, Verstappen. Not all of us have cash to burn. This keeps the lights on when teaching doesn’t.”

Max didn’t miss the edge to her words, and he wondered, not for the first time, just how much she kept buried beneath that sharp exterior. She didn’t need saving—that much was obvious—but the thought of her working this job, with the late hours and the leering patrons, stirred something primal in him.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Long enough,” she said, shrugging. “And I’m good at it. Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.” He paused, letting the moment hang between them. “But I’m not exactly thrilled, either.”

Her expression hardened slightly, and she straightened, putting more distance between them. “Don’t start with that ‘I know what’s best’ routine. I get enough of that already.”

Max raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. “No routine. Just... noticing things.”

“Noticed enough, then?” she asked, turning away to serve another customer.

For the first time in a long time, Max found himself on uneven ground. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed, frustrated, or just intrigued. But one thing was certain: she had a way of staying in his head, and it was starting to feel less like an annoyance and more like an inevitability.

As she moved down the bar, he lingered, watching her work. No, she didn’t need saving. But the urge to shield her from this world, to pull her away from the late nights and the reckless strangers, was already starting to claw its way to the surface.

And Max Verstappen wasn’t the kind of man to ignore an instinct like that.

For weeks after the encounter at the club, Max couldn’t shake the image of her behind the bar. It wasn’t just the stark contrast to her usual self—confident, commanding, utterly at home in the arena—but the way it gnawed at something deep inside him.

She didn’t belong in that place, surrounded by cheap cologne and drunken hands reaching for more than drinks. The thought of her dealing with that night after night twisted in his gut like a blade.

It wasn’t just about Stella anymore. He’d grown to respect her over the past month—the way she pushed his daughter without breaking her spirit, the way she handled herself with a quiet strength that most people in his world didn’t have.

That respect, though, was starting to blur into something more. And Max wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He finally brought it up on a crisp Friday morning, just after Stella’s session. The three of them stood by the paddock, Luna grazing lazily a few feet away. Stella was laughing at something, her cheeks flushed from the chill and the effort she’d put into the lesson. Max felt a swell of pride watching her, but his gaze kept drifting back to her instructor.

When Stella wandered off to grab a snack from the car, he seized the moment.

“You’ve been doing good work with her,” he began, his voice low and steady.

She gave him a side glance, adjusting the bridle she was holding. “Thanks.”

“You know,” he continued, his tone carefully casual, “I’ve been thinking about your rate.”

Her hands froze for a split second before she turned to face him fully. “My rate?”

He nodded. “You’re worth more than what I’m paying you. A lot more. I’d like to fix that.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring immediately. “Fix it, huh?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’re not charging enough for the kind of work you do. I’m doubling it.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “And what’s this really about, Max? Feeling generous all of a sudden?”

“It’s not generosity,” he said, his jaw tightening. “It’s fairness.”

Her laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Fairness. Right. Is that what you call pity now?”

His brows shot up. “Pity? You think I pity you?”

“What else am I supposed to think? You see me working a second job and suddenly decide to play knight in shining armour?” She shook her head, a hard edge to her voice. “Keep your money, Verstappen. I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity!” His voice rose slightly, and she blinked at the rare flash of frustration. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Is it a sin,” he said, his voice quieter now, “that I want to make sure you’ve got a roof over your head?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed and leaned against the paddock fence. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it,” she muttered.

“What do you want from me?” Max asked, spreading his hands. “You work yourself to the bone here, and then you go to that—” He stopped himself, his voice tight. “That place. And you think I’m just supposed to ignore it? Pretend I don’t care?”

Her lips quirked into a smirk, though there was little humour in it. “Careful, Max. You’re starting to sound like a softie.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re raising a nine-year-old daughter on your own. And her closest friends are her unofficial uncles in the mafia.”

Her brows shot up, and for a moment, her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “That right?”

“That’s right,” he said, his tone lighter now, but his eyes still serious. “And maybe I don’t want to see someone else I—” He stopped, catching himself before he said too much. “Someone I respect running herself ragged.”

She studied him, her gaze softer now, but still guarded. “Max, I’m fine. Really. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I don’t need anyone swooping in to do it for me.”

“I know you don’t need it,” he said quietly. “But maybe I need to do it anyway.”

The honesty in his voice left her momentarily speechless. She glanced away, focusing on the horizon. “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I don’t give up easily. Ask Stella.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed,” she said, shaking her head. “Fine. If you’re so desperate to throw your money around, I’ll let you pay me more. But only because you’ll keep bugging me if I don’t.”

“That’s probably true,” he said with a shrug.

“But,” she added, pointing a finger at him, “if you start thinking this means I owe you something, I will kick you off this property.”

Max grinned, the tension between them easing slightly. “Noted.”

For now, it was enough. But as she walked away, her shoulders straight and her head held high, Max couldn’t help but think that his concern for her was starting to go beyond what he could justify as simple admiration.

And that thought both thrilled and terrified him.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it started happening—the subtle shift from guarded respect to something warmer, more playful. At first, he’d chalked it up to her stubborn streak. She never missed an opportunity to challenge him, whether it was a pointed remark about his suit and tie being out of place at the barn or her light jabs at his overprotective tendencies.

But as the weeks went on, those jabs started to feel less like walls and more like invitations.

It began innocently enough. One morning, Max showed up to Stella’s session with two coffees in hand—one black, the way he liked it, and one sweet and milky, based on an educated guess.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her as she adjusted a saddle.

She glanced at the cup and then back at him, one eyebrow raised. “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” he replied dryly.

Her lips twitched. “I can see that. What I mean is, why are you giving it to me?”

“Because it’s cold, and I’m not completely heartless,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She took the cup, sniffed it cautiously, then sipped. Her eyes lit up for a brief second before narrowing. “Let me guess—someone else made this choice for you, didn’t they? No way you guessed right on your own.”

He grinned. “You caught me. Stella might have mentioned you have a sweet tooth.”

“Mm-hmm.” She set the cup on a nearby ledge, her expression neutral. “Thanks, Verstappen. I’ll try not to read too much into it.”

“You do that,” he said, but his smirk lingered for the rest of the morning.

It was then a Wednesday afternoon, and Max had just arrived at the barn when he caught her pulling a boot from a deep puddle of mud.

“You look like you’re having fun,” he said, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed.

