#I would like to do some more of those questions.

[perpetuallyfive]

God, I'm so happy with what they did with Maddie Nolen.

I'm sure there will be plenty of people mad because obviously there was a weird backlash over a character who has sex with one half a ship, so I'm sure some people worry this will lead those people to feel justified in their initial response.

But ignoring people who can't emotionally regulate for a second, because those childish impulses aren't worth dictating the fun things a narrative can do: Maddie is SO INTERESTING as a character and she fills in a lot of the questions people seemed to have about the rest of the season.

Consider for a moment that it wasn't Caitlyn who convinced Vi to be an Enforcer. It was Maddie.

I know that some people took this line to be about Zaunites, a sort of obvious connection to the very racist idea of "one of the good ones," but since Maddie is talking about Marcus and his betrayal of the Enforcers just before this, I'm pretty sure her framing here is something else. The point she's making is specifically targeted at Vi's own beliefs and weaknesses, her desire to protect. That seems clear to me now with all we know about Maddie's capacity for manipulation.

She's not saying, "You're good, for a poor."

She's saying, "Wow, I agree with you, the Enforcers are really bad; it's so upsetting. I think you might be the only one who can change it, but only if you join us." This is what convinces Vi to do something she never thought she would.

Well, this and the fact that Caitlyn believes in her so much which, again, is information she gets fed to her directly from Maddie. It even seems like Maddie seeks her out just to say this, which on first viewing felt oddly convenient. Wow, Vi just happens to meet this naive girl who just happens to say exactly what she needs to hear to do something so out of character.

Except obviously none of it was coincidence. Everyone already knew how much Vi meant to Caitlyn and getting Caitlyn under control would require either controlling Vi or removing her from the equation. This was a push in that direction.

Then there's her more obvious role as the spy in Caitlyn's bed, there to reassure her that the Noxians are only trying to keep all of them safe. Then when Caitlyn expresses larger doubts, she's immediately ready to lay out an alternative. You could just give up, Maddie seems to whisper gently in her ear. Just reestablish things as they were before.

But she knows Caitlyn isn't going to go for that. She's not going to go back to the council as it was, because it's only going to remind her of the empty place her mother left behind. Maddie knows that Caitlyn isn't going to take this offer, which is precisely why she suggests it. She frames quitting as the only clear alternative to going along with everything Ambessa wants because she knows that Caitlyn will refuse, which leads her right back into alignment with Ambessa. She makes continued obedience into an active choice that Caitlyn affirms she's making.

Even Maddie's comments that suggest direct opposition to Ambessa — "you're our leader... I follow you" — are designed to frame herself and her true leader in direct opposition, just as Ambessa's own warning about entanglements is there to further that point. They both make a point of reminding Caitlyn that they are her true ally, isolating her further from anyone who isn't the devil and (other) devil on her shoulders.

This way Maddie and Ambessa can both tug at Caitlyn, pulling in what feels to her like opposite directions, all so that she lands precisely where they wanted her all along but with the illusion of active agency.

And look, I'm not saying my read on her is gospel, because I think they intentionally gave us enough room to really speculate and wonder about her, someone who could have been just a background nothing character but ends up being such a huge part of the second season. That's so interesting!

I especially love that she comes across as really naive and innocent, just some poor little thing swept up in the fervor, when in reality she's a true believer who has been manipulating things to go her way from the start.

[imaginaryf1shots]

Forced | Max Verstappen Ver

WC: 22.2K

Max x reader

Summery: Jos made a deal years ago that he can't get out of, and Max is the one to see it through.

Warning ⚠️: abuse(mental, physical), a little naive reader, slight ptsd, eating disorder implied, depression and suicidal thoughts, mention of parent death, family abandment, cursing, Jos being an ahole, injuries

AN: Dark one. Read the warnings.

SAT THERE EDITING SINCE THE RACE JUST SO I COULD GET IT OUT TODAY!!

Masterlist

Max Verstappen

Charles Ver., Carlos Ver.

How he ended up here was a mystery to Max, but here he was, sitting in a private room at some overpriced restaurant, his father on one side and a stranger across from him. Across from him sat the man he only knew as Mr Wilkins, his sharp eyes practically dissecting Max with every glance.

Max prided himself on being observant. He noticed the little things, the subtle shifts in behaviour, the unspoken tells. And tonight, Jos Verstappen was a man he barely recognised. His father, usually so confident and composed, was jittery, avoiding Max’s gaze, his hands restless against the polished table. Jos had been skittish for days, dodging every question Max had thrown at him. And now, this.

“Have you told him?” Wilkins’s voice cut through the tension, cool and unwavering. His question was directed at Jos, but it hit Max like a stone.

Max glanced at his father, his stomach twisting, this is what his dad has been dodging all week. “Told me what?”

Jos’s gaze fell to the table. He didn’t answer.

“I see you haven’t.” Wilkins said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like I’ll have to do it myself.”

Jos shifted uncomfortably, his hand reaching for his glass of water but stopping halfway. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do?” He asked, his voice low and almost pleading.

Max froze. Pleading? Jos Verstappen didn’t beg. Not for anyone. Wilkins, however, remained unmoved, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

“You knew the price all those years ago.” His tone was ice-cold, unyielding.

 “Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Max’s patience snapped, his voice cut through the room, loud enough to draw attention if there had been anyone else around. Wilkins chuckled, clearly amused by Max’s agitation.

“Relax, Mr Verstappen.” He said smoothly, as if the situation was nothing more than a business transaction. “You’re about to receive some… life-changing news.”

Max didn’t relax. He braced himself, his instincts screaming that whatever was coming next would flip his world upside down.

“I’m sorry.” Jos’s voice was barely a whisper, and when Max turned to him, his father’s face was pale, his eyes fixed on the table.

“Well, congratulations are in order.” Wilkins announced, his smirk widening. “You’re a groom.”

Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room. Max blinked; certain he’d misheard.

“A groom?” He laughed, but it was hollow, a sharp bark of disbelief. He pointed at himself. “Me? You must be joking.”

 “Oh, I assure you, I’m quite serious.” Wilkins’s expression didn’t waver. Max’s laughter died instantly. His body stiffened, his hands curling into fists on the table.

“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not even seeing anyone!” He turned sharply to his father, his voice rising. “What is he saying? What’s going on? And what did you do?”

Jos flinched, his hand shaking as he reached for his son. “L-look, Max, I-I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did.” Wilkins leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as if settling in for a long story. “Let me make this simple, since it’s clear your father hasn’t explained. Many years ago, Jos and I made a deal. I did him a favour, quite a significant one, might I add, and now it’s time for him to repay it.” Wilkins slid a crisp document across the table. Max barely glanced at it. His glare was fixed on the man who’s trying to upend his life. “My business is failing.” Wilkins continued smoothly. “And I need investors. Your father, with his connections and not to mention his three-time world champion son, can help me secure them. And what better way to cement that relationship than a marriage?”

“And what does that have to do with me?” Max’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady.

“Everything.” Wilkins said, his eyes gleaming. “Because you, Max, are the key to this entire arrangement. And let’s be honest, you’d do anything to protect your father, wouldn’t you?”

The insinuation hit like a slap. Max’s gaze darted to his father, whose face crumbled under the weight of guilt.

“I don’t get it,” Max muttered. “What could you possibly have over him?”

Wilkins’s smirk turned razor-sharp. “Oh, I have plenty. How about the fact that Jos embezzled money to secure his career in Formula 1? Or that he cheated his way into a few deals? One word from me, and the media would have a field day. And prison? Well, Jos knows what that’s like already, doesn’t he?”

Max’s stomach churned. He pushed back his chair, the screech of metal against wood cutting through the tension. Grabbing his phone, he stood, his movements sharp and final.

“I’m not doing this.” He said, his voice firm, resolute.

“Max, wait!” Jos half-rose from his chair, grabbing his son’s arm. “Please, just… think about it. Please.”

Max wrenched his arm free, his glare slicing through his father’s desperation. “Think about what? Selling myself off like some business transaction? No.”

“It’ll be good for your image,” Jos added hastily, his tone desperate. “And Wilkins’s daughter—she’s beautiful. Maybe just… meet her. Talk to her.”

Max’s head snapped towards Wilkins, his eyes narrowing. “Your daughter? You’re offering her up like some bargaining chip?” He scoffed, the disgust in his tone cutting deep.

Wilkins shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Believe me, she’ll be happy. And I know she’ll make you happy.”

Max’s gaze flicked between the two men. His father looked like he was on the verge of breaking, while Wilkins appeared positively delighted with himself. The chaos fuelled him; it was written all over his face.

Max exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll think about it.” he said finally, his tone clipped. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, ignoring the sound of his father pleading with Wilkins behind him.

Max went back to his house, the penthouse he shared with his cats. His mind was swirling with emotions and ideas. There must be another way, there had to be. How could they expect him to marry someone he’d never met before? They were acting as if it was as easy as picking up groceries.

His phone pinged with a notification.

It was from his dad. Clicking on their chat, Max barely glanced at the attached picture of you before reading the text below it:

He gave us one week before you have to get married.

Max cursed under his breath and threw his phone, watching as it clattered against the floor, startling his cats.

The week crawled by painfully. It took Jos a few days to show up at Max’s door, trying to convince him. Jos pleaded, guilt-tripping Max at every opportunity. He even showed Max your Instagram profile, scrolling through pictures and pointing out that you weren’t a forever commitment—that marriage didn’t mean he had to be faithful. Jos insisted that Max could continue living his life as usual.

In the end, it wasn’t the arguments or assurances that drove Max to the courthouse; it was the love he had for his father.

Max sat stiffly in front of the officiant’s office, dressed in a blazer, a white shirt, and jeans. He refused to dress up more than that for what felt like a mockery of a commitment. Jos sat beside him, restless, while Max’s thoughts churned. The clock ticked away, but you and your father were nowhere to be seen.

Max glared at the door. Power play, he thought bitterly. Being late was a way to assert control, to make them wait, to show who was in charge.

When Wilkins finally arrived, his booming voice preceded him, pulling Max out of his thoughts.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Max stood without sparing a glance at the group, opened the door to the officiant’s office, and walked in.

You entered moments later, your smile soft but strained when your eyes met Jos’s. Wilkins’s hand gripped your arm tightly as he led you inside, his fingers digging into your skin. You kept your head high and your posture straight, despite the discomfort. When he lets go, you instinctively rubbed your arm but quickly stopped, aware of everyone’s eyes.

Max didn’t look up. He sat rigidly in his seat, staring at the officiant, his jaw set.

“I won’t take long.” The officiant began, sliding a paper in front of Max. He’s clearly paid by your dad. Max grabbed the pen and signed without hesitation, not sparing you a glance. When the paper was passed to you, your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the pen. You signed where indicated, your expression composed, but there was a flicker of hesitation before each stroke.

“Good, nice and easy. Now exchange the rings.” The officiant said.

Max hadn’t brought rings. It hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jos, however, handed him a pair of simple bands, evidently having planned for this.

Max took a steadying breath and turned to you. His gaze faltered for a moment. He hadn’t expected this. You were... breathtaking.

For a moment, he hated that it mattered.

The smile you wore didn’t waver, though it was faint and polite, not reaching your eyes. Max took your hand. Your fingers felt fragile in his grip, trembling slightly, yet he didn’t notice the faint pressure marks on your skin from Wilkins’s grip earlier. He just slid the ring on, his movements mechanical.

You took his hand with quiet care, slipping the ring onto his finger with the same delicate precision, avoiding his gaze. When it was done, Max pulled his hand back quickly, rising from his seat.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Wilkins’s voice was sharp. Max froze mid-step, his shoulders tense. “You forgot your wife.” Max turned slowly, glaring at Wilkins. His father’s chuckle grated against his nerves. “You didn’t think just signing papers was enough, did you? You’ll take my daughter with you.”

Wilkins placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, making you flinch slightly before quickly composing yourself. Your smile shrank further, barely there.

Max’s eyes flicked to you. Your white dress clung to your frame, the heels on your feet absurdly high. You looked... smaller somehow, standing next to your father.

“Come on, then.” Max said brusquely, turning and heading for the door.

Wilkins leaned down, whispering something in your ear. You nodded quickly, not daring to respond aloud. You hurried after Max, your footsteps soft but purposeful.

Outside, Max’s car—a sleek Aston Martin DBS—waited. You moved to the passenger side without a word, glancing briefly at Max as you settled into the seat. Your hands rested in your lap, clutching your handbag tightly.

The drive to his penthouse was suffocatingly silent. Max glanced at you occasionally. You sat stiffly, your head slightly bowed, offering no conversation. By the time you arrived, Max began to wonder if you ever spoke at all.

Inside the penthouse, Max’s cats greeted him with meowing and weaving around his legs. He crouched to pet them, finding brief solace in their presence.

When he stood, you were still by the door, shoes off, holding them neatly in one hand. Your other hand gripped the strap of your handbag, knuckles pale.

“I’ll show you the guest bedroom,” Max said.

“Thank you.” Your voice was soft, measured, almost hesitant.

Max frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the sound of your voice caught him off guard. It was far more subdued than he’d imagined.

You followed him quietly, your movements careful, as though unsure of your place in this space. You take a 360 degree look before your eyes fall back on Max.

“There’s a bathroom attached. If you need anything, let me know,” Max said as he stood at the doorway.

“Thank you.” Your response was the same, polite but distant.

Max closed the door behind him and leaned against it briefly, exhaling. You were too calm, too composed. It unsettled him. You weren’t angry or demanding. You weren’t protesting or pushing back.

That left only one possibility. You wanted this.

And Max despised you for it.

You sat on the bed in the guest room, unsure of what to do with yourself. The room was luxurious, similar to your bedroom back home, a little homier though. Looking around, your eyes landed on the large windows.

Walking over, you pulled back the sheer curtains and opened the window slightly. A salty breeze wafted in, carrying the faint hum of the city below. There were no buildings obstructing the view, just the harbour and the vast expanse of sea. The sight was breathtaking, but it did little to ease the tightness in your chest.

Your fingers twitched, an old habit resurfacing—a need to occupy yourself. But there was nothing to do. Taking a deep breath, you tried to steady your nerves. You were in a stranger’s home, married to a man you didn’t know.

Last week, your life had been structured to the minute. You’d had your schedule, your tasks, your carefully planned routine dictated by your father. Now, there was nothing. No orders. No tasks. You bit at your nail beds, the nervous habit making a quiet comeback as you sat back down on the bed.

The hours dragged by. At some point, you lay down on top of the covers, staring out the window. The sky shifted from blue to orange as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Hunger gnawed at you occasionally, but you didn’t dare leave the room.

Max had gone about his day as if nothing had changed. He’d spent time on the simulator, played a few rounds online with friends, and entertained his cats. For a moment, it was easy to forget you existed.

It wasn’t until he was sitting on the sofa, scratching Sassy behind her ears, that he noticed the wedding band on his finger. The sight brought him back to reality. His eyes narrowed as he realised, he hadn’t heard a sound from the guest room all day.

“Ridiculous.” he muttered, standing abruptly. He hesitated for a moment outside your door before knocking lightly.

When there was no immediate response, Max opened the door to find you sitting up on the bed, your dress slightly wrinkled and your legs tucked beneath you. You blinked at him, startled.

“I was—” Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking over you briefly before settling on your face. “I’m ordering food. What do you want?”

“Anything.” You replied softly, your voice timid and polite.

Max’s jaw tightened. Of course, he thought bitterly. The perfect act.

He scoffed and left, the door closing behind him with more force than necessary.

When the food arrived half an hour later, Max knocked on your door again.

“Food’s ready.” He said flatly, turning and walking back to the dining area.

You emerged hesitantly, following the faint sound of Max unpacking containers. He placed a box in front of your spot at the table before sitting down with his own.

You opened the box to find a chicken pasta dish with a side of garlic bread. The sight made you pause, your brows furrowing slightly.

“What?” Max asked, catching the look on your face. “You don’t like pasta?”

Quickly, you schooled your expression into a neutral smile. “No, I like it. Thank you.”

Max narrowed his eyes, noting the sudden shift in your demeanour, but said nothing.

The meal passed in near silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of cutlery. Max finished his food quickly, while you ate slowly, taking small, measured bites, just like you were taught. When he set his fork down, you did the same, despite having barely finished a third of your meal.

Gathering your food containers, you stood and asked quietly, “Which way is the kitchen?”

Max pointed in the direction, watching as you disappeared briefly. You returned a moment later to collect his empty containers.

Max was perplexed by your actions; you haven’t been there for 12 hours and you’re already confusing him.

From the dining room, Max could hear the sound of water running, followed by the opening and closing of cabinets. When you returned, he sighed and stood.

“I’ll show you around.” He said curtly.

You followed silently as he walked through the penthouse, pointing out the various rooms. The tour ended at the door to your guest room. Taking that as your cue, you nodded politely and stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you.

The next morning, you woke early, unsure of what to do. You slipped your strapless bra back on, skipping your underwear, and pulled your dress from the day before over your head. It was wrinkled but all you had.

When you ventured out, you found Max in the living room, scrolling through his phone. At the sound of your soft throat-clearing, he looked up.

His eyes swept over you briefly, taking in the rumpled dress and your heels. “Getting married again today?” he asked, his tone dry.

 “Sorry. I... I don’t have any of my clothes with me.” You flinched slightly but forced a small smile.

Max stared at you for a moment, realisation dawning. He hadn’t considered that you’d arrived with only your handbag.

“Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Without another word, he disappeared into his bedroom, returning a moment later with a plain shirt and a pair of shorts. “These don’t fit me. You can wear them.” He said, holding them out to you.

“Thank you.” You said softly, taking the clothes and retreating to your room. When you emerged a few minutes later, you were wearing his oversized shirt and shorts, which hung loosely on you.

For some reason, Max found himself staring. You looked better in his clothes, he thought absently, before shaking the thought away.

“Can I go out for a bit?” You asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah.” Max replied, already turning back to his phone.

While you were out, Max got a call from one of his friends, inviting him to meet up for the day. He took off his wedding ring and left the apartment. He forgot about the rough week he’d been having and went out to eat and relax with his group of friends. It wasn’t until around 8 p.m. that he headed home.

As he reached his floor, the automatic lights flickered on, revealing your figure slumped against the front door. You were sleeping with shopping bags scattered around you, still in his clothes, his shorts slid up showing your legs, just like the dress did, and your heels discarded by your side.

Max scoffed, walking past you and unlocking his door without a word. He glanced back at you, deliberating for a moment. Should he leave you there? Or wake you up?

Before he could decide, Jimmy sidestepped him and jumped onto you, his head diving straight into one of the bags. That was enough to stir you awake. You jolted up, confused and disoriented, clearly not remembering when you’d fallen asleep.

"Jimmy! Come here," Max called, clicking his tongue. The cat ignored him, making Max sigh in annoyance. He looked down at you—those wide, innocent eyes staring up at him—and felt an unfamiliar mix of irritation and concern.

"Get inside," he said firmly.

You scrambled to your feet, still groggy, grabbing your bags and shoes, but not before Max noticed something red flash from the corner of his eye. He didn’t focus on it, though.

“My dad said your things would arrive in the next couple of days.” Max added casually, as if it was just another piece of information. You paused, turning to him.

"Uh, okay." You muttered in response, quickly retreating to your room.

Max narrowed his eyes but didn’t press you further. He was trying to be polite, trying to make things work. Here he was asking his dad about your things, all he got was that meek “okay.”

He closed the door behind you, then went to feed his cat.

He didn’t hear or see you for the rest of the day.

Two days later, two suitcases arrived. You rolled them to your room and opened them with a mix of dread and resignation. Inside were clothes you hadn’t bought and wouldn’t have chosen for yourself. But they were all designer brands, the kind of things you could sell if you needed the money.

You didn’t want to think about it, but you knew you had no choice. You had to get by somehow.

The week went by with Max either going out, working or gaming. You spent all day in your room, but you had seen Max’s nutritionist’s list he had left in the kitchen one day. Seeing the food he’s supposed to eat, all of it you could make. You memorized his food schedule and started preparing his meals, waking up earlier than him, just to make sure everything was ready. By lunchtime, the smell of food would fill the apartment, but Max never caught sight of you. He never heard you.

The first couple of days in his house missed with your sleeping schedule, so you’re awake way before he does, you memorised when he usually wakes up. So, he’d find food ready for him.

Days stretched on endlessly. You passed the time by reading the few books in your room, but there was no TV, no distractions. You stayed in your room, alone, only leaving to prepare Max’s meals or feed the cats. They started to visit you more often, meowing at your door, and you’d let them in. It made the days a little less lonely, even if the fear never really went away.

Despite everything, it was still better than your life in Switzerland. Better than the life your father had forced upon you.

One day, the doorbell rang. Max was engrossed in his simulator, the headset muffling the sound entirely. After the fourth ring, you hesitantly left your room to see who it could be. Half-asleep, you padded into the living room, noticing Max still focused on his sim in the corner.

Opening the door, you froze as your heart plummeted. Standing there was your father.

"Did someone come?" Max called out from the living room, removing his headset. You shrank back, taking a few steps away from your father. Max rounded the corner, his sharp eyes darting between your pale face and the men at the door. “What are you two doing here?” He demanded, his tone already hard.

“We came to talk about what comes next.” Your father replied, his voice steady but full of implication. Max stepped closer, his presence solid and unmoving beside you. Unconsciously, you edged backward, positioning yourself slightly behind him as if to shield yourself. Max noticed your movement but didn’t say anything—not yet.

“Next? What next? We’re married.” Max shot back, crossing his arms. His posture was sharp, shoulders broad, making him look even more imposing.

“Yes, but how will I get investors if no one sees you two together?” Your father raised a brow, his gaze flitting to you. You froze under his scrutiny, feeling as though the floor might give way beneath you. His eyes moved past you into the house.  “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Your father stepped forward, but Max immediately blocked his path, his stance rigid and unyielding.

“That’s not happening.” Max said through gritted teeth. “And neither is whatever scheme you’re planning. Now piss off will you.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping into a sharper tone. “Listen here, boy—”

Max cut him off, stepping closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “No, you listen. I married your daughter. That’s the deal. How you get your investors is your problem, not ours. You don’t come here. You don’t ask us for anything.”

Your father’s eyes darted toward you again, making you whimper softly. The sound was barely audible, but Max caught it instantly. He shifted, positioning himself fully in front of you, effectively blocking you from view.

“Your daughter is mine. She’s my wife now. You gave her to me—your choice, your consequences,” Max growled. His words were deliberate, cutting.

Your father’s expression darkened as he leaned closer. “I can still expose your father.” He threatened.

Max’s gaze flickered to Jos for a moment before refocusing. He felt the faint tug on his shirt where your fingers clutched the fabric, trembling. Whatever hesitation he had vanished entirely.

“Then do it.” Max bit out, his voice cold and venomous. “Expose him. And when it all falls apart, you’ll suffer just as much as him.”

Without giving your father, a chance to respond, Max slammed the door in their faces.

The moment the latch clicked, your hand released his shirt, and you took a shaky step back. Max was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm himself.

“I’ll have to talk to security about keeping them out.” He muttered, his voice low.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, barely audible.

Max turned to you, his eyes softening despite himself. You were on the verge of tears, and it was written all over your face.

“It’s not your fault,” Max said, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard it before.

Before the tears could spill, you turned and hurried to your room. His cats trailed after you, their tails swishing curiously. Max stood there for a moment, staring after you, wondering when his pets had gotten so attached to you.

In your room, you curled up on the bed, pulling the covers tightly around you as emotions overwhelmed you. Seeing your father again stirred everything you had tried to suppress. This was the longest you’d ever been away from him. Even when he was on business trips, his presence loomed over you through cameras and speakers. If you stepped out of line, even slightly, his voice would thunder through the house, ensuring you never forgot he was watching.

No one had ever stepped up for you. The staff in your father’s home were emotionless, stoic—just following orders. No one had ever comforted you, protected you, or even looked at you with kindness.

But today, Max had stood up for you. Max, who barely tolerated your existence, had blocked your father and shielded you. Max who has no idea what kind of relationship you have with your father. Maybe it was out of anger or frustration with the situation, but it didn’t matter. For the first time, someone had been in your corner.

The realization hit you like a wave, and the tears came. You sobbed quietly, your body shaking under the covers. The loneliness is killing you, why are you even living, what do you do in your day, no one will miss you if you’re gone. You tried not to think such dark thoughts but times like this you couldn’t help it.

The cats jumped onto the bed, circling you. Sassy licked your face, her rough tongue brushing away some of the tears. You patted her head softly, whispering a thank-you under your breath. Maybe they’d miss you if you were gone.

The next morning, Max was by the door, bags packed for two weeks of racing. The apartment was eerily silent—something he usually didn’t mind. But after hearing you cry last night, the quiet felt heavy.

He’d paced in his room for hours, debating whether to check on you. Max might not like you, but he wasn’t heartless. He hated hearing anyone cry, especially women. When he finally decided to go to your door, the sobs had slowed, and he didn’t want to risk waking you.

Now, standing by the door, he hesitated again. Eventually, he knocked softly.

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be gone for two weeks.” He said, his voice awkward but trying.

There was silence for a moment before your muffled voice came through. “Okay. Thank you.” It cracked on the last syllable, heavy with sadness. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Max replied, lingering for a second before leaving. He didn’t know what else to say, but he couldn’t ignore the tightness in his chest.

Max had thought about you more than he’d like to admit. His thoughts kept drifting back to you, no matter how much he tried to push them away. He didn’t like you, he knew next to nothing about you. Yet, somehow, he felt much less dislike toward you now. The truth gnawed at him: he barely knew you. Still, he’d left you in his home with his cats and had lived with you for over a week before heading to the race.

For once, Max couldn’t wait to get home. He was the first out of the paddock, the first on the plane, and the first off it when they landed. By the time he walked into the house, it was nighttime. The air inside was cool and still, the lights turned off, and the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound.

Jimmy and Sassy came trotting out from somewhere, nuzzling into him in greeting. Max bent down to stroke them absently, his mind already drifting. He headed to the kitchen for a drink, opening the fridge. Frowning, he pulled out a bottle of water. Everything inside was exactly as he’d left it—nothing had changed. No empty shelves, no dishes used. The realization unsettled him.

Max closed the fridge and moved to the pantry, only to find the same: untouched, just as it had been before.

A strange thought crept in, and his chest tightened as he turned on his heel, heading to your room. Your door was slightly ajar, and alarm bells went off in his mind. You always kept it closed.

“Y/N?” He called softly, knocking lightly before pushing it open.

The room was eerily tidy. The bed was made with military precision, the same way his mother liked to do it. Nothing was out of place, nothing personal added. It was as if no one had lived in it at all. Max’s heartbeat quickened as panic set in. Where were you?

He searched the house—your bathroom, the laundry room, even his own bedroom. You weren’t there. Finally, he ended up in the living room, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration.

Jimmy meowed loudly, trotting toward the terrace door, which was slightly ajar. Max frowned and followed him, pushing the door open wider.

The sight stopped him in his tracks.

You were lying on the floor of the terrace, flat on your back, eyes closed. Sassy was curled up next to you, and Jimmy padded over to join her. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Max thought the worst.

“Y/N?” His voice wavered as he rushed over, dropping to his knees beside you. “Y/N?” He repeated, louder this time, hands hovering over you as though afraid to touch. “Are you okay?”

He shook you gently, then harder when you didn’t respond. “Y/N!”

Your eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp, and you bolted upright—right into Max’s forehead.

“Fuck!” He groaned, clutching his head as you did the same.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” You exclaimed, reaching for him instinctively. “I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

Max glared at you, rubbing the sore spot. “I should be asking you that. Why the hell were you sleeping out here?”