She shot him a look, her nose scrunching. “Don’t start. This is your daughter’s fault, by the way. She decided Luna needed a little adventure off the trail.”

“She’s nine,” Max said, his tone mock-defensive. “You can’t hold her responsible for everything.”

She stomped her now-filthy boot back into place and gave him a pointed once-over. “No, but I can hold you responsible. You’re the one who raised her.”

Max laughed, loud and genuine, and it startled her for a second. She recovered quickly, shaking her head as she brushed past him. “You’re lucky I like Stella.”

“Lucky, huh?” he called after her. “I’ll take that as a win.”

The following week Max was standing at the edge of the paddock, watching Stella trot a clean figure-eight, when he felt her step up beside him.

“She’s getting better,” she said, her voice low and even.

“She’s got a good teacher,” Max replied, not looking away from the horse and rider.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her roll her eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Verstappen.”

“Wasn’t trying to flatter,” he said, turning to face her fully. “Just stating facts.”

She squinted at him, clearly suspicious. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning. “Or maybe it’s just that you’re finally starting to warm up to me.”

She snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But her lips curved into a reluctant smile, and Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d scored a small victory.

By the fourth week, the playful banter had become a regular part of their routine. It was after Stella’s lesson, with the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the barn, that Max finally decided to push the boundary just a little further.

“So,” he said casually, leaning against the fence as she packed away the gear. “What do you do for fun? When you’re not working two jobs and pretending you don’t like my coffee.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

“Call it curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Or maybe I’m trying to figure out if you’re even capable of fun.”

She laughed, tossing a saddle pad into the tack room. “I’m plenty capable, thank you very much. I just don’t have a lot of time for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Max said, his voice dropping slightly. “Maybe you should make time.”

She paused, turning to face him fully. Her expression was wary, but there was a flicker of something else—something that made his pulse quicken. “And what would I do with all this hypothetical free time?”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, his tone careful but deliberate, “you could start by letting me buy you dinner.”

Her eyes widened, just a fraction, before she masked her surprise with a smirk. “Dinner, huh? Is this another one of your attempts to ‘make sure I’ve got a roof over my head’?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “No. This is me asking you to spend time with me. No strings, no pity money. Just dinner.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the bridle she’d been holding. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice softening. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

That did it. Her chin lifted, and her smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Scared? Of you? Not likely.”

“Good,” Max said, his own smile widening. “How about Friday night?”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Alright, Verstappen. You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t think this means I’m going easy on Stella.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his chest lighter than it had been in weeks.

As she turned to finish her work, Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d just won the most important negotiation of his life.

Leading up to that Friday night, Max had been on edge all day, and he didn’t know why.

Everything had been going smoothly—Stella’s training, his business, even his tentative plans for dinner. But there was a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t shake. He’d checked his phone more times than he cared to admit, waiting for a text from her confirming their meeting, but the screen stayed stubbornly blank.

By the time the sun started setting, his patience ran out. Max grabbed his keys and headed for his car, his gut screaming at him to go now.

When he pulled up outside her small cottage, the sight of her truck with its tailgate open and half-packed belongings hit him like a punch to the chest.

He stepped out of the car, his brows furrowing as he called out, “What’s going on?”

She looked up sharply, startled. For a split second, he saw something in her eyes—panic, maybe, or guilt—but she masked it quickly, busying herself with stuffing a duffel bag into the truck bed.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice tight. “Just... handling some stuff.”

Max crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, his tone sharp. “Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

“I’m not lying,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It’s none of your business, Max.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” he shot back, grabbing the edge of the truck bed. “We had plans tonight, and now I find you packing up your life like you’re running from something. Talk to me.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her hair. “Look, it’s complicated, alright? I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You might not,” Max said, his voice lowering, “but I’m not leaving until you give me one.”

For a moment, she stood there, glaring at him like she was debating whether to push him away or tell him to mind his own business. But then something in her resolve cracked.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You want to know? I screwed up when I was younger. Got mixed up with the wrong people—the Tifosi. And now they’ve decided it’s payback time.”

The name hit Max like a freight train. The Tifosi were no joke. Ruthless, calculating, and vindictive, they didn’t let debts slide, no matter how old.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and concern.

“Because it’s not your problem,” she said, her tone sharp. “I don’t need you swooping in to play hero, Max. I’ve handled worse.”

“That’s not the point!” His voice rose, frustration bleeding into his words. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “Fixed it? Made it all go away? Newsflash, Verstappen: not everything is yours to control. I don’t need to be saved!”

Max’s jaw clenched as her words sank in. He took a step back, his hands gripping the edge of the truck bed so tightly his knuckles turned white. Then, without a word, he grabbed the duffel bag she’d just loaded and yanked it back out.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“You’re not running,” he said firmly, throwing the bag into the back of his car. “You’re coming with me.”

“The hell I am!” She stepped forward, trying to grab the bag, but Max blocked her, his voice like steel.

“Yes, you are. My daughter needs an instructor, and I’m not letting her down because of some silly little debt.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief, anger flashing across her face. “Silly little debt? Are you out of your mind? You know who they are!”

“I do,” Max said, his tone calm but unyielding. “And I know how to deal with them.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty,” he cut her off, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s had the Tifosi breathing down their neck? You think I don’t know what it’s like to owe them?”

Her eyes widened, her anger faltering for the first time.

“I’ve dealt with them before,” Max continued, his voice softer now but no less determined. “And I’m still standing. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to process his words. Finally, she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers, “I don’t let people I care about get crushed by this life. And whether you like it or not, I care about you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she turned away, her shoulders tense. “Max, this is a mistake. You don’t need to get involved.”

“It’s not a mistake,” he said firmly. “And you’re coming with me, whether you like it or not. End of discussion.”

Before she could argue, he grabbed the rest of her bags, loading them into his car with a finality that left no room for debate.

She stood there, torn between fury and something she didn’t want to name, as Max closed the trunk and opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said, his voice steady but not unkind.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, with a resigned sigh, she walked toward the car and slid into the passenger seat.

As Max got behind the wheel, he glanced at her, his expression softening just enough to show her he meant what he’d said.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmured.

She didn’t respond, but the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly told him she’d heard him loud and clear.

The ride back to Max’s estate was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires. She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Max glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to say something, to fill the tense quiet with words that might reassure her, but he knew better. She wasn’t the type to be soothed by platitudes, and besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want his help.