You looked away, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I wanted to see the stars.”

“In your pyjamas? On the floor? It’s freezing, Y/N!” His exasperation was palpable, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—concern.

You bit your lip, nodding, wishing you could disappear. “I’m sorry.”

Max sighed heavily, standing and extending a hand to help you up. “Come inside before you get sick.”

In the kitchen, under the bright lights, Max finally got a good look at you. You looked exhausted—darker circles under your eyes than before, your frame thinner, your movements sluggish. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was deeply wrong.

“Here.” You placed an ice pack wrapped in a towel against his forehead, your fingers brushing his skin lightly. Max caught the faint scent of lavender and something softer, uniquely you.

“I’m fine,” He muttered, gently taking the ice pack from you. “But you should have one too.”

You hesitated before nodding, fetching another ice pack for yourself. As you pressed it to your own forehead with a quiet hiss, Max leaned against the counter, studying you.

“Why didn’t you eat any of the food in the fridge?” He asked suddenly.

Your eyes widened in panic. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear—” Your hands falling to your side brining the pack with you.

“Don’t put it down.” Your hands flew back up. “I know you didn’t,” Max interrupted, his tone softer now. “That’s the problem. What have you been eating?”

“I buy my own food.” You mumbled, looking anywhere but at him. Everything you do and say just confuses him more.

Max frowned. “And you don’t put it in the fridge?”

“I did.” You said quickly. “I just… ran out.”

His brow furrowed further. “You don’t eat anything from my food?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

Max stared at you, his chest tightening. “So, let me get this straight: you cooked meals for me, but you didn’t make anything for yourself because you didn’t want to use my food? Seriously, Y/N, what have you been eating?”

“Yeah.” You said it like it was obvious, you then hesitated. “I managed… Do you not want me to cook for you anymore?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Max sighed. “I’m saying you can cook yourself food while cooking for me.”

“But…” You trail off feeling embarrassed of what you have to say.

“What? Tell me.” Max said and you meet his eyes for a second before you look at the floor.

“Your food is expensive; I don’t have a lot of money.” You mumble and chew at your lip. Max stands there in silence, he knew your dad is going bankrupt but not enough to not have money.

“Your cards are empty?” Max asked, his tone a bit cold. It wasn’t directed or because of you, but the more he finds out about your dad the more agitated he gets.

“I uh, I don’t have a card.” You admit and put the ice pack on the counter, you try to escape the kitchen and this conversation.

“Wait.” You stop in your tracks and turn to face Max, knowing there’s no escaping this now. “What else are you hiding from me? How have you been paying for your food, and you went shopping on your first day?”

His eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced by your words, and your mind flashed back to that first week in Monaco, just after you arrived.

You had left the apartment, the weight of Max’s indifferent nod still heavy on your shoulders. Monaco was unfamiliar, but you’d lived in many countries—surely you could figure it out.

Walking into the first jewellery shop you found, you approached the counter with a timid smile. The attendant greeted you warmly.

Italic is French

“Bonjour, madame, how can I help you?”

You hesitated before asking, “Do you buy jewellery?”

The woman’s friendly smile faltered. “I’m sorry, madame. We don’t.”

“That’s alright, thank you.” You murmured, retreating quickly.

The next three shops were the same story, the polite rejections wearing away at your resolve. By the fourth, a kind attendant told you there weren’t any jewellery shops in the area that would buy second-hand pieces, but she gave you directions to one on the other side of the city.

Following her directions, you trudged through unfamiliar streets, the cobblestones cruel to your feet in towering heels. The mismatched outfit you got from Max, drawing unwanted attention and making the walk even more uncomfortable.

Finally, you reached the shop and stepped inside, relief washing over you.

“Bonjour, madame. How can I assist you?” The girl behind the counter asked with a professional smile.

“Do you buy jewellery?”

“Yes, we do. What are you looking to sell?”

You exhaled deeply, reaching up to remove the Tiffany Victoria stud earrings from your ears. “These.”

The girl’s eyes widened as she took them. “T-These?”

“Yes. Can you pay in cash?” This just got weirder for the girl, you bit your bottom lip, your smile is now gone. “Look, my-uh, my dad cut me off, I just need money to get by.”

The girl’s expression shifted from confusion to concern as she glanced at you. “Um… I’ll see what I can do. Please, sit down.”

You sank into a chair, your nerves fraying. you sat chewing on your nail bed, feeling nervous. When the girl returned, she wasn’t alone. A man accompanied her, likely the manager or owner.

“Ilaria tells me you want to sell these earrings.” He began, holding them up to inspect.

“Yes, please.”

His brow furrowed.

“Madame, these are worth over 27,000 Euros. Unfortunately, we don’t carry that much cash on hand.” You deflated, the man now knew what Ilaria was talking about, he feels bad for you, he glanced at your wedding ring and wonders what kind of husband you have that left you selling your belongings for money. “However, I can offer you 5,000 Euros immediately and pay the rest in instalments, or when the earrings sell. Does that work for you?”

You nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you.”

The man typed up a quick agreement on his laptop, printing it out for you both to sign. With the cash in hand, you left the shop feeling lighter, though the weight of what you’d done lingered.

The thrift store you passed on the way had looked promising, but once inside, you realised even second-hand items in Monaco carried hefty price tags. Thinking over the money you have and what’s the priority.You focused on the essentials: four shirts, one pair of jeans, one pair of trousers, and two pyjamas. The total price had your eyes go wide. Shoes would have to wait—your heels would suffice for now.

On your walk back it was already afternoon, you didn’t have anything to eat yet. But that was alright because you were heading to a grocery store next.

The prices there were equally shocking, but you told yourself it didn’t matter—you didn’t eat much anyway. You picked up a few basics for the week and some fresh produce before heading to a shop for a few sets of underwear. Glancing at the money you have left when you paid had your heart clenching. Ordering online must be cheaper, if only you had a card.

By the time you returned to the apartment, your arms heavy with bags and your wallet considerably lighter, you knocked on the door, only to be met with silence. A second knock, then the doorbell, brought no response.

Your stomach dropped as you realised Max wasn’t home. Exhausted and hungry, you sank to the floor outside the door, rummaging through your grocery bag for a cucumber, eating it as you waited for your ‘husband’ to come back.

You waited until Max went to bed before you ventured into the kitchen to put away the food you’d bought. The rest, you stashed in your room. You didn’t want to inconvenience Max.

You were already using his bathroom products, which you assumed belonged to his mother or sister, but you tried to keep to yourself as much as possible.

The memory faded as Max’s voice brought you back to the present.

“How exactly did you manage?” He pressed, his eyes narrowing further.

Your shoulders sagged, and the words slipped out before you could stop them. “I sold my earrings.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “Your earrings?”

“They were worth twenty-seven thousand Euros.” You explained, your voice barely audible. “But they’re paying me in instalments, so it’s like I have a job. I didn’t realize how expensive Monaco is.”

He stared at you, unblinking, as the pieces began falling into place.

Max’s jaw clenched. “What about the clothes? I thought your dad sent your things.”

Your face fell, and you looked away. “I can’t wear what he sent me.”

“What do you mean?” Max asked, his voice gentler now. “Can you show me?”

You hesitated, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn’t letting this go. Wordlessly, you led him to your room and opened the walk-in closet, both your ice packs forgotten in the kitchen. Pulling out the suitcases your father had sent, your hand was on the zipper for a while.

“You don’t have to show me.” Max said feeling that all this is bigger than he initially thought.

“It’s fine, it’s not my things anyway.” You said and unzipped the first one and stepped back.

Max crouched down, pulling out the first item: it’s a very small and tight crop top, the shorts will all show your butt, the jeans had rips on the butt cheeks or were skintight, and it’s coming from him. shirts were sheer, necklines low, and skirts that barely covered anything. His frown deepened as he opened the second suitcase—heels in every colour, some taller than seemed practical. The final suitcase made his stomach turn. It was filled with lingerie, nothing else.

He closed it with a sharp snap and turned to look at you. You were standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ll take you shopping this week.” Max said firmly. “Or you can order whatever you want online. No arguments.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, really. I the got basics and when I need more, I can sell the other jewellery I have—”

“No, next time you want clothes I’m getting them for you” Max interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “You’re not selling anything else. The food in the fridge is for both of us.” You wanted to retort, but he just continued. “Both of us may have not wanted this, but I’m not having you starve or spend money you don’t have. You’re my responsibility now.”

The words hit you like a tidal wave, and your heart skipped a beat. Max Verstappen is the nicest man you have ever met. He looked so scary the first time you saw him and you dreaded living with him, but here he is, being the kindest soul, you have ever met. He won’t gain anything in return but he’s still nice, he’s kind. For the first time in a long while, you felt safe—truly safe. Tears prickled your eyes, but you blinked them back, nodding quietly.

“Okay?” Max asked, his gaze softening.

“Okay,” you whispered.

That night, the suitcases were left by the door for donation. Max watched as you retreated to your room, and he made a promise to himself to be more attentive, to keep an eye out for you.

That night, Max decided it was time to reach out to you. Hearing your quiet sobs and observing your timid behaviour had forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth: you weren’t the only one forced into this marriage. For you, it must be infinitely harder. He had his friends, his job, and the comfort of his own home. You had none of that.

The next morning, Max woke early, ordering food for the both of you before you could wake and make breakfast yourself. He wanted to catch you off guard and show a gesture of goodwill.

When you finally emerged from your room, the smell of freshly baked goods wafted through the apartment.

“Good morning. Max greeted, passing you as he carried plates to the dining table. “Come on, grab whatever you want, and let’s eat together.”

You paused, wide-eyed and uncertain, watching him retreat to the dining room. Your stomach growled loudly, betraying your hesitance. Without overthinking it, you reached for a croissant and followed him.

“Thank you.” You murmured, sitting across from him as you noticed the glass of orange juice already poured for you.

Max glanced up. “I’d like us to talk a little after breakfast.” He said, his tone calm.

You froze mid-bite, your stomach tightening as fear flickered across your face. “Talk?”

“Don’t worry.” He reassured, noting your reaction. “I just want to get to know you better.”

Relieved, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. But as you ate, your mind spun. What would he ask? You hadn’t spoken much about yourself to anyone before. The way you’d been raised didn’t leave much room for idle conversation or personal interests. You have been taught what to do for when you got married, but Max is unlike anything they’ve told you a husband will be like.

After finishing breakfast, the two of you moved to the living room. You sat stiffly, your back straight and your hands folded neatly in your lap. Max, sitting on the other end of the sofa, observed you with a faint smile.

“Relax.” He said lightly, leaning forward. “This isn’t an interrogation. I just thought we could set some boundaries or rules and figure out how to make this work for both of us.”

You nodded, unsure of what to expect. “Rules?” Rules you understood. You could follow rules.

“First.” Max began. “You don’t have to cook for me.”

You frowned slightly. “I like to cook.”

“That’s fine, then.” Max said quickly. “But it’s not something you have to do. Same with taking care of Jimmy and Sassy.”

Your frown deepened. “But then… what would I do?”

Max hesitated, realising how rigid your perspective was. “You can do whatever you want. What did you do before… you came here?”

“Well…” You paused, uncertain. “Dad had a schedule for me.”

“Schedule?” Max raised a brow. “Like, what kind of schedule?”

“I woke up at six, exercised for an hour, showered, then had classes until three. After lunch, I went to ballet for two hours, then a piano class for an hour and a half. Then I helped with dinner and went to bed.”

“Every day?” Max asked, his tone incredulous.

You nodded, smiling as though this was entirely normal. “The times changed sometimes, but… yes, since I was 12.”

“Fucking hell.” Max muttered, his jaw tightening. Memories of his own gruelling training sessions under his father’s watch flashed through his mind. The times he had to train for hours on end, walk home alone. But Max loved racing, he thrived in it. And unlike him, you didn’t seem to have any passion or choice in what you did.

Pushing his anger aside, Max decided to steer the conversation away from your father for now. “Why didn’t you buy more food while I was gone?”

“I don’t have a key.” You said simply, scratching nervously at your nail bed—a habit Max noticed for the first time.

“That’s on me.” He admitted. “I’ll get a key made for you.”

He paused, his gaze softening. “How much food do you usually eat?”

You shrugged, not giving it much thought. “Enough.”

“Are you full when you finish eating?”

Your voice was quiet. “Not always.”

Max’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening again. “Right. That’s it. I’m ordering more food.”

Despite your protests, Max ignored you, placing a large order with the determination to figure out what you liked. When the food arrived, you stared in disbelief at the sheer amount spread across the table.

“That’s too much.” You whispered, overwhelmed.

“Just eat,” Max said firmly.

At first, you hesitated, but the hunger gnawing at your stomach made you give in. Bite after bite, Max urged you to try different dishes. “This is amazing—taste it!” he’d insist, or “You’ll love this one.”

You tried to keep up, but the more you ate, the heavier the food sat in your stomach. Not eating a lot had shrunk your stomach, you get full fast, but it seemed like something Max is not accustomed to. When Max handed you another dessert to try, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Springing up, you rushed to the nearest bathroom and barely made it in time before throwing up.

Max was right behind you, holding your hair back as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the toilet. You finally sat back, trembling and exhausted, you flushed the toilet and washed your face and mouth. He handed you a towel to wipe your face.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded weakly.

“Was the food bad?”

You shook your head. “Too full.”

Max stared at you, dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you stop eating?”

“You told me to keep eating.” You said, looking at him through your lashes.

Max groaned, running a hand through his hair as the pieces fell into place. You asked him if you could go out the first day, you stayed in your room unless he asked you to come out or to make him food, you stop walking when he told you to, you’ve showed him your bags when he asked. You’ve been doing exactly what he’s been asking you to do without as much as a remark or hesitation. You haven’t left the house to get food because he didn’t tell you, you can leave. This is fucked. “You don’t need my permission to stop eating, or to do anything for that matter!”

“But my teacher said I should always ask you, I’m sorry that I sometimes do things without asking, but-“

“Stop.” His sharp tone made you fall silent immediately, he groans, he’s done it again. He sighed, softening his voice. “Rule number one: you don’t need to ask me for permission to live your life. You can do whatever you want. I’m your husband, not your… owner.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Max leaned forward, his eyes locking with yours. “You’re free, Y/N. You’re not under your father’s control anymore. You can pursue whatever makes you happy, go wherever you want. You’re free.”

Your lips trembled slightly as his words sank in. “A-Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Max said firmly, but his voice softened when he saw the fragile hope in your eyes. For a fleeting moment, it was as though a veil had been lifted. The small, hesitant smile on your face wasn’t much, but to him, it felt like a victory.

“I… I’ve never really thought about being free.” You admitted, your fingers twisting together in your lap. “There’s always been rules, schedules, expectations. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Max’s heart ached at your words. He had grown up under his father’s strict guidance, but at least he had racing—a dream to hold onto. But you? You hadn’t even been allowed the space to dream.

“Then start small,” Max said gently. “You don’t have to figure it all out today. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Your smile wavered as a question formed on your lips. “Why are you being so kind to me now?”

The question caught Max off guard, but he didn’t look away. “Because I’ve been an idiot.” he admitted. “I was so focused on how unfair this whole situation was for me that I didn’t stop to think about how much worse it must be for you. You’re here, in a place that’s completely unfamiliar, with someone you barely know.”

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as tears threatened to spill.

“And the more I think about it.” Max continued, his voice tinged with anger—not at you, but at the circumstances. “The more I realise how much you’ve been… controlled. By your father, by this arrangement. I can’t change the past, but I can make sure you don’t feel like that anymore. Not while you’re here with me.”

Your breath hitched, and a tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly, embarrassed by your reaction. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Max said softly. “Just… promise me you’ll try. Try to let yourself live a little, yeah?”

“I can try.” You whispered.

He smiled, a genuine warmth in his expression that you hadn’t seen before. “Good. That’s all I’m asking for.”

For the rest of the evening, Max stayed close but didn’t push you further. He handed you the remote to the television and suggested you pick something to watch while he cleaned up the kitchen. At first, you stared at the remote like it was a foreign object, unsure if you were really allowed to make the choice.

When Max returned, he saw you had settled on a light-hearted comedy, though you looked almost guilty about it. He sat beside you on the sofa, keeping a respectful distance.

“Good choice.” He said, nodding at the screen. “I like this one.”

“Really?” You asked, surprised.

“Yeah. It’s funny.” He glanced at you. “Do you not like it?”

“No, I do. I just… I’m not used to picking.”

Max’s chest tightened. He didn’t know whether to feel anger at the people who had conditioned you this way or frustration at himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Well, from now on, you can pick whatever you like.” He said with a small shrug, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

You nodded, a tiny but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

As the film played, Max stole a few glances at you. You didn’t laugh out loud at the jokes, but he could see the faintest quirk of your lips, the way your shoulders relaxed just slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

When the credits rolled, you turned to him, your expression a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. “Thank you, Max. For… everything today.”

He waved it off, leaning back against the cushions. “Don’t mention it. This is just the start, yeah?”

You nodded again, the hope in your eyes a little brighter this time. For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

The next day, you heard Max calling for Jimmy. His voice carried through the house with growing urgency. Curiosity tugged at you, so you stepped out of your room to see what was going on.

“Have you seen Jimmy?” Max asked as soon as he spotted you in the hallway.

You shook your head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Strange, he never wanders off too far. Let’s check around the house.” Max suggested.

You nodded, and the two of you began searching every nook and cranny. As you walked past one of the guest rooms, you stopped and tugged at the handle of the door. It didn’t budge.

“I can’t open this door.” you called out to Max, who quickly came over.

He gave the handle a firm tug but had no more luck than you. “It’s locked from the inside.” He muttered, pressing his ear to the door. That’s when you both heard it—a muffled, distressed meow.

“I think Jimmy locked himself in.” You said, your voice tinged with concern. “What are we going to do?”

Max frowned, considering his options. “Let’s look it up on YouTube.” He said, pulling out his phone.

The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a video tutorial on unlocking a door without a key. The longer the video played, the more your frown deepened.

“This looks complicated.” You said, glancing up at Max, who seemed equally dubious.

“Yeah, it does.” He admitted before disappearing down the hallway. Moments later, he returned—with a hammer.

“You’re going to break the door down?” You asked, your eyes wide in disbelief.

“What other option do we have?” Max countered, already sizing up the door as though it were a rival on the track.

Before you could argue, he raised the hammer and brought it down with a loud bang. You flinched at the sound, your astonishment quickly turning to amusement. Holding Max’s phone in your hands, an idea struck you.

As Max continued to hack away at the door—his small hammer looking almost comically inadequate against the solid wood—you began recording. The absurdity of the scene combined with Max’s intense focus had you giggling quietly.

Max paused mid-swing, glancing over his shoulder when he heard your laughter. He smiled to himself. The sound was soft and delicate, like something fragile coming back to life. He decided then and there he wanted to hear it more often.

Finally, after several minutes of determined hammering, Max managed to break a hole large enough to reach through and unlock the door. As soon as the door creaked open, Jimmy bolted out of the room like his tail was on fire, his fur puffed up and his eyes wild with panic.

“That was… something.” Max said, running a hand through his hair as he headed to the kitchen. He set the hammer down on the counter and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a long sip.

You followed him into the kitchen, your focus still on the phone. The video you’d taken was playing, and a smile tugged at your lips as you watched Max’s determined hammer-wielding.

Max turned to you, noticing your amusement. “I want to give you, my number.” He said suddenly, his tone casual despite the faint flush creeping up his ears.

“Hmm?” You hummed, looking up from the phone.

“My number.” Max repeated, shifting slightly, the tips of his ears went red. “In case something happens, besides you’re married now. You should have each other’s numbers at least.”

“Oh.” You said, handing his phone back to him. “I don’t have a phone.”

Max froze, staring at you like you’d just announced you didn’t believe in electricity.

“You don’t have a phone?” He asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

You shook your head. “No. My dad said it was a waste of time and that it was better for me to focus on my training. He said it was for my protection… from guys online.” You shrugged, your tone casual as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

Max set his water bottle down with a heavy thud, his jaw tightening. “I hate that man more every day.” He muttered under his breath.

You blinked at his reaction, confused by the intensity in his voice. “It’s not that big of a deal.” You said, brushing it off.

“It is.” Max said firmly. “You’re getting a phone tomorrow.”

You opened your mouth to protest but stopped yourself. The truth was, you’d always secretly wanted a phone. It had seemed like a symbol of freedom—something you never had. And now, Max was offering to get you one without you even asking.

“Okay.” You said softly, a small grin spreading across your face.

Max noticed and couldn’t help but smile in return. He picked up his water bottle and took another sip, his chest filling with quiet satisfaction.

Just then, Jimmy sauntered into the kitchen as if nothing had happened, his tail held high and his expression one of utter nonchalance.

“Look at that troublemaker.” Max said with a chuckle, watching as Jimmy headed straight for his water bowl. “Acting like he didn’t just give us a heart attack.”

You laughed again, and Max found himself smiling even wider. Yes, he decided. He would make sure you laughed more often—no matter what it took.

The next morning, you make breakfast for both you and Max. It’s a quiet meal, shared in comfortable silence, before you both retreat to your rooms to finish getting ready. Dressed in one of the shirts and jeans you bought, you hold your heels in your hands as you head to the door. Slipping them on, you wince slightly as the straps press against the tender skin at the back of your feet. Max steps out shortly after, and together you leave the penthouse.

The car ride is tranquil, with you staring out the window for a while before glancing around.

“I like this car.” You say softly, running your fingers over the leather seat. Max smiles, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He’s driving the same Aston Martin today, saving the Valkyrie for another time. It gets him too much attention.

“Can you drive?” Max asks after a moment, glancing at you.

Your cheeks flush. “No.”

He hums thoughtfully. “We’ll have to change that.” There’s a note of determination in his voice. He’s a Formula 1 world champion; his wife will know how to drive. “You do want to learn, right?”

“Yes. Maybe not in a supercar, but yes.” You admit with a small smile. Another form of freedom you’d been denied. Another gift Max wanted to give you.

“We’ll start with a sedan.” He says, already planning out the details in his mind.

At the Apple Store, Max leads you inside, where you both gravitate toward a display of phones.

“What colour do you want?” He asks, standing close beside you. After a moment of contemplation, you tell him your favourite. Max nods, relaying the choice to a sales assistant, and adds a laptop, iPad, mouse, earbuds, earphones, and a phone case to the list.

“That’s too much.” You whisper, leaning toward him.

Max takes your hand gently, and you freeze, startled by the unexpected intimacy. His gaze is steady, his voice low so only you can hear. “It’s not too much. I want to give you everything you weren’t allowed to have.” His thumb brushes over your wedding ring, and his lips curve into a soft smile. “This is just the beginning.”

Reluctantly, you let him take the lead, wandering around the store as Max finalises the purchases. But after a while, your feet begin to ache, and you take a seat in one of the chairs near the display laptops. The relief is immediate, but you can feel the cut on your heel reopening.

From across the store, Max notices you frown as you touch your foot. His sharp eyes take in the subtle signs of discomfort, and when he sees you sigh, he excuses himself from the cashier. He walks over, carrying the bags, just as you look up and smile at him—a real smile, one that lights up your face.

It stops him in his tracks. For the first time, Max feels the warmth of your happiness directed at him, and he’s momentarily stunned. But as you stand, he notices the slight wince and follows your gaze. His eyes fall to your feet, he can’t see anything. He makes you walk in front of him and then he sees it, the backs of your feet are red and bleeding.

“Y/n.” He says his voice a mix of concern and frustration. You glance at him, confused, until you notice where he’s looking.

“Max.” you murmur softly, instinctively stepping to the side.

“Take them off.” He says through gritted teeth, crouching beside you.

Your cheeks burn as you look around the store, worried about the eyes on you both. “Max—”

“You’re in pain. Take them off.” He insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. When you hesitate, Max gently sets the bags down and reaches for your foot.

“Max!” You protest, placing your hands on his shoulders to stop him. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing with determination, and your resolve crumbles. Slowly, you step out of one heel, using his shoulder for balance, and then the other. The relief is instant.

Max clenches his jaw as he examines the heels. They look pristine on the outside, but the insides are stained with blood—both fresh and old. His chest tightens.

Standing, he towers over you, the anger in his eyes sharp enough to make you step back. “Do you even like wearing heels?” He asks, his voice tense. You shake your head, unsure how to answer.

“Not really.” You admit quietly.

“Damn it, y/n!” Max’s voice rises slightly, and you flinch, your heart was beating hard in your chest. He freezes, his frustration giving way to dread as he sees you retreat. You’re scared. Not of the world champion standing before you, but of what he represented—a shadow of your past. Gone the smile you had when you saw him, you’re frowning, trying to be in control of your feeling and reactions.

“Y/n—” You turn abruptly, walking away on bare feet, your steps hurried. “Wait!” Max calls after you, and you freeze in place. “Fuck.”

Max hates himself so much right now. Tears threatening to spill from your eyes as he approaches you. He’s taken so many steps towards making you comfortable and here he’s undone most of them. Max leaves the bags and heels and walks up to you, he takes your hand in his and pulls you out of the store. He quickly finds a hidden spot way from praying eyes and ears. When he finally faces you, he sees the tears in your eyes and wobbling lips. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” Tears leave your eyes, and Max feels himself tearing up, he messed up, he messed up really bad.

“I didn’t mean to be angry at you, I’m sorry.” He says, his voice breaking. “I’m just angry about how you were treated, I want you to be happy, I want to make your life easier. I’m angry at how no one cared enough to stop it. But I rushed you, and that’s on me.” Max stops for a second, you’re not looking at him. “That’s a lot of I’s, I was selfish, I thought about how I wanted you to feel and now how you wanted to take things, I rushed you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I remind you of him.” His voice cracks.

A sob escapes your lips, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning into him. Max wraps his arms around you tightly, holding you as you cry. For the first time, you’re not crying alone, you weren’t hugging and comforting yourself. He doesn’t try to shush you or pull away. He just holds you.

Max may have caused you to cry, but he didn’t leave you to cry, he came after you and apologised. You know that as much as everything he’s doing is new to you, it’s also new to him. Every day you’re realising that you’re not normal, that what you went through isn’t normal.

“When you’re ready.” Max murmurs into your hair. “I’d like to know everything. Everything your dad did to you.” You shake your head, and though it pains him, Max doesn’t push. “When you’re ready.” he repeats.

You don’t know how long you stay there, shielded by his embrace, Max just holds you, hiding your face from the world, giving you the comfort you need. When you finally pull away, Max wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“Let’s go home.” He says softly, crouching to untie his shoes and place them in front of you.

“Max, you don’t have to—” You begin your voice is ever soft, clearly you’re exhausted..

“Humour me.” He insists with a small smile. You nod, sliding your feet into the oversized shoes as Max ties the laces snugly.

At the car, you slip in and Max turns on the car before he jogs back to the store to grab the bags but returns empty-handed when it comes to your heels. He tosses them in a nearby bin, not wanting their memory to linger.

The drive back is quiet. Both of you are lost in thought, but the silence is no longer uncomfortable. It’s reflective.

The car ride back is heavy with unspoken thoughts. You’re lost in the moment you flinched and stepped away from Max. He hadn’t even raised his voice by much, his hands remained by his sides, yet you flinched. Scared.

You didn’t want to feel scared. You knew, deep down, that there was no reason to be scared. Max cares. He’s shown you more kindness and humility than anyone else in your life, even during the days when he ignored your existence.

For Max, the silence in the car speaks volumes. He’s seen his share of abuse—read about it, watched it unfold in the media—but now, sitting beside you, he’s realising the extent of your mistreatment. It wasn’t just mental or emotional. It was physical, too.