Too bad, he thought grimly. She was getting it whether she wanted it or not.

When they pulled into his driveway, the sprawling estate loomed in the moonlight, its imposing structure a sharp contrast to her modest cottage. Max stepped out of the car and rounded to the trunk without a word, hauling her bags out with practiced ease.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked as she stepped out of the car.

“The rest of what?” she said, her tone clipped.

“Your horses.”

She blinked, taken aback. “They’re still at the barn. I wasn’t planning on leaving them.”

Max pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialling. “They’ll be here by morning.”

“Wait—what?” she sputtered, her voice rising. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He spoke briefly into the phone, his words curt and to the point. When he hung up, he turned back to her, his expression calm but firm. “They’ll be transported safely. You’ll have stalls for them here.”

She stared at him, her frustration clear. “You don’t get to make decisions for me, Max.”

He shrugged, hefting one of her bags onto his shoulder. “I just did.”

The house was quiet as they entered, the kind of silence that spoke of thick walls and careful security. Max led her through the spacious halls, his steps sure and unhurried despite the tension in the air.

He stopped at a door on the second floor and pushed it open, revealing a neatly furnished room with warm, neutral tones.

“This is yours,” he said, setting her bags down near the bed.

She glanced around, taking in the plush rug, the antique dresser, and the large window overlooking the grounds. “It’s... nice,” she admitted reluctantly.

“It’ll do,” he said with a faint smirk.

He gestured for her to follow him down the hall, stopping at another door. This time, he knocked lightly before opening it.

Stella’s room was a whirlwind of bright colours and cheerful chaos. Posters of horses adorned the walls, and the bed was covered in a tangle of blankets and stuffed animals.

Stella looked up from where she was brushing her hair, her face lighting up when she saw her instructor. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, bounding over. “Are you having a sleepover?!”

She laughed softly, some of the tension easing from her posture. “Something like that, kiddo.”

“This is so cool!” Stella said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Wait till I tell Uncle Oz—oh, can Uncle Ozzy meet you in the morning? She’ll be so happy!”

Max chuckled, ruffling Stella’s hair. “Alright, alright. You can tell Oscar in the morning. Let her rest she’s just got here. And if anything happens, you call Uncle Lan. Got it?”

Stella nodded solemnly, her big eyes darting between her father and her instructor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just for a bit,” Max said, his voice gentle.

She pouted but didn’t argue, which made Max’s heart twist a little. He glanced at her instructor, who was watching the exchange with a quiet intensity.

When they stepped back into the hallway, she turned to him, arms crossed. “Where are you going?”

“Business,” he said simply, heading toward the stairs.

She followed him, her tone sharp. “You mean the Tifosi.”

Max paused, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held an edge of steel. “I said I’d handle it.”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” he said firmly. “They made it my business the second they came after you.”

She stared at him, her emotions warring between gratitude and frustration. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “I’ve been told.”

And with that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the grand staircase as she stood there, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and something she couldn’t quite name.

The clock read just past midnight as Max pulled into the driveway, the quiet rumble of his car breaking the stillness of the night. The meeting with the Tifosi had gone as expected—tense, with more threats than he cared to count—but he’d made his position clear. They wouldn’t touch her. Not if they wanted to keep breathing.

He stepped inside the house, letting out a breath as the familiar warmth of home washed over him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he moved through the quiet halls. When he reached the living room, the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

There they were: his daughter curled up on the sofa, her small frame nestled against the armrest, and next to her, her instructor. The TV flickered softly, showing clips of a younger, brighter version of the woman beside his daughter.

He stood there for a moment, watching as the faint strains of applause and commentary played from the screen. The sight of her expertly guiding a horse through intricate dressage routines stirred something in him. But it was the way she slept now, her head tilted back, her features softened in the glow of the TV, that made his chest ache.

Max stepped closer, careful not to wake them. Stella’s head rested against the woman’s arm, her little hand clutching a stuffed horse. Max smiled faintly, his heart swelling as he reached down to scoop his daughter up.

Stella stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again. “Daddy?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Shh,” Max whispered, kissing her temple. “Just putting you to bed, sweetheart.”

She sighed contentedly, already slipping back into sleep as he carried her upstairs. After tucking her in, he noticed her water bottle was empty and picked it up to fill it in the kitchen.

When Max made his way to the kitchen, he found Lando leaning against the counter, tidying up a canister of cocoa powder.

“Lando?” Max said, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Lando turned, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Emergency call.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

“Your kid called me in a panic because you’re apparently out of hot chocolate powder. Thought the world was ending.” Lando chuckled, placing the canister in its rightful spot. “I brought some over, but they knocked out before I could even make it.”

Max let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Lando waved a hand dismissively. “No big deal. I live for the drama. Besides, it’s Stella. She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

Max smiled, grateful for his friend’s unwavering presence. “Get home. You’ve done enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando said, grabbing his coat. “Good luck with her, though.” He gestured vaguely toward the living room with a knowing look before heading out.

Filling up the water bottle and putting it back in its place Max returned to the living room, finding her still sound asleep on the sofa. The TV had switched to a dim, idle screen, and her breathing was soft and even.

He crouched down beside her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. For someone so fierce and guarded, she looked almost fragile like this. Vulnerable.

Without a second thought, he slipped his arms under her, lifting her gently. She stirred, her head naturally finding its place against his chest.

“Max?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“It’s me,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into him. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible.

His heart twisted at the simple words, and he tightened his hold on her instinctively.

“Always,” he said softly, carrying her upstairs.

When he reached his room, he laid her down carefully on the bed, pulling the blankets over her. She murmured something incoherent, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Max stood there for a moment, watching her as she drifted back into deep sleep. The weight of the night’s events pressed on him, but so did the warmth of knowing she was safe, here in his home, with his family.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t just protecting someone—it felt like he was building something

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday

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cosmicalily · 7 months ago

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ʚɞ "till you tell me to leave" - a 𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏 oneshot by @cosmicalily ★ view 𝓵𝓲𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓻𝔂 ʚɞ

୨ৎ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: falling back in love with ex!bangchan ♡ 1.2kw | "i only wanna hear what I already know" - '𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆' by tv girl

ʚɞ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: i found a half-written draft for this in my old google docs with my other email account and immediately knew i needed to do a rewrite. ʚɞ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: angst (breakup, exes to lovers)

Three days, twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes.

Four days.

Four days and one minute.

Another sleepless night. You didn’t mean to count the minutes, but your eyes remained fixated on your phone, half watching the clock, half staring at the lock screen you’d neglected to change.

Everything around you brought back floods of memories that you didn’t want to deal with. Pictures from photo booths, his arm slung around your shoulder, his hand on your cheek, his lips pressed to your forehead. The one hoodie you’d managed to hold onto, even after he’d packed all his other belongings up when he left. The pre-workout he kept in the back of your pantry. His toothbrush in your bathroom drawer.

He’d been yours in every way, and you’d been his.

Maybe this was why you’d been so scared to love your best friend; you knew that more came with risk, chances of slamming doors, crying each other's names, and duffle bags hastily filled.

Even when you’d ended things, why were you still writing pages, when he’d been the one to close the envelope? Why were you spending hours nestled on the couch in his hoodie, staring at a black tv screen, unaware of the world around you?

new message from 'channie'

i think i left my hoodie at yours. you home?

i’m driving over.

A part of you wanted to run into the bathroom, brush your hair, remove the two-day old mascara on your eyes and change into something nice. A part of you remembered he’d seen you in every single form, and he loved you regardless.

He used to tell you how beautiful you were every minute of the day, even when you felt anything but. Did he miss saying those things now? Or did he have another girl to call his angel, his baby, his darling?

Just the thought made you feel sick to your stomach.

new message from 'channie'

outside.

Taking a deep breath and slipping on your sneakers, you began walking down the hallway of your apartment building. Even though the elevator wasn’t broken for once, you wanted to take the stairs. You needed time to think, and time to turn back if you felt the need.

Why were you so easily coming to him? Well, technically you weren’t, were you? He wanted his hoodie back, presumably the one you were currently wearing.

He’d broken your heart. No, not broken. Slowly tugged at it, until nothing that remained was a dull ache and your pulse.

You thought about turning back, about yelling in his face, about simply bursting into tears and curling up into a ball at the bottom of the staircase, until your neighbour came and yelled at you for disturbing everyone’s sleep at 12:29am.

You thought about these things, but you never felt like acting on them.

What was the point, anyway?

You never would have meant it.

You spotted his familiar black car, the scratch on the bottom from when he’d practised parallel parking, the Sharpie stars you’d drawn with him whilst drunk on his windscreen. You felt your heart swell a little, and even more so when the figure inside the vehicle turned his head to look directly into your eyes.

In silence, you walked over and sat down in the passenger seat, doing your best to look at everything but him. He nodded, pressing his lips together in a thin line, and started the engine. He looked down at your torso, noticing his hoodie, but didn’t make a move to retrieve it. You didn’t attempt to take it off.

“I miss you,” you whispered, barely audibly.

“Hm?”

“Your seatbelt isn’t on,” you replied.

“I was in a rush.”

There was a sudden quiet. The click of his seatbelt, then yours, then the gentle hum of the car as he began to drive.

“You’re wearing the hoodie I left,” Chris finally said softly, eyes focused on the road ahead.

You ignored him. You didn’t really know where he was taking you, and you honestly couldn’t care less. He almost felt like a stranger. A stranger you’d poured your heart out to, and spent hours with, pressing kisses to each other's faces whilst watching movies, watching work out in the gym, cooking food for and dancing while doing the dishes with. A stranger who had been the vast majority of your firsts, who knew your body like the back of his hand, and spent long minutes in the latest and earliest hours loving you, worshipping you.

A stranger who’d been your everything.

As you drove in silence, apart from the soft rhythm of his playlist in the background, his hand found its way to yours, and gently caressed your fingers, as if asking for permission.

You allowed your palm to open.

His fingers tucked into yours, and his thumb brushed against your hand.

His hand felt warm, familiar. His fingertips were calloused; a result of the way he gripped his pen when he frantically wrote his lyrics late at night.

The car slowed down, then stopped completely. He’d pulled over on the side of a road, in the middle of nowhere. It was ghostly silent, and the trees cast shadows through the headlights.

It was oddly comforting.

“I fucked up.”

“I know you did, Chris.”

He covered his face in his hands in frustration, letting go of yours in the process. Your hand felt a sudden coldness.

“I didn’t . . . I don’t know why I left you. I nearly called you, right after I left. I thought . . . I thought you’d want space, thought I shouldn’t have to put you through anymore. And you were getting fed up with me, I didn’t think you wanted me anymore.”

“I was still in love with you.”

“Was? Past tense?”

“I still love you. I didn’t necessarily fall out of love, Chris, I just . . . I felt like I lost a part of me. Everything felt familiar and distant at the same time, and there were traces of you everywhere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I can never sleep.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been sleeping even less since I left. The bed’s cold.”

“Same with mine.”

You paused, staring at each other. Chris faced you properly.

“I’m still in love with you. And I’ll try forever if it means I can make you fall again.”

You smiled a little, letting your hand trail up his arm and wrap around his shoulders, resting your face in his warm neck. His hands moved to your waist, moving under his hoodie and settling on your bare skin. “We should probably get some sleep,” you mumbled into him.

“Your place?”

“Our place. I still have your toothbrush, I think. And more than one of your hoodies.”

“Even if you don't, it doesn't matter,” Chris replied, clasping your hand in his again and gesturing to the backseat. His duffle bag sat there, zipped up, seemingly untouched since he’d left. “I’m coming home. If you’ll let me, of course.”

“You won’t leave?”

“Not unless you say so.”

“So never?”

“Never.”

taglist: @hyunjiiza @velvetmoonlght @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @btch8008s @yaniluvs @ellemir2404 @bellarellasstuff - comment, dm or send an ask to be added

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writing-disability-with-cy · 10 days ago

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[ID: A photo of a mechanical push-pull hand control system, with "Driving without legs: Hand controls and modifications" "Disability 101" in white bubble text. /End ID]

One really common assumption I see about people who's disabilities effect their legs, such as leg amputations, spinal injuries or joint dysplasia, is that we can't drive. It's a common enough assumption that it makes its way into media portrayals of these kinds of disability all the time, though often in very subtle ways that are hard to directly point to, but noticeable once you know what to look for, or rather, what's missing. It's also an assumption I see come up more directly in the replies and reblogs to a lot of my content more often than I expected it too, and almost never as a direct question, but as statements that are part of a separate point. "My character is in a wheelchair so they need to catch the bus..." or "My leg amputee is missing the leg they need to drive so their friend/family member has to drive them to the place where the plot happens..."

but the thing is, It's a misconception! Having a disability that effects your legs or even arms in some cases (or results in you having none at all) doesn't stop you from being able to drive, at least not on it's own. It's not even a barrier to driving other kinds of vehicles, like motorcycles, aeroplanes or heavy machinery, and that's because of a type of assistive technology called vehicle modifications.