The quiet lingers as you both walk into the penthouse. Max turns to you, his expression soft.

“You can get changed, and we’ll set up your devices,” he says.

You nod and retreat to your room, shedding the thrift store clothes for your pyjamas. The soft fabric feels like a balm after the day’s events.

When you return to the living room, Max has unpacked everything from the bags. He looks up at you, his expression warm.

“I wanted you to open the boxes.” He says, his voice almost shy. He knows the joy of opening something new, especially something you’ve wanted for so long. He wonders if you’ve ever had that experience. Sitting beside him on the sofa, you tuck your legs under you. “Where do you want to start?”

“The phone?” You suggest.

Max grins, handing you the box. You unwrap it, excitement bubbling in your chest. He guides you through setting it up, letting you explore while he works on the laptop. He’s already created an email for you, logging into everything you might need.

His number is the only contact in your phone, and you ask him to transfer the video of him breaking the door. He obliges with a faint chuckle.

“Max?” You ask hesitantly, looking up from the screen.

He hums in response, glancing over.

“Is there an app for Formula 1?”

His brow arches. “Yes. Why?”

“So, I can know when you’re racing.” You admit shyly, holding out your phone. Max’s smile softens as he opens the App Store. “Now I can also look up anything I didn’t understand from watching last time.”

“You watched the race?” This is news to max; he had no idea you watched the last two races. It’s something you’ve done on his smart TV but didn’t want him to know at first thinking he’d be angry.

“I didn’t.” Max admits. “Did you enjoy it?”

Your smile grows, and it feels like the first time Max has seen you truly at ease. “It was fun. I didn’t understand everything, but you came first both times.”

The pride in your voice makes his chest swell. “Well, now you can text me if you don’t understand something. After the race, I’ll explain everything.”

As the day unfolds, you grow more comfortable beside him on the sofa. Max helps you connect everything to your phone, downloading apps like Netflix and upgrading his Spotify to a duo plan. At some point, he broaches another idea.

“Can I order you some shoes?”

You glance up from your phone, hesitant. “Just one or two.” You say.

Max nods with a smile, but later, as he sits with his laptop, he realises he has no idea where to start. He’s never shopped for women’s shoes before. After a moment, he glances at you.

“Do you mind if I invite some friends tomorrow?”

You blink, surprised. “It’s your house. You can do whatever you want.”

“And you live here too.” Max counters gently. He sends a quick text before adding. “Let’s watch a film.”

You pick a random movie, and as night falls, the weight of the day catches up with you. The popcorn bowl between you grow forgotten as your eyes drift shut. At one point your eyes snap shut and don’t open again your head eventually tilts to the side, landing on Max’s shoulder.

Startled, Max glances down. For a moment, he freezes, unsure what to do. Your soft breathing fans his neck. Max tried not to move much but get you in a comfortable position, you groaned when he moved and buried your face into his shoulder. Max’s arm was in the air, he didn’t know what to do. When you moved closer, he placed his arm around your shoulder. That settled you down and he relaxes.

By the time the credits roll, Max thought it’s best to get you to bed. Carefully, he moves, trying not to wake you. He slides from under you, laying you down on the sofa before scooping you into his arms.

In your room, Max pulls back the covers and places you on the bed, tucking you in as you mumble incoherently. Jimmy jumps up onto the bed, curling up beside you. Max lingers for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

For the first time, you look peaceful. Truly relaxed.           

Max opened the lamp by the bed, casting a soft glow in the room, Jimmy jumped on the bed and curled into himself to fall asleep. Max took you in, he’s never seen you so relaxed before, so at peace. He wonders if it’s the only time you truly relax. Instinctively he pushes a few strands form your face. You sigh. With a soft smile Max turns off the lamp and leaves your room.

That night, Sassy sleeps in his bed, as if the cats have decided to split their time between you both, keeping you company in their own way.

The next day, around noon, Max’s friends arrived. You weren’t sure what to expect, but stepping out of your room, you froze when you saw the familiar face of the Ferrari driver who had been racing against Max last week.

“Hi, I’m Charles.” He introduced himself warmly, leaning in for the traditional Monaco greeting. You exchanged a quick press of the cheeks before your gaze shifted to the woman standing beside him. She was stunning, elegant, and radiated a warmth that put you slightly at ease.

“I’m Alexandra, but you can call me Alex.” She said, extending her hand. You repeated the greeting and introduced yourself.

“I’m y/n.”

Both of them noticed the rings adorning your left hand but didn’t comment. You’d noticed that Max wasn’t wearing his, though you hadn’t commented on.

The four of you moved into the living room, and you instinctively sat beside Max. His presence anchored you, offering a sense of security in the unfamiliar social situation. For a while, the conversation flowed lightly until Max and Charles excused themselves, heading to the balcony. You hesitated, but Alex smiled, clearly sensing your nervousness.

 “How long have you been in Monaco?” She said kindly.

You thought for a moment. “About a month.”

“That’s still pretty new! I’m guessing you don’t have many friends here yet?”

You shook your head.

“Well…” Alex said with a mischievous grin, “I’ve been looking for a new shopping partner. Maybe you’d like to join me sometime?”

Your cheeks warmed. “I’m not very good at shopping.” You admitted, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve.

“That’s okay! We can figure it out together.” She reassured you before pulling out her phone. “Here, let me get your number.”

She tapped it into her contacts, and you found yourself relaxing slightly. Alex didn’t press you with questions about yourself, instead sharing light anecdotes about her life. At one point, she showed you a picture on her phone—a beautiful painting that immediately drew your attention.

“That’s gorgeous.” You said, leaning closer. “It looks so calm and peaceful.”

“It’s by Claude Monet, part of his Water Lilies series,” Alex explained, watching your expression soften. “Do you like art?”

You hesitated, a small smile forming. “I do. I always wanted to study it.”

Alex’s eyes lit up. “Really? I went to art school! I’d love to talk more about it with you.”

Excitedly, you leaned in as Alex recounted her studies and experiences. You felt a spark of joy in the conversation, a rare moment of connection that felt genuine. When Max and Charles returned, you and Alex were laughing at one of her stories.

“What’s so funny?” Charles asked, sitting beside Alex and kissing her cheek.

“Oh, I was just telling y/n about my old art professor.” Alex replied. She turned to Max, her smile widening. “Did you know she loves art?”

Max’s gaze shifted to you, his expression softening. “You do?”

You nodded shyly.

“She wanted to study it.” Alex added, and you saw the flicker of recognition in Max’s eyes as he took that in.

“Do you guys want to go out to eat?” Charles asked, your eyes snapped to Max’s you don’t have any shoes. But before you could panic, Alex chimed in.

“Why don’t we order in instead? It’s cozier that way.”

You shot her a grateful look, and she winked.

Lunch was lively, Charles regaling you all with stories from his and Max’s childhood. You found yourself laughing more than you had in years, and Max couldn’t take his eyes off you. The sound of your laughter, the way your face lit up—it was like watching a new side of you emerge, you leaned towards him when you laughed.

Charles isn’t stupid he knew Max cared for you, even if he didn’t know exactly what’s going on. He’s known Max since they were kids, there’s something between the two of you.

“You should come to a race sometime.” Alex said casually.

You glanced at Max, who raised an eyebrow as if to say it was entirely your decision.

“Maybe.” You said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If you’ll be there.”

Alex clapped her hands in delight. “Of course, I will! It’ll be so much fun.”

After Charles and Alex left, you helped Max clean up, the two of you working quietly in sync.

“How was it?” He asked, his tone careful.

“They were nice,” you said with a soft smile. “I had fun.” Max relaxed slightly, but then your smile faltered. “I’ve never had friends who weren’t chosen by my dad.”

You didn’t elaborate, but the weight of your words hung in the air. Max didn’t press, giving you space to share only what you were ready to.

Once the kitchen was tidy, you leaned against the counter, watching Max move about. He glanced at you curiously.

“What?”

“Thank you.” You said quietly.

“For what?”

“For everything.” You said, your voice trembling slightly. “For telling Charles and Alex what I needed without saying anything personal.” You tell him and glance at the floor before you look up again, your eyes meeting his. “Thank you for being the kindest person I ever met.”

Max froze. “I wasn’t kind at first.” he murmured, guilt flickering in his eyes.

You shook your head. “Even then, you cared more than anyone else ever did.” Your voice broke. “I know you didn’t want this,  I know that my dad forced you into it. And you didn’t have to be nice to me, but I’ve been alone for so many years.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Max was in front of you in an instant, his hands gently cupping your face. He wiped the tear away, his eyes locked on yours. “My sister…” you whispered, Max frowns he had no idea you have a sister. “She turned eighteen and left. I was nine. She never called, never sent anything. And my mum died giving birth to me, and after that... it was just my dad.” Your voice cracked as more tears fell. “No one ever asked what I wanted or cared if I was okay. As long as I did well in school, no one cared.”

Max’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with an unspoken rage. But he buried it, focusing instead on you. Still holding your face, and your eyes not wavering away from each other, Max leans over and places his lips softly on your forehead.

“I promise you’ll never feel like that again.” He whispered against your skin. “I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned into his chest, letting him hold you. For the first time, you felt like you could let go of the weight you’d been carrying for so long.

When you finally pulled back, Max smiled softly, and you returned it, the moment settling between you like a quiet promise.

It was a quiet Sunday morning with no race this week. You and Max had just finished breakfast—something simple, part of the diet routine his trainer had him on. You were following his plan, eating smaller portions, and Max had noticed you snacking more these days, which made him happy. After everything that had happened, he wasn't pushing you to eat more than you wanted.

Max sat back with his tea, scrolling through his phone when it rang. The number was familiar—it was his mum.

Bold is Dutch

"Hey, Mum."

"Hey, honey, I just got off the phone with your dad." Sophie’s voice sounded tense, and Max tensed instinctively, already sensing where this conversation was going.

"Yeah?" Max asked, trying to sound casual.

"He told me something weird… he said… he said you got married." There was a long pause, and Sophie didn't give him time to run around it. "Max, is this true?"

Max cursed under his breath, closing his eyes. The silence dragged on.

"Look, Mum, it’s hard to explain." Max began, but Sophie wasn’t having it.

"Hard to explain? Max, did you get married? Yes, or no?" Her voice was sharp now, demanding an answer. Max rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

"Yes." He admitted.

"And you didn’t think to tell us? Who did you even marry? What the hell have you gotten yourself into? Is she pregnant or something?" Sophie’s voice cracked with worry. Max could hear the disbelief in her words. His mother wasn’t the type to overreact, but this was too much.

"Mum, calm down." Max sat up straighter, his voice calming. "Look, Dad signed a contract years ago, and if it ever gets out, he could be sent to prison. The man who signed it made me marry his daughter to keep everything quiet."

"What the fuck is wrong with your father?" Sophie wasn’t expecting Max to have an answer to that. "You can’t get out of it?"

"No, I couldn’t." Max’s voice was steady but firm.

"Is she living with you?" Sophie asked, her worry turning into concern for Max’s well-being.

"Yes." Max's voice softened slightly.

"Mum, be careful. I don’t know her, but she could be the one who asked her dad to do this. You can never be too sure with people like that."

Max paused, a flicker of protectiveness for you rising in him. "Mum, she’s not like that."

There was silence on the other end of the line as Sophie processed his words. Max felt the weight of her judgment shift. He had to convince her of this, for you.

"She’s nice. Quiet. Really beautiful. And she’s nothing like her dad. If anything, I’m just happy she’s away from him."

Sophie was silent, the tension hanging thick. She wasn’t used to hearing her son speak so openly about someone like this. "

"You like her." She said, the words not quite a question but more of a realization.

Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "I do." And for the first time he’s said it out loud.

“I want to meet her.” Sophie said, her voice firm but not unkind. She’ll cast all judgment to the side until she met you.

“I’ll talk to her.” Max promised, knowing it was important for you to decide if and when you felt comfortable with meeting his family.

After the call ended, Max sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts before heading back to you.

“y/n.” Max called as he entered the room. You looked up from the iPad, where you’d been experimenting with ProCreate.

"In two weeks, it’s the Dutch Grand Prix. Do you want to come with me?"

You raised an eyebrow, a little hesitant. "Will Alex be there?"

Max smiled, the corner of his lips twitching.

"I don’t know, but my mum and sister will be, and my mum wants to meet you." You bit your bottom lip, a nervous habit you’d picked up, and started scratching at your nail bed. "You don’t have to come if it’s too much."

"No, it’s okay… do they know?" You asked, hesitant but curious.

Max nodded. "Yeah. I don’t know about Victoria, but Mum wants to meet you first before anything." He gave a small, reassuring smile. “I know it’s a lot. You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready."

You nodded slowly, but the nerves were already starting to bubble in your stomach, your mind started overthinking every possible scenario that could happen. "I don’t know… what if they don’t like me?"

Max’s voice softened, a hint of concern crossing his face. "Don’t do that." He said gently, cupping your face. "Don’t get lost in your thoughts."

You sighed, your shoulders sinking a little. "I just…"

"Show me what you’ve done." Max said, cutting through your train of thought. He gently nudged you aside and sat next to you on the couch.

You hesitated before showing him your drawing on the iPad. Max leaned in, studying the strokes and lines you’d created. He didn’t know much about art, but the smile on his face said everything. To him, it looked good.

He turned to you, eyes soft. "It’s great. You’re really talented."

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest at his compliment.

He’s been talking with Alex for help, he’s getting you a good starter kit, different mediums and everything until you find what you like. Max has another an empty bedroom, where his sim was supposed to go, before he sat it up in the living room, he can convert it to your studio. He was making sure you had everything you needed to thrive.

"Will you come to the next race with me?" Max asked softly. "Just so you can see everything before you meet my mum and sister. It’ll be nice to have you there."

You agreed to go with him to the next two weeks, first stop was Hungary and then it was the Netherlands.