I've chosen to make this a disability 101 post, mostly because it is just kind of general disability-awareness content, even if I am focusing mostly on authors and creatives, but also because finding resources about this topic can be genuinely difficult if you don't know the names of the modifications or devices, so I've provided some resources throughout (and at the end in the sources section) that could be helpful for disabled people who are interested in getting these kinds of modifications themselves.

I do want to give a quick disclaimer before getting into this though, that I just have modifications, I'm not a mechanic or an expert on how they work, nor am I an expert of cars and other vehicles. Like anything, be sure to do your own research and fact check anything you see here, especially if the more technical stuff is relevant to you and/or your writing.

Ok, with that out of the way, let's get into it!

Cars

Lets start by talking about the vehicle modifications available for cars, trucks and other similar vehicles. For the sake of simplicity, I'm going to be referring to anything with more than 4 wheels collectively as "cars" but know this includes everything from actual cars, to trucks, to even road-trains.

Control Modifications

The most common type of control modification you'll typically see are called "hand controls" and there's dozens of types available for cars. How they do it changes, but they all work by taking the parts of a vehicle that are controlled with your feet, and make them controllable with your hands in some way.

The most common version of this, and the type I use, is called a "push-pull hand control". It works by replacing the foot pedals in (usually automatic) cars with a bar which sticks out from the side of the steering wheel that can be pushed forwards to apply the break, and pulled towards you to accelerate. This is the set-up I have in my car.

[ID: A photo of the interior of a holden car showing the steering wheel and dashboard. On the top left of the steering wheel is a round door-knob shaped grip assist, and on the bottom left is the bar of a hand control sticking out from behind the wheel. The bar has a foam grip on they end, and a circular control buttons for the blinkers, horn, headlights and windscreen wipers, though the top button is obscured by the steering wheel./End ID]

One way to set this up is done by attaching a long mechanism or pole under the steering column that physically pushes down on the pedals for you when you push or pull on the control bar. This is the type that I have, and as I understand, it's one of the cheaper ways to do it.

[ID: Another photo of the interior of the same car, this time showing the area where the driver's legs are supposed to go, which is covered in a lot of dust, the pedals and steering wheel. The hand control bar is fixed under the steering wheel, and a long metal rod connects the control bar to the pedals. /End ID]

(also please excuse the dirt, I live on a farm and it's been raining, so avoiding mud and dirt is impossible right now)

There are also versions of this systems that bypass the pedals entirely and connect the control bar to the car's internal systems. This is more commonly seen in electric vehicles or in cars that are being used by people with little to no control of their legs who might be at risk of pressing the pedals accidently - in which case, the pedals are also modified so they can be either folded up or shut off when the hand controls are in use, and then folded back down or turned back on when someone without a leg disability wants to drive.

There is also portable hand controls, which are very similar to permanent push-pull systems, but can be attached to almost any automatic car and removed as needed. Most I've seen have clamps that attach to the pedals, two adjustable poles, connected by a bar at the top, similar to push-pulls that essentially act as levers to press the pedals, and many are connected to the steering wheel via a Velcro strap. these are by far the cheapest and overall most flexible option, but they also happen to be mostly illegal where I live, so I've never actually seen them used in person. Technically, they can be used under very specific conditions here, but I've never met anyone who had them legally. Most people I know who tried to get approved were rejected. For everyone who doesn't live in or isn't writing a story set in NSW Australia though, Diamond Garrette has a demonstration of how they work on her YouTube channel, which I suggest checking out if you want to know more about them!

This isn't the only way the controls can be set up for the acceleration and breaking though. Other common variations include an over-ring control, trigger controls or joystick controls. In trigger hand controls, you still have a bar that extends out from the steering wheel that you push forward to break, but the accelerator is controlled using a trigger-like button underneath, similar to the accelerator on a motorbike. Joystick controls allow a driver to control steering and acceleration through a joystick (including sometimes the joystick built into the driver's power chair), and are usually a small part of larger modification systems. Over-ring hand controls, also called push-rings, are a type of control where the accelerator is tied to a ring that sits either over the top of the steering wheel, or just behind it, and you either use your thumbs to press down on it while you drive, or your fingers to pull it towards you if it's placed behind. The brake can either be another bar you push away from yourself like the others, or grip that sits beside the wheel that can either be pushed forward or squeezed in towards the wheel. If you'd like a demonstration for how over-rings work, Des Gosling Mobility has a demonstration on their youtube page! Trigger, joystick and over-ring controls are all often used by people who's disabilities effect their arms and legs, and who might have more difficulty with the heavier push-pull bar.

Because one of your hands will usually be occupied with most of these methods though (with the only exception being the over-ring and portable controls), many hand controls also have a second set of blinkers (indicators) controlled by buttons or a small flickable switch on either the hand control itself or a different location like the head-rest for easier access. While not as common, many also include extra buttons for the horn, windscreen wipers and headlights. On mine, I can control all of these "extras" through a small control pad attached to the bar, though only the blinker buttons and horn are actually connected (all the others cost extra).

[ID: A close-up of my hand control, described earlier, to show the buttons. /End ID]

Another thing you'll often see on cars with hand-controls is either a spinner knob or some other style of grip assist on the steering wheel itself. Spinner knobs - which you can see in the first photo on this post, usually look like a door-knob attached to the top left or right side of the wheel (depending on what side of the road you drive on) that allow you to turn easier with your remaining hand, but other options include tri-rod spinners (which are mostly the same, but with three rods the user can place their hand and wrist on if they have problems with their grip) and joystick controls, which I described earlier.

I mentioned before that most of these hand-controls are mainly used in automatic cars, and that's because manual transmissions add some extra complications that, honestly, most people I know just prefer to avoid. That's not to say hand controls are only for automatic cars though, they just aren't as popular due to the extra hassle it brings. One option I am aware of is called the "duck clutch" which is a small leaver installed on the back of the gear-stick that lets you control the clutch pedal. This video from Problem Management Engineering shows how it works, though the person in their video still uses their foot for the accelerator instead of a hand controlled accelerator/break.

There are many other types of control modifications outside of these, including alternate-side foot pedals for drivers who don't have (or can't use) the leg they'd need to reach the accelerator, pedal extensions for people with dwarfism, or chin controls for people with no use of their (or no) arms. It's always a good idea to check and see if there are options available for people with you/your character's disability before making the assumption that they can't drive at all. Obviously, not every disability can be accommodated behind the wheel. For example, some autistic people struggle with the sensory processing and fast decision making needed for driving, and no amount of modification can help with that. Conditions like blindness and dementia are also pretty sure-fire disqualifiers once they reach a certain point (as both these disabilities exist on spectrums), but it's always worth checking if you've never been told for sure, especially if you are not disabled yourself.

Modifications for access

Another common kind of modification you see in cars for disabled people help them get in and out, as well as occasionally where and how they sit.

larger vehicles like vans have the most options available. My previous work vehicle (owned by a disability organisation with mostly disabled employees) for example had a large sliding door on the side that you could open to reveal a small lift. When not in use, it would fold up and sit against the door and when we needed to get in or out, you'd open the sliding door and put the lift in the "open" position, and it would lift you up to be level with the van floor so you could just roll in, or lower you down to the ground to let you out. It was a converted tradie van (a big white van usually used by electricians and other tradesmen to carry large amounts of tools and equipment) that had the back seats and a lot of the interior torn out, so you could take your chair all the way up to the driver or passenger seats and just transfer in, and I've seen similar set-ups with the lift coming out of the back as well. The major downside of these kinds of modifications, is that they require a lot of space, both in and outside of the vehicle. I dreaded taking the work van anywhere other than our planned destinations because finding parking spaces large enough for the lift to fully extend (about a metre, if I remember right) was a nightmare - though many places now have parking spots next to the accessible spaces that are kept empty specifically to help with that (if you've ever seen a parking space with stripes painted over it, that's what they're for).

Some vans can also have small fold-out ramps instead of lifts, which are a lot cheaper and don't require a power supply, but these tend to only be good if your van is low enough to the ground to keep the ramp small, otherwise getting in and out becomes a challenge. This is the approach I see used the most in wheelchair accessible taxis too.

As for the seating in vans, some people are able to get the driver's seat modified to spin around, making getting in and out of the driver's seat easier. I've also seen this in some cars and trucks, where the seat can rotate outwards to make transferring easier, or in some trucks that are higher off the ground, the seat can come out and be lowered, and then lift the driver back into the truck. While less common, I have also seen a few vans that allow wheelchair users to push directly up to the steering wheel and drive from their chair once it's secured, such as Problem Management Engineering Spacedrive system (The video linked here also contains a demonstration of a joystick control modification).

Some smaller cars and trucks can also have chair lifts installed that store mobility aids like wheelchairs either on the top of the car or, if it's a ute (a truck with a bed on the back) in the open bed.

Getting in and out without modification

Not everyone has these kinds of modification though. In fact, most manual wheelchair users I know don't have any seating or access modifications at all. For people with mobility aids like manual wheelchairs, getting in and out can be done without modifying the car in a few ways:

If someone is able to walk a little bit, they may put their wheelchair (or other mobility aid like a walker) in the boot (trunk) of their car, or on the back seat if they don't have the boot space. If their wheelchair folds, this makes it easier, but even non-folding, rigid-frame wheelchairs can fit in most car boots by taking off the wheels. If, like me, you have a car with a tiny boot where that's really not an option, many people will slide their wheelchairs onto the back seat of the car instead. Usually, this is done by putting the footplate of the chair where a person's legs would sit, and sitting the frame on the seat with the backrest up against the car seat backrest. It kind of looks like a weird booster seat once it's in. After that, wheels sit on-top of the seat. This even works with tiny cars! If a human can fit, most wheelchairs can too.

But what if they can't walk at all? well, that's a bit trickier, but its still doable for a lot of people. If we're travelling with someone, we just get them to do the steps I mentioned before, but if we are on our own, most wheelchair users I know (and myself) will get into the driver's seat, take the wheels off our wheelchairs, put both the driver-side and passenger-side backrest as low as it will go so they're both basically laying down, then pull the frame over ourselves and place it on the passenger seat in the same position as I described before. frame on the seat, footplate in the leg area and backrest up against the back of the car seat backrest once it's sat back upright - or, if you're cars a bit of a tighter fit like mine is, just put the frame and footrest on the passenger seat and leave the car backrest laying down. Then we put the wheels on top (if they fit, they usually don't) or on the back-seat. I'm a bit out of practice, since I usually have someone with me when I use the car, but this is a sped-up video showing my whole process:

[Video Description: A fast-forwarded video of Cy, a fat, white double leg amputee wearing a light purple shirt and blue jeans that cover their stumps as they get into their car, a small, black holden SUV. They start by putting their phone in the car door storage, transferring into the driver's seat and laying the seat all the way back. They then turn their wheelchair away from them and lift it so it is balancing on it's front footplate while they remove the wheels and put them to the side. With a bit of manoeuvring, they pull their wheelchair frame up, over their body, but it gets stuck, requiring them to fold down the handle bars so it will fit. They try again, but their chair gets stuck on something inside the car, out of view. Cy lowers the passenger seat to a laying down position and then continues to pull the wheelchair frame in, placing it on the seat. Lastly, they put the wheels on the back seat behind them. The video then fade-cuts to show them getting back out again, which is mostly the same process but in reverse, starting with the chair frame. They lift it over themself, then lean the chair forward so it is resting on it's footplate again, but the backrest is leaning up against the doors. They pull out one wheel from the backseat and re-attach it to the frame, then rotate the chair around and retrie the other wheel to put it back on the other side. Once both wheels are on and the chair is re-assembled, Cy then lifts their seat back up and transfers back into their wheelchair, and gives the camera a thumbs-up. /End Video Description].