Alex would be there as well, and that eased your nerves a little, knowing you’d have someone else you were comfortable with.

Max also made sure you had some new clothes, a few more pairs of shoes—something that made him happy. You’d ordered them online, and he was genuinely excited to see you enjoy these little things.

While packing, Max’s eyes fell on the wedding band he’d taken off and placed on his bedside table. It had been there ever since, untouched. Without thinking much about it, he slipped it into his luggage.

The atmosphere of the paddock was nothing like you’d expected—it was electric, buzzing with activity. Alex made sure to meet up with you once the drivers had to go in for media duties. She showed you around, introducing you to the other WAGs, who were all genuine and easy to talk to.

Lilly showed you TikTok, and you downloaded the app instantly, amused by how much you were missing out. The girls didn’t pry into your relationship with Max. They accepted you for who you were—just a friend of Max, now Alex’s as well.

The weekend was enjoyable, thanks to them. You watched the race from the Red Bull garage, chatting with Max between sessions. Some photos were snapped, but no one really knew who you were. Your anonymity remained intact, despite the rumours circulating about you and Max.

Max kept an eye on the gossip online. He didn’t care about the usual scrutiny, but his family was off-limits. No one had asked for his life to be under a microscope. And now, you were part of his family. You shared his name.

That thought made something in Max shift. He felt a deep sense of possessiveness, pride even, that you had his last name. The primal part of him loved that you were his, and that realization struck him late that night. He wasn’t just liking you anymore—he was falling for you. Fast.

But Max wasn’t used to slow. He liked things fast, hard, and with determination. He knew what he wanted, and now that he had you, he would do whatever it took to keep you.

Usually, Max flies with his friends from race to race on his private jet, but since he’s bringing you this time, it’s just the two of you.

“How was the race weekend?” Max asked, eager to hear your thoughts.

“It was a lot.” You admitted, and his heart sank a little. He wanted you to enjoy it and wondered if he should’ve asked if you wanted to go in the first place. “But I enjoyed it. It was different from seeing it on TV. Also, the girls were all very nice. I’ve never been to something like this before. I wanted to see you win, though.”

“Maybe next time.” Max chuckled softly before adding, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

You and Max arrived in the Netherlands on Monday. The first two days, you’ll stay at his mum’s house, and then he’ll move to a hotel closer to the track. Your nail beds were raw from all the scratching you were doing, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.

In the car, Max took your hand in his, gently running his fingers over the red and irritated areas. You glanced at him, expecting a question or a comment, but he remained focused on your hand, his touch warm and soothing. Your heart raced, a blush creeping up your cheeks as his attention left you feeling giddy. No guy had ever held your hand before.

Your mind wandered. Every small thing Max did made you question whether it was all platonic or if he had feelings for you. You couldn’t deny that you had feelings for him. Every time he was near, your heart skipped a beat, and you felt weightless.

When you arrived at his mum’s house, his mum and sister were already at the door, waiting. As you both walked up, pulling your luggage behind you, Max greeted Sophie with a warm hug. Victoria waited her turn before stepping in for her own hug.

After they let Max go, Sophie turned to you with a kind smile. “Hi, I’m Sophie,” she said.

You smiled timidly and offered your hand. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

She shook your hand warmly before Victoria followed suit.

“Let’s go inside,” Sophie said, leading the way.

Max lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if silently asking if you were okay. You gave him a small smile, and the two of you followed them inside.

Once inside, you placed your bags next to Max’s and joined them in the living room. Max gestured for you to sit next to him on the couch, while Sophie and Victoria settled across from you. It felt like an interview, the kind where every word mattered.

Sophie broke the silence first. “Tell us a little about yourself, y/n. Max hasn’t said much.”

Your fingers unconsciously returned to scratching. “I-uh, what do you want to know?”

Sophie gave you a reassuring smile. “Where did you grow up?”

“Oh, we moved a lot. I was last in Switzerland, but before that, we lived in the UK, Spain, and Germany for a while.”

“It must’ve been hard moving countries and losing your friends.” Victoria said sympathetically.

You shrugged. “It’s alright. I learnt many languages.” You dismiss their concerns, you’ve never had much of friends in the first place, so moving wasn’t hard on you in that aspect.

“Oh? How many do you know?” Sophie asked, intrigued.

“German, Spanish, French, a bit of Italian, and some Dutch.”

“You know Dutch?” Max asked, clearly surprised.

You smiled genuinely for the first time since sitting down. “Yeah, not fluently, but enough. It’s a little similar to German and French.”

“That’s impressive.” Sophie said.

“Thank you.” You replied, brushing off the compliment.

“Did you watch Formula 1 before meeting Max?” Sophie asked.

“No. I had no idea about it until… Max.” You hesitated, unsure how much to share.

“What are your socials? I want to follow you.” Victoria said, pulling out her phone.

“I don’t have any.” Your fingers returned to scratching. They both looked at Max, who nodded in confirmation. You added quietly. “Didn’t have a phone until Max got me one.”

“Really?” Victoria’s shock was evident.

“Your mother was okay with this?” Sophie asked, her voice softer now. She would never leave her daughter without a phone in case something happened to her, and she needed help. Even if just an old phone or limit access to internet, but not having a phone is bazaar. Your nail digs into your skin.

Max glanced at you, his concern growing as he noticed your nails digging into your skin. Without a word, he took your hand in his again.

“I think maybe we should rest first.” Max says wanting to get you out of this situation.

“It’s alright.” You squeeze his hand, Max is closer to you now, your hand in his on his thigh. You give him the smallest of smiles, before turning to his family. “My mum died giving birth to me.”

“And your siblings?” Sophie asked hesitantly.

“Ran away when she turned 18.” You said matter-of-factly. “I know you’re just looking out for Max, but I would never hurt him. I only want the best for him.”

Sophie softened. “Thank you.” She said with a small smile.

Later that night, you were in one of the spare rooms, dressed in your pyjamas, staring out of the window when Max knocked on the door.

“Come in.” You called.

Max stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “How are you doing?”

“I’m alright.” You replied simply.

“They weren’t too much, were they?” He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“No, they love you.”

“They do.” Max paused, guilt creeping in. Even with his rough childhood, he’d had his mum and sister. You’d had no one.

“Don’t do that,” you said, raising a hand to smooth the furrow between his brows.

“Do what?” He took your hand from his face into his. He studies your hand, making sure there’s no more cuts on them.

“Feel guilty. Hate that you had a better life than me.” You said softly. “We’ve both had rough childhoods, but we’re here now.”

“We’re here now.” Max repeated, his voice heavy with emotion. For a moment, silence filled the room until you broke it.

“You know I’ve suffered all types of abuse from my dad.” Max’s grip on your hand tightened, his jaw clenching. “When I wouldn’t do what he wanted or got less than perfect on tests, he’d pull me by my hair. He loved seeing me stumble, dragging me around like I was nothing. Sometimes he hit me, but never hard enough to leave permanent marks. When my sister escaped, he made sure I couldn’t. He couldn’t break her, so he broke me.”

“He didn’t break you.” Max said firmly. You looked at him, your eyes hollow. “He didn’t. You’re here. You’re strong. You’re not following his rules anymore. You have a phone, you wear what you want, and you’re living your life. If he broke you, you wouldn’t have any of that.”

“All of that is because of you.” You countered. “You made me do all that.”

“No, you let me help you, you let me do all those things for you.” Max wanted you to understand how strong you are, how brave you are. “Someone else would’ve still ben in that shell, they’d still be afraid. Are you scared?”

“Not when I’m with you.” You admitted.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” Max whispers and you lean over and hug him. Something that you have come to love. You may have not experienced a lot of hugs in your life, but Max’s hugs are your favourite. There can never be a hug like his, a hug that makes you warm, feel protected, safe a hug that feels like home. Max waits until you pull away, his fingertips come up to your face and push the stray hairs out of your face. Your eyes locked in an intense gaze. After what feels like forever Max lets out a breath, he leans over and presses his lips to your forehead, before he bids you good night.

That night you dream of him; you dream of what it would be like being in a real relationship with Max. And you wake up wishing it was the truth; you wake up wishing that you were really with him.

Max wanted nothing but to find your dad and beat him up, who treats their daughters like this. How can he be human? He should be locked up. It took everything in him not to track him down, when you told him, and just end him. Just so he wouldn’t breathe the same air you breath, so he wouldn’t walk the same earth you’re walking. Max had to remind himself that you’re with him now, that your father won’t get to you. He gave you to Max and now you belong to him. And so, he planned.

The next few days felt surreal, almost as if you had stepped into a different life. Whether at her home or in the paddock, you spent most of your time with Sophie and Victoria, getting to know them in a more natural way. Victoria introduced you to her children and her partner, who seemed to warm up to you quickly. Their acceptance gave you a quiet sense of relief—you were finally starting to feel like part of something good.

On Media Day, you managed to catch up with Alex and the girls, who urged you to sign up for Instagram, even if you didn’t plan on posting anything. Their light-hearted teasing helped you relax, even if you weren’t ready to make that leap just yet.

Every night, Max ensured that you all ate together as a family. He was quietly thrilled by how easily you fit in, your laughter blending seamlessly with theirs. To him, it was a sign of hope, something he hadn’t realised he was holding on to so tightly.

But you were completely oblivious to the plan Max had set in motion after your heart-to-heart. Behind the scenes, he was orchestrating an end to your father’s influence. He wanted it done discreetly, leaving no room for you to suspect or feel burdened by it.

The energy in the paddock was electric as Quali Day unfolded, Max securing pole position in a thrilling comeback. You had been watching from the garage with Sophie, who nudged you playfully when you cheered so loudly it drew stares.

“You look happier than he does!” Sophie teased, a warm smile on her face.

“Well, he earned it!” You replied, grinning.

Sophie took your hand, leading you to where Max would be arriving. The timing was perfect—he walked in just as you reached the area.

“Max!” You called, your excitement spilling over as you ran up to him. Without thinking, you threw your arms around him. It wasn’t like the casual hugs you had gotten used to giving—it was unreserved, spontaneous. For a moment, Max froze in surprise, but then his arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

“Congratulations.” You murmured against him, your voice warm with pride.

“It’s not a win yet.” Max replied, his voice muffled as he buried his face in your hair.

“You were still amazing.” You insisted, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I was starting to think I brought you bad luck.”

“You can never bring me bad luck.” He whispered, his tone serious. His arms around you a beat after you let go as his team called for him. “I have to go, but I’ll see you after.”

“Okay.” You whispered, stepping back reluctantly.

Sophie smiled knowingly, taking your hand as the two of you headed back to the garage. Neither of you realised that your tender moment had been caught on a live video, now circulating online. But none of you saw it that day, so busy with your lives to log online.

Max’s teams saw the video, they had previously asked Max about your relation to him, but he politely said it’s none of their business. Wanting the reigning world champion to focus on the win, they didn’t tell him about the video.

Max clinched victory in a hard-fought race, and the celebrations were wild. You stood with Sophie and Victoria in Parc Ferme. Max held your hand for a brief moment. He hasn’t talked to you yet about the media and how to deal with them, so he’d like to keep it all as private as he could. But he also wanted you to know how he apricated your presence.

The team went hard in celebrating, there was the photo taking after the media duties, champaign splashing, cheering and jumping around. You watched it all from the side with Sophie. The woman was starting to have a soft spot for you, the more time she spent with you. You left with the women to change at the hotel, for a dinner with the family, apparently even Jos was coming. You had all changed and went to the restaurant at the hotel, and Max joined you all soon after. His mum and sister purposely left the seat next to you empty, Max likes sitting next to you something that they’ve noticed.

As you scanned the menu, Max leaned closer, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair.

“Do you know what you’ll order?” He asked.

“I’m torn between these two.” You replied, pointing at the options. Max leaned in further to look; his face so close that you caught a whiff of his cologne.

“We’ll get both and share.” He decided.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded firmly, his easy confidence making you smile.

Across the table, Victoria nudged Sophie, tilting her head toward the two of you. “Look at them.” She whispered. Sophie smiled back, clearly entertained by the unspoken affection radiating between you and Max.

Sharing the food was a good option, you liked both dishes, Max ate more than you did which is expected. Before you get dessert, you excused yourself to the bathroom after the main course, you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

The moment you rounded the corner, a hand grabbed your arm roughly. Before you could react, another hand twisted into your hair, yanking you back with enough force to make you stumble and you instantly knew who it was. A squeak left your mouth as you were dragged.

“I think you and y/n should date.” Sophie said to her son, the moment you were out of earshot.

“What? We’re married.”

“Yes, but not of your choice.” She says. “You both like each other, already married, why not try to date and see where it takes you, it’s backwards but why not?”

“I don’t know if she likes me.” Max said, feeling insecure all of the sudden.

“Believe me she likes you.” Victoria says and stands up. “I need the bathroom too.”

Leaving her mum and brother to talk, she sped walked to the bathroom, regretting the last glass of wine she drank. Victoria hears a squeak; she turns and just catches a glimpse of you being pulled away. Her eyes go wide, and she rushes back to the restaurant.

“Fucking bitch, shut up!” Your father spat, his voice venomous. Panic flooded you as he dragged you toward the emergency stairwell. Jos was already there, hovering uneasily but saying nothing.

Your back hit the cold concrete wall, and the impact knocked the wind out of you. Tears blurred your vision as your father loomed over you, his face twisted with rage.

“What did I tell you before you left?” He hissed. “I said to play dumb and keep your mouth shut! So, what the hell did you say to that asshole?”

“I—I, I don’t k-know.” You stutter vision blurry.

“The fuck you don’t! What did you say that made him talk to the investors, they’re all pulling out!” He’s screaming now, you flinch wishing the wall to just swallow you. you thought you’d be stronger the next time you see your dad, but here you are a whimpering mess. “Talk! What did you say?”

“I—I don’t know!” You cry, your voice trembling.

“Bullshit!” he roared, his hand striking your cheek with enough force to snap your head to the side. You whimpered, your legs buckling beneath you. The wall behind you the only reason you didn’t fall.