Obviously though, this won't be an option for everyone. Not everyone has the strength or flexibility needed to get their wheelchairs in and over their bodies. I personally struggle with getting in and out of the car by myself because I have short arms and a big belly which gets in the way of getting my chair over the top of me to put it on the passenger seat. For people with joint dysplasia, doing this might risk something dislocating. Some power-chairs can weigh hundreds of kilograms, and no one, even able bodied, is lifting that on their own. and some wheelchairs are just physically too large to fit in a normal car, and that's when these access modifications can come into play.

Less-than-legal modifications

Sorry for yet another disclaimer, but just a reminder that this post is mostly for writing advice, which sometimes includes writing for characters who can't or don't care about doing everything correctly and by the book. It is not a guide on how to do this or encouragement to try. Do not, under any circumstances, try anything in this at home!

Sometimes, for reasons we'll talk about in a minute, “proper modifications” might not always be an option. Maybe you're writing someone who just doesn't care about the law that much, maybe they need to use an unmodified car in an emergency. Maybe its a zombie apocalypse and you can't be picky. Maybe your character just lives somewhere where the law isn't as strict. In those cases, know that disabled people have been Macgyver-ing and DIYing their own solutions for as long as cars have been a thing, regardless of what the laws have to say about it. Being in a rural area with a lot of space to drive off of public roads, I've also personally seen quite a few... creative solutions.

One especially common method to get around a lack of hand controls in cars for someone without the use of their legs, is a walking stick. Just a cheap one you can get from the shops, to help reach the pedals. I have a family friend who used to drive his old farm truck this way (again, never on public roads) and I may or may not have tried it as a teenager. It's definitely not a safe or convenient way to do it, but it's... a way, I suppose? I've also seen a few home-made spinner knobs and chair lifts to help people get in and out of trucks easier, known a few leg amputees and little people who have extended their own pedals in old farm cars so they can reach without things like prosthetics or orthotics.

humans are shockingly creative sometimes. But once again, please, do not try these at home.

Other things to be aware of

I mentioned before that disability alone doesn't always stop people from driving, but there are other things to consider for disabled drivers that you should be aware of if you're writing us (or if you're a disabled person wanting to get modifications yourself) either because they can create extra barriers, or they're just important to know.

Initially, I tried to make this section as generally applicable to people in different countries and with different disabilities as I could, but outside of the "cost" section, I don't really think that's possible unless I wanted to spend weeks researching and trying to get answers out of insurance companies and governments and this post is already really long. So instead, I think the best approach I can make on a limited timeframe is to talk about the barriers I've faced, or that people I know have faced, to kind of give you a general idea of what to look for in your own research. What barriers you or your characters face will change massively depending on your location and disability, but hopefully this will give you a stepping-off point.

Cost

So the first major barrier that a lot of disabled drivers face outside of their actual disabilities, is the cost of these modifications.

The hand controls in my personal car that I've been describing throughout the article are considered basic, and when I had to get them replaced in 2024 due to an accident, I was quoted $8,925 AUD (which is a little over $5,700 USD), just for the mechanical push-pull mechanism, blinkers and horn button, and this is pretty average in terms of price for this kind of system. I have seen them go for cheaper, for example, my first set of hand controls were second hand and it still cost around $2,500 AUD, but this was several years ago now. I think around 2016. prices for everything related to disability in Australia have skyrocketed since then.

I also happened to be working in the office the day the quote came in for the modification to my old workplace's vehicle when we first got it, (the one with the side access lift, which also had a push-pull hand control but no additional blinker/horn buttons and rotating seats) and we were told it would cost over $50,000 AUD to do all the modifications. I'm pretty confident this was also a discounted rate too, since our company had several modified vehicles and we always went to the same place for installation. Once again, this was a good number of years ago now, probably around 2018 at the latest.

Like a lot of disability aids, depending on where you live, either government-run healthcare programs, public insurance or private (usually health or car) insurance can sometimes either subsidise or cover the cost of modifications outright. However, this isn't always an option for everyone and a lot of people end up having to pay for their modifications (and all the other extra legal hoops they have to pay for, that I'll talk about soon) out-of-pocket.

In Australia, the NDIS (A disability-specific public insurance system) is generally considered to be responsible for covering vehicle modifications in the public sector, and on paper at least, they do. But like with most insurance companies, there's a million different conditions and "gotcha's" that let them get out of paying for them. My first set of hand controls were funded by them, but not without a substantial amount of arguing and a small army of both medical and mechanical experts to vouch for both me needing the modifications for my disability, and my car actually surviving long enough for it to be worthwhile paying for them. You see, at that point in time, if your car was less than 3 years old or had less than a certain number of kilometres on the odometer (I have no idea what it was, something ridiculously low), you could get your hand controls covered, mostly no problem. Statistically though, most people with disabilities severe enough to even qualify for these modifications, didn't have the money for a car that new due to systemic barriers. There was a bit of leeway though, as long as your car was less than 10 years old, you could sometimes get them covered regardless, so long as you could prove your car wasn't falling apart on the road already. Unfortunately, my car was from 2004. So... a little bit outside that window. Honestly, I don't know how we got it approved. Today, those rules are a bit different, they've extended the "usually fine" margin to 5 years OR if your car is still under a manufacturer's warranty, but the 10 year cut-off is much stricter than it used to be (because as we all know, after 10 years your car just starts to disintegrate, obviously).

There are also a bunch of other seemingly random things that can disqualify you from getting vehicle modifications covered, including "not being good value for money" or there being other services available (when I applied they originally tried to argue this with me, and suggested public transport was an option). Honestly, whether or not you get approved for them or not just seems to come down to who was working in the office at the NDIA that day and if they'd had their morning coffee when they saw your request. If you want to know more, this is the publicly-available outline the NDIS has. If you live in Australia and you're thinking of getting vehicle modifications yourself, it's worth a read, but be mindful it's never as simple in reality as it is in these kinds of outlines.

In Australia, private health insurance will cover it sometimes, and I know a few people who got theirs that way, though I don't know what the process is like. I do know private car insurance will also replace existing modifications if you're in an accident that destroyed your old ones, which is how I got my second set of modifications. Also after a lot of arguing. You see, in Australia, our disability anti-discrimination law, the DDA, does protect disability-related car modifications as essentials that can't be charged extra for, but that doesn't mean insurance companies won't try to get out of covering them if they can. Many will claim they don't have to cover the modifications unless you paid for "extras" to be insured too, and bet on customers not knowing that's against the law. Unfortunately, the DDA is a massive law and while most people know it exists, they don't know exactly what it covers and this lie ends up working. Even if a person does know it's illegal, if an insurance company refuses to budge once its pointed out to them, many disabled folks don't have the time, energy or money to actually hold them accountable in court, so they still get away with it, and another barrier is created, even if, legally, it's not supposed to.