But before he could strike again, the door burst open. Max charged in like a storm, tackling your father to the ground with a roar of fury.

“Oh my god.” You hear Sophie gasp and rushes to your side, she pulls you from the stairwell.

“You fucking asshole!” Max shouted, landing punch after punch. “Who the hell hits women? I told you to stay away from her!”

Jos sees the rage Max is in and jumps into action, fearing his son will be locked up, he tries to pull Max of your father. Jos is far from being in his prime and Max isn’t young anymore. Max glares at his father.

“Max, stop!” Jos finally intervened, trying to pull his son off. But Max shoved him away, his anger boiling over.

“Piss off, this is your fault! You brought him here!” Max spat at his father; his voice thick with betrayal. He allowed him to come close to you, saw him hit you and did nothing.

Meanwhile, Sophie had her arms wrapping protectively around you. Victoria rushed to get security, her heels clicking frantically against the tiled floor.

You hear the shouting from outside, even through your pain you want to go to Max. You try to get back inside, but Sophie stops you.

“Wait, Victoria is getting security.”

“But Max-“

“Will be fine, he wouldn’t want you in there.” Just as she says that she sees the security running in your direction she points to the door, and they rush in. There’s more shouting and screaming from inside.

“Oh my god! Are you alright?” Victoria asks stopping in front of you. Tears haven’t stop, your scalp was hurting, and your cheek was pulsing. It’ll bruise, leaving a mark. “That’s a stupid question.”

“What are you doing? He started it!” You hear your dad scream, the door opens, and he’s pulled outside, his vision falls on you. “I was just talking with my daughter, and he butts in.”

“That’s my wife! And you laid hands on her.” Max says coming out of the door and takes quick steps to stand in front of you, his mum and sister. “You should call the police.”

The security nods and they take your dad away, as one of them call for the police. Jos walks out last, and the glares turn to him.

“I don’t care anymore, I’m getting him to jail, he can do whatever he wants.” Max tells his dad, Jos looks defeated, with what happened your dad will go to the media. There’s no fighting this, Max may have gotten married but, in the end, he’ll still be exposed.

Max then turns to you, he takes you in, your hair is a mess your mascara was running, and tears haven’t stopped leaving your eyes. Also, your cheek is red and buffy. It takes a lot for Max not to run after your dad and beat him some more.

“Schatje,” Max says softly, stepping closer until there’s almost no space between you. His hand cups your uninjured cheek, tilting your face so he can examine it. There’s pain in his eyes as he studies you. “I should’ve hit him more.”

You whimper, more tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Not now, Max.” Sophie reprimands gently.

“Sorry.” He mutters, taking a deep breath to steady himself. His focus shifts entirely to you. “I’m sorry, y/n. You’re okay. You’re safe now. I promise this is the end of it.” His voice is low but filled with conviction. “I’ll make sure he never comes near you again. This was a mistake, a blip. As long as I’m alive, no one will lay a hand on you again. Do you hear me? No one. I swear it.”

For the first time, you believe those words with your whole heart. Max would do anything to protect you. Overcome with emotion, you throw your arms around him, seeking comfort in his presence despite the pain it causes.

“Max, I... I—” The words stick in your throat as your sobs overtake you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Max soothes, his voice a calming balm. His arms tighten around you, and his hand strokes your back gently.

When Max glances up, his eyes meet Sophie’s. The pain in his expression makes her heart ache. Any doubts she had are gone. Sophie makes a silent promise to herself: she will make sure you feel the love your family never gave you.

“Max, the hotel staff said we can wait for the police in your room.” Victoria interjects softly, breaking the moment.

Max nods in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to you. Gently, he pulls away enough to see your face.

“Come on, schatje. We’ll have more privacy in my room.” His voice is almost a whisper. You nod, letting go of him and letting him guide you. His arm wraps protectively around your shoulders, holding you close to his side. Sophie and Victoria lead the way.

The elevator ride is silent, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. Even once you’re in the room, no one speaks. You sit on the sofa, still wrapped in Max’s embrace. Sophie hands you a water bottle, and you whisper a soft thank you.

The knock on the door is almost startling. Victoria opens it to reveal two police officers. They introduce themselves as they step inside, taking seats across from you and Max. One officer pulls out a notepad, ready to begin.

“The hotel staff are providing us with the CCTV footage.” The kinder-looking officer says. “But we need your statement to build the case. Can you start by telling us what happened, Miss Wilkins?”

“It’s Verstappen,” Max corrects firmly. The officer looks momentarily confused. “We’re married. It’s Y/N Verstappen.”

The officers exchange a quick glance before the kinder one nods. “Mrs. Verstappen, can you tell us what happened?”

The words make your heart flutter momentarily, but the weight of the situation quickly crushes any joy. Taking a shaky breath, you grip Max’s hand tightly as he laces his fingers with yours, grounding you.

“I was on my way to the bathroom when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Before I could react, a hand was in my hair. I knew it was my dad.” You explain, your voice trembling. You pause to wipe at your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “He dragged me into the stairwell. He kept asking me about something Max did... something about investors.”

You glance at Max, confusion in your eyes. Max’s jaw tightens as guilt flashes across his face. He now understands why your father attacked you—it’s his fault.

“When I told him I didn’t know, he hit me.” You continue, your voice cracking. “He was about to do it again when Max arrived and stopped him.”

The officer nods, his expression sympathetic. “Has this happened before? The abuse?”

“Yes,” you admit quietly. “Since I was young.”

The pity in their eyes makes your stomach turn.

“When was the last time, before today?” The second officer asks.

You don’t need to think about it. The memory is vivid.

“A week or so after we got married.” You say.

You went and opened the door, taking a step back when you saw who it was. Your heart dropped.

“Well, look who it is? The new bride. Come give a hug to your father.” Your dad opened his arms for a hug, Jos was standing behind him. Awkwardly. This feels like an ambush. You felt so naïve thinking that you wouldn’t have to deal with your father anymore. That you’re free from him. Your father hated that you didn’t instantly follow his rules, so he took a step closer. You then moved closer as well and opened your arms for a hug, he pulled you closer roughly, on hand on the back of your head, gripping your hair at the roots, the other on your arm. It would leave a bruise if he held you slightly harder. You held in the whimper that threatened to escape. “Why did it take so long for you to open the door?” He didn’t wait or expect an answer. “Just because you’re married, doesn’t mean you can forget what I taught you.” Moving your head back, you instinctively held into his arm for balance. “And what are you wearing? Hmm? I thought I sent you clothes. I’ve spent so much to make you the perfect wife, and this is how you are.”

"Did someone come?" Max called out from the living room, removing his headset. You shrank back, taking a few steps away from your father. Max rounded the corner, his sharp eyes darting between your pale face and the men at the door. “What are you two doing here?”

“What?” Max’s voice is laced with disbelief. You glance at him, biting your bottom lip.

“He didn’t hit me.” You clarify. “He just pulled my hair.”

“Fuck, Y/N,” Max whispers, running a hand down his face in frustration. “You should’ve told me.”

“You stopped him. You told him not to speak to me again.” You say softly, placing your hand on his thigh in an attempt to comfort him. Max looks down at your hand, his heart breaking further. Here you are, bruised and hurting, yet still trying to console him.

“Did Jos witness everything?” The officer asks, pulling your attention back.

“Yes. Today and last time.” You reply. Max’s anger bubbles to the surface.

“We want restraining orders against both of them. And we’ll sue.” His voice is sharp, final.

The officer nods. “That’s the next step. With the footage, this will be a straightforward case.”

“Okay, just a step by step, but with the cameras here, it will be an easy case.” The officer said looking grim. “Mr. Verstappen you attacked Mr. Wilkins, right?”

“Yes, he was hitting my wife.” Max admitted not fearing anything that could come his way.

“It was self-defence.” Sophie added, the officers spared her a glance.

The officers continue asking questions and taking statements from Sophie and Victoria before leaving. Once they’re gone, Sophie and Victoria ensure you have everything you need before saying their goodbyes, leaving you and Max alone.

The silence feels heavy again. Max moves quickly, grabbing the ice bucket that had been delivered earlier. He wraps some ice in a towel and approaches you with careful intent.

“Let me do it.” You say softly, reaching for the towel, but Max doesn’t let go. His frown deepens as he presses the cold compress gently to your cheek, his gaze focused solely on the bruised skin. He still won’t meet your eyes. “Max.” You call his name quietly, but he doesn’t look up. You try again. “Max, please.” Finally, his eyes flicker to yours, and what you see in them breaks your heart. Pain. Guilt. Anguish. “What’s wrong?” You ask, your voice trembling slightly.

“How can you ask me that?” He says, his voice cracking. “Your dad has hurt you twice since we got married, and I didn’t even know. I failed to protect you. Both times. And today... today was my fault. I tried to punish him for what he did to you, but all I did was give him a reason to come after you again. I wasn’t there for you before we got married, and I couldn’t protect you now. I—” His voice falters, and you see tears welling in his eyes. Max is strong, he doesn’t care about a lot of things to cry, but you? He cares about you, knowing and seeing what happened to you is tearing him apart.

“Max.” You say, your hand moving to cover his where it rests on your cheek. You sit up straighter, shifting until you’re kneeling on the sofa to face him. Your hands cup his face, forcing him to look at you.

“I’d still be with him—or worse—if it weren’t for you. You saved me, Max. I’d go through it all again if it meant I’d end up here, with you.”

Your words are soft but resolute. You brush away a stray tear that escapes down his cheek, and Max leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours.

“I love you.” You whisper, the words slipping out effortlessly. They feel right. True.

There it was as simple as that; the words just left you easily and smoothly.

Max freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He pulls back slightly, and your hands fall away from his face. The smile you wore drops, replaced by panic as your mind races. Did you misread everything? Was Max only being kind because he felt obligated?

“I—uh—I’m sorry if I overstepped.” You stammer, standing abruptly. Your nails dig into your palms as you try to steady your breathing. “This isn’t what you wanted. It’s not what you chose. Of course, you don’t feel the same. I’m sorry—”

“Wait.” Max grabs your hand before you can reach the door, turning you to face him again. His hands rest firmly on your shoulders, grounding you. “Just... wait.” You stop, your heart hammering in your chest. His touch is gentle as he cups your jaw, his thumbs brushing your skin. “I wasn’t expecting it.” He admits softly. “I was surprised, confused, afraid... I still am. I don’t want you to think you love me just because I got you away from your dad. I don’t want that to cloud your feelings. If you love me, I need it to be for me. For who I am.”

His words make your chest ache, but then his next words make your heart soar.

“Because I love you.” He says. “So much.”

Tears well in your eyes again as your voice trembles. “You do?”

Max nods, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I’ve thought about this a lot. About us. About how I never wanted this marriage to be just an arrangement. I love you, Y/N.”

You let out a teary laugh, and Max’s lips curve into a smile at the sound.

“I love you for you.” you assure him. “I promise. This may not have been what we planned, but I’m glad it happened. I’m glad I have you.”

“Me too,” he murmurs, and then his lips meet yours. The kiss is soft and tender, a promise in itself. You kiss him back, savouring the moment. When you finally pull away, you rest your head against his shoulder, letting out a long sigh.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask quietly. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course.” His answer comes without hesitation.

Max gives you one of his shirts, and you retreat to the bathroom to change. When you return, he’s gone, but moments later, he reappears, holding your makeup remover from your room next door. His gaze softens as he takes in the sight of you standing by the bed, wearing his shirt.

You’re too exhausted to notice the way his breath hitches, the way he has to look away for a moment to compose himself.

That night, you both fall asleep quickly. Max spoons you from behind, mindful of your injuries, his presence a shield against the nightmares that might come. In his arms, you feel safe, loved.

When Max wakes before you the next morning, he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder before slipping out of bed. The warmth of his arms around you fades as he quietly gets out of bed, careful not to disturb you. He pauses at the edge of the mattress, his gaze lingering on your peaceful face. The bruise on your cheek looks slightly less angry now, but it’s still a stark reminder of everything you endured. Max clenches his fists as guilt and anger surge again, but he forces himself to take a deep breath. You need him to be strong, not consumed by his own emotions.

Max dresses quickly and heads into the small living area of the hotel suite, pulling out his phone. The police had assured him they’d be in touch for follow-ups, but Max wasn’t going to wait passively. He searches for a lawyer, determined to take swift action. Restraining orders would be just the start.

By the time he finishes his call, Sophie is knocking softly at the door. He lets her in, and she immediately places a comforting hand on his arm.

“How’s she doing?” Sophie asks, her voice gentle.

“She’s sleeping,” Max replies, his tone heavy. “I just... I don’t know what else I could’ve done to stop this.”

Sophie shakes her head. “Max, none of this is your fault. You’ve done more for her than anyone else ever has. She knows that. She feels it.”

Max nods but doesn’t respond. His mother’s words offer little solace when he feels like he’s failed you in so many ways. Sophie doesn’t push him further, sensing his need for space, and instead busies herself in the kitchenette, preparing tea for when you wake up.

You stir a little later, the ache in your body making it hard to move. But the warmth lingering on your skin from Max’s embrace makes you smile faintly, even through the pain. Slowly, you sit up. The events of the previous day flood back, and a lump forms in your throat.

Pulling on the robe draped over a nearby chair, you shuffle into the living area, rubbing your eyes. Max is pacing near the window, phone in hand, while Sophie sits at the small dining table, sipping tea. When she sees you, she smiles softly and stands.

“Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” She asks, her concern evident.

“I’m okay.” You reply quietly, though the rasp in your voice betrays your exhaustion. Sophie doesn’t miss it and quickly ushers you to the table.

“Sit. I made tea. It’ll help.” She places a cup in front of you before brushing her hand gently over your hair. “Max will be here in a minute.”

Max, who has noticed you now, ends his call abruptly and strides over. His eyes scan your face, and though he tries to hide it, you catch the flicker of pain in his expression.

“You should’ve stayed in bed.” He says, his tone soft but firm.

“I’ve rested enough.” you reply, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, Max.”

He kneels beside you, his hand covering yours on the table. “You don’t have to be fine; you know. Not yet.”

His words sink in, and you let out a shaky breath.

“I know.” you whisper. “But I can’t let him take everything from me.”

Max nods, understanding. “We’re going to make sure he doesn’t. The lawyer is already working on the restraining order. I’ve also asked them to look into filing charges. I’m not letting this go by easily.”

The fire in his voice sends a wave of comfort through you. He wasn’t just saying these things for your sake. He meant every word.

Sophie steps back, giving the two of you space, and Max pulls his chair closer to yours.

“Today.” He says gently, “We’re going to take it one step at a time. First, we’ll see what the police need. Then, we’ll figure out what’s next. And after that... we’ll go home. Together.”

The word home makes your chest tighten. For so long, that word had no meaning. But now, with Max, it feels like you’re finally finding what it truly means.

Later in the day, after a follow-up with the police and some much-needed rest, you and Max prepare to leave the hotel.

Max’s phone buzzing insistently had been a constant backdrop for the past half-hour, and finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Max, just answer your phone.” You said, pressing an ice pack to your cheek and watching him pace. “It keeps ringing.”

With a sigh, Max glanced at the screen before reluctantly accepting the call.

“Hello?... Yes… what? How did they know?... No, just the police officers and—” He paused, his expression darkening as he ran a hand through his hair. “No, I think I said it in the hallway as well… fuck… okay, yeah… no… I said no, and I mean it. It’s no one’s business… No, because nothing in my contract says I have to… Mate, look, it happened. I’m not happy about it, but it happened. End of story… I’m going back to Monaco.”

He hung up, exhaling sharply as he tossed his phone onto the table. His jaw was tight, and it was clear the conversation had rattled him.

“What was that about?” You asked, wincing as you spoke. Your cheek throbbed, and smiling was definitely off the table until the swelling subsided.

Max hesitated, glancing at you before answering. “Someone from the hotel leaked that we’re married.”

Your eyes widened, and you turned toward the mirror to check your face again, trying to process his words. “What? How—how did they even know?”

“Don’t worry.” Max reassured you quickly, stepping closer. “We don’t have to say anything. I’ve always kept my private life private, and the police won’t release any details.”

“What about the officiant?” you asked, suddenly worried about the people who had been involved in your ceremony.

“If he says anything, he can kiss his license goodbye,” Max replied firmly. “And if your father tries to use this, his reputation—what’s left of it—will be done.”

You nodded, feeling a bit reassured by Max’s determination. But he wasn’t finished.

“Now, I need you to listen to me and think carefully before you decide.” His tone was serious, his blue eyes locked onto yours. “There are two options: One, we can go out and face the crowd together. Or two, I can go out first, and you can follow later when things calm down.”

Your stomach churned at the thought of stepping out there alone. “Do they have my face?”

Max’s silence was answer enough. Your heart sank, and you wrapped your arms around yourself for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t want to be on my own.”

Max’s shoulders relaxed, and he stepped closer to you.

“Alright, we’ll leave together,” he said gently, taking your hands in his. “But you need to know they’ll be taking pictures of you now. A lot. Once this is public, there’s no going back.”

You swallowed hard but nodded. “It’s okay. I don’t have social media anyway.”

Max’s lips twitched into a small smile. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, careful not to hurt your swollen cheek.

Sophie insists on staying until the very last moment, ensuring you have everything you need before saying goodbye. Her hug is warm and lingering, and she whispers in your ear, “You’re part of this family now. Don’t ever forget that.”

Victoria joins in with her own hug, giving Max a teasing look. “Take care of her, Max. You’re not off the hook just because she married you.”

Max rolls his eyes but smiles. “I know, I know.”

Max checked out of the hotel while you stood close to him, your fingers brushing against his arm for comfort, taking his left hand, you felt the smooth texture, looking down you see his wedding ring. Max smiles and presses your sunglasses up your nose. A Red Bull cap sat snugly on your head, and sunglasses shielded your swollen eyes. Even before stepping outside, the roar of the crowd was deafening, fans chanting and calling Max’s name.

“Stay close to me.” Max murmured, his arm slipping protectively around your shoulders.

The moment the doors opened, the world exploded with flashing cameras and shouting voices. Your head dipped instinctively; the weight of the crowd’s energy overwhelming. Max’s arm tightened around you as the bodyguards formed a path to the car, their presence the only barrier between you and the chaos.

The path was narrow, people pressing in on all sides, and you felt your heart race as the space seemed to close in. Flashes of light blinded you even through your sunglasses, and questions were hurled at Max, some directed at you. But he didn’t stop. His focus was solely on getting you to the car.

At last, you reached the vehicle, and a breath of relief escaped you as you slid into the seat. Max lingered outside for a moment, signing a few autographs for fans before quickly ducking into the car beside you.

His face was drawn, his usual calm replaced by a tension you rarely saw in him. You placed a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently.

“That was something.” You said, your voice tinged with exhaustion.

“Tell me about it.” Max muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He glanced at you when he felt your touch and gave you a small, weary smile. Lifting your hand to his lips, he kissed the back of it before threading his fingers through yours.

The car hummed quietly as it carried you both toward the airport, leaving the chaos of the crowd behind. Max’s hand remained in yours the entire ride, a silent reassurance that, no matter how overwhelming things became, you wouldn’t have to face them alone.

Thankfully, everything went smoothly with the lawsuit against your father. While the statute of limitations on the abuse you experienced as a child had already passed, Jos provided compelling testimony as a witness, and the case concluded without much trouble. There were some whispers in the media, but Max spared no expense to ensure the story stayed out of the spotlight, keeping your life as private as possible.

Since that fateful day at the hotel, your life had changed dramatically. Your belongings had been moved into Max's room, and now you slept together every night. Max rarely went anywhere without you if he could help it, and the connection between you only deepened with time.

You’d also applied to art school and were now waiting for the new semester to begin. Alex, ever your cheerleader, was ecstatic about the news, eagerly discussing your potential and the projects you could take on. Meanwhile, Charles had taken to bragging that he’d known about your marriage before anyone else on the grid, which only fuelled the Lestappen theories online, especially with your friendship with Alex adding to the chatter.

The windows in your shared Monaco apartment were wide open, letting in a soft sea breeze as you sat in front of a canvas, your playlist softly filling the room. The view was breathtaking, but you were lost in your work, a blend of vibrant colours slowly taking shape on the canvas. You didn’t hear Max enter, fresh from the gym. He’d tried to get you to join him countless times, but you always resisted, finding your balance in Pilates a few times a week.

Max paused when he saw you, your brush gliding across the canvas as you mouthed the lyrics to the song playing in your ears. The sight made his heart swell—this was his proudest achievement, seeing you at peace, content, and thriving. Quietly, he walked over and wrapped his arms around your waist, startling you enough that you let out a squeak, dropping your brush.

“Max! The floor!” You whined, glaring down at the smear of paint on the floorboards.

“It doesn’t matter.” He muttered, his lips brushing your neck before his gaze turned to the canvas. “Again?”

“Not my fault you’re my muse.” You replied cheekily, turning your head to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The painting was of his eye this time—just a close-up as part of a larger composition.

“Would you like me to paint another man’s eyes?” You teased, raising a brow as you wiped your brush on a cloth.

Max smirked, pulling you closer. “No. Just mine, Mrs. Verstappen.”

“That’s what I thought, Mr. Verstappen.” You shot back with a grin.

As you turned to grab another brush, Max pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to you. “I got you something.”

You blinked in surprise as he opened his hand, revealing a pair of earrings—your Tiffany earrings, the ones you’d had to sell to survive. Your breath caught as you reached out to touch them, the memories of that difficult time flashing through your mind.

“Max… how did you…”

“I tracked them down.” He said softly, his blue eyes full of warmth. “I know how much they meant to you, and now they can mean something happy again.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your heart swelling with emotion. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He interrupted, his tone firm yet gentle. “You deserve to have everything you lost, and more.”

You smiled through your tears and threw your arms around his neck, holding him close. “Thank you.” You whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Max kissed the top of your head, his hands stroking your back.

“Anything for you.” He murmured. “Always.”

Main Taglist: @gnatthefly . @mochimommy2002 . @llando4norris . @mrswolffs-blog . @barcelonaloverf1life . @c-losur3 . @xoscar03 . @schniti-is-in-the-house . @lottalove4evelyn . @eywas-heir . @glow-ish . @lilypat . @directioner5life . @a-beaverhausen .

Forced Taglist:

@itgirlofthecenturysposts

[foxy-eva]

Send Nudes

Summary: Chaos ensues after you accidentally send Spencer a nude pic

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) dub-con (Spencer receives an unsolicited nude pic), embarrassment, awkwardness, tension, heavy kissing, male masturbation, oral (fem receiving), handjob, protected penetrative sex

Author's Note: I wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins Wrong Recipient Challenge!

Word count: 3.2k

Masterlist

Panic. Embarrassment. Shame. 

It was hard to describe what you felt when you stared at your phone, realizing that you had just sent Spencer Reid a nude picture of yourself. 

It was a mistake, of course – right when you wanted to send him a screenshot of an article, you stumbled over the mess in your apartment and selected the wrong picture. Frozen in place, you watched in horror as the read receipt showed up instantly. 

Spencer had just seen your naked body light up on the screen of his phone. 

A picture he never asked for and probably didn't want to see. It wasn’t a bad photo, some might even call it aesthetically pleasing. But you had never intended for anyone else to see it. It was just a way for you to make yourself feel good about your body. 

You contemplated your options. Burning your phone, moving across the country and changing your identity sounded intriguing but difficult to arrange. Instead you decided to text Spencer, hoping that soon you’d both be able to laugh about the embarrassing thing you just did. 

“I am so sorry about that. I really didn't mean to send that! Can you please delete the pic and forget about it?” 

You didn't get a response. Spencer was never great at texting but you had really hoped to hear back from him. It was hard to tell if he felt just as embarrassed or maybe even offended – you certainly wouldn't want to receive unsolicited nude pics either. 

You had barely gotten any sleep when you walked into work the next morning. Worst case scenarios had plagued your mind all night – from another painful workplace sexual harassment seminar to maybe even losing your job over your mishap – you had no idea what would expect you today. 

Everything seemed normal when you got to your desk, except for the fact that your favorite coworker didn't even look at you when you walked by him. Spencer usually liked sitting beside you in the conference room and also on the jet, but he did neither of those things that day. 

“Wow you really must have pissed Reid off, huh?” Luke whispered when he sat down beside you on the plane. 

“Did he say anything to you?” you wanted to know. 

“No, he didn't. What did you do? Spill coffee over his favorite chess board?” he teased. 

“Oh it’s so much worse than that,” you whined while heat rushed to your face. 

Emily decided to discuss the case before Luke could ask more questions. Spencer avoided you for the next couple of hours until you decided you both had suffered enough. 

A quiet moment in the coffee kitchen of the police precinct seemed good enough to approach him.

“Hey Spencer,” you said and noticed how he almost jumped at the sound of your voice. 

“H…hi,” he mumbled, his eyes fixated on the floor.

Stepping closer, he finally looked at you for the first time that day. The rosy shade spreading over his cheeks was impossible to ignore. 

“I’m very sorry about the… you know. I didn't mean to send it but I understand if you feel offended by it,” you sincerely told him. 

“I’m not… offended.”

You took a deep breath before you continued talking, “All I want to say is… if you want to discuss this incident with Emily or even HR, I would understand. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable in any way.” 

“No, it’s okay, really,” he lied. “We can just forget about it.” 

Spencer Reid was good at many things. Lying, however, definitely wasn’t his strong suit. You decided to drop the subject for now, aware that talking more about it would probably not make him less uncomfortable. 

The tension between you two was palpable for the rest of the workday. When you stepped into your hotel room that night, you were relieved to finally have a couple of walls between the two of you. 

If this thing didn't resolve soon, you’d have to talk to Emily about it eventually. But there was still hope that it wouldn't come to that. The embarrassment about your mishap was already bad enough as is.

The three knocks on your hotel door startled you. With your heart beating uncomfortably fast, you walked over to the door to find Spencer on the other side. 

He walked into your room without saying a word. Then he began slowly pacing up and down your room, still silent. He looked at you for a second but his sight fell to the floor immediately after that. 

“I uh…” he began before taking a deep breath. “I lied to you earlier.”

“About what?” you wanted to clarify. “Wanting to go to HR?” 

He shook his head. “I said that we can just forget about it but I don’t think I can do that.” 

Your heart felt heavy at his words. His discomfort pained you and you wished nothing more than to be able to take it back. “I’m so sorry Spencer.”

“I deleted the image off my phone but…” he paused to finally look at you. The expression written over his face was hard to read. What you didn't find was the discomfort you expected. Instead he looked… cocky?

He continued, “...it seems like it’s burned into my brain. And I can’t help but wonder, was it really an accident?”

“What?! Of course!” you squeaked. “Believe me, I would never want to send you a picture like that unprompted.”

That was when you saw a subtle smirk on his face. “Interesting choice of words.” 

You thought about it for a moment. Had you really just implied that you would want to send him nudes if he’d ask you to? 

“That's not what I meant,” you tried to brush it off. “And please don’t give me a lecture about Freudian slips.”

His presence filled the room and you felt like you couldn't take deep enough breaths to satiate your need for oxygen. His demeanor was so different from what you were used to and you had trouble wrapping your head around it.

His next question was even more surprising. “Who did you take this picture for?” 

The undertone in his voice was unsettling and you started feeling defensive. “I don’t see how that's any of your business but just for the record, I took it for myself. I do that occasionally to make myself feel good about my body.” 

It seemed as if he was content, almost relieved with your answer. You scanned his body language again and replayed his words in your head. Then it hit you all at once. Spencer was not here to scold you for what you did. 

He was jealous. And he wanted to make sure