From what I was able to find, in America, private insurance companies will sometimes cover the cost vehicle modifications (assuming you can even afford insurance to begin with) but even if you get them, another barrier arises in the form of insurance premiums. unlike the DDA, their ADA doesn't always protect the modifications as essentials. Because of that, it's not uncommon to have to pay more on car insurance if you do have them and want them covered, which presents a different kind of cost barrier and makes driving with them legally riskier.

Legal restrictions and getting "approved" for use

I mentioned this in passing before, but in order to get modifications for your vehicle, at least in Australia, you actually have to get "approved" by your state government to be able to use them at all. Also, in NSW, for control modifications like hand controls, once you're approved to use them, that's all you're allowed to use. This means, if you and your friend both own a car with different kinds of hand controls, you're not allowed to use the other person's car. This was actually the case for me and my previous roommate, she had an over-ring, while I had the push-pull mechanism. Legally, we couldn't drive each other's cars. Despite both having hand controls and being physically able to drive each other's cars, we weren't legally allowed to.

This is because in most places around the world, the modification of cars in general and specifically the use of alternate controls systems like hand controls are very heavily restricted for a variety of safety reasons (some of which are reasonable, and others... eh... not so much) - Even some US states forbid things like spinner knobs from being used without state government approval. Australia is... a little extra in this regard, to put it mildly, and their restrictions can be serious barriers all on their own.

Usually, to get approved to use modifications here, you have to go out with an Occupational therapist to test which type of modifications work for you. For control modifications specifically, once a best fit is found, this will be added as a condition to your licence, meaning you can now only drive with that style of control. This isn't too bad if you get your modifications covered by the NDIS or insurance, since they'll usually cover the cost of the OT as part of this, but if you're one of the unlucky people that can't get covered, you also have to pay for the OT, which can be thousands of dollars on top of the other costs.

Access to installation and maintenance

Another major barrier for a lot of disabled people who need these kinds of modifications is physical access to someone who can actually put them in and maintain them.

You see, not just any mechanic can install disability modifications, especially control modifications. You have to go to a specific type of engineer. The only exception to this rule, as far as I'm aware, is the portable hand control, which is a big part of the reason why they're banned in my state, as they can't be assumed to be safe.

Unfortunately, this is a pretty niche area of speciality, so there aren't a lot of options to get the installations done. There are only 8 in all of NSW (which has an area bigger than 3 times the entire UK), according to Australia's National Equipment Database, and the vast majority of them are in the Greater Sydney Region. This means, if you don't live near Sydney, you're out of luck for the most part, unless you can spare a few days to make the trip (since the installation can also take some time). Some companies do offer to come and get the vehicle for you, but not all, and even those that do, may not be able to come get it if you're 8+ hours away.

And that's just the installation. Thankfully, normal car maintenance still can be done by a general mechanic, even with modifications installed, but if anything happens to the modifications themselves, you normally have to go back to the person who installed them for repairs. Personally, I now live around 4 hours out of Sydney, and around Christmas, the wiring in my hand controls failed. It was a simple repair, but my partner and I had to go all the way back to Sydney for it, and we had a lot going on at the time, so we had no choice but to leave it for over a month. Meaning there was a whole month where I just couldn't drive.

Uneducated Law Enforcement

Ok, so this one is kind of a... luck of the draw situation and it's not a common barrier in my personal experience, but I also recognise that, as a white person who can still pass as cis if needed, my experience here won't be universal. Disabled people with intersecting identities such as POC and visibly queer folks, may have a substantially harder time with this.

Unfortunately, because disability modifications are not super common in the general public, it's not uncommon for police to have never seen them before. And when police don't know about something, that can become your problem very quickly. Most of the time, there's no issue, but I have been accused on two separate occasions of having "illegal racing modifications" in my car, because the police didn't know what a hand control was and jumped to that assumption (I'm not even sure what they would have been confusing them for, I've seen racing mods and they don't look anything like hand controls). I was also once told I'd have to get my car towed when on my way to get it checked by a mechanic for registration, because the officer didn't believe me that a regular mechanic could do it due to my hand controls, so obviously I must be lying and trying to drive my unregistered car around town (I don't know what the law is in other places, but here you are allowed to drive an unregistered vehicle to the mechanics if they know you’re coming). Both situations were pretty minor and were resolved quickly, but they could have easily been a lot worse if the officers decided not to believe me, or in the case of the second situation, they didn’t believe the mechanic who had to be called to convince the officer I was telling the truth.

Other Kinds of Vehicles and Modifications

Cars aren't the only vehicle you can modify to drive with a disability, they're just the most common! Honestly, each other vehicle was originally going to be it's own segment, but this post is already incredibly long, so here's just a quick overview of the modifications I know about for other vehicles!

Motorbikes and trikes often don't need much in the way of control modification for most riders, but many bikes can be modified to be easier to balance on or hold a wheelchair, either on the back or side, and trikes can be made to allow the rider to stay and ride from their wheelchair directly.

The laws for this are different everywhere, but in Australia and the UK, light aircraft can also be modified to be accessible to people with some physical disabilities, including wheelchair users with hand controls. Wheelies With Wings is a Melbourne based organisation the specialises in helping wheelchair users learn to fly . For those in the UK, Freedom of the Air offer similar services. Though as you might expect, there are some pretty substantial cost barriers involved for this.

I also know a few people who have also (legally) modified their farm equipment, like tractors or even heavy machinery, like bulldozers.

Pretty much anything can be modified. More often than not, if something can't be, it's usually more due to legal problems than it being physically impossible.

Conclusion

There's so many kinds of vehicle modifications out there, for all different kinds of vehicles, this is really just a general overview, so be sure to research what would be applicable to you or your characters

Sources

Over Ring Accelerator Demonstration

Driving With A Disability - Portable Hand Controls

Duck Hand-Operated Clutch System

NDIS vehicle mods PDF

Vehicle Modification Agents Vehicle Modification Agents Database

Wheelies With Wings Facebook page Link

Freedom of the Air Link

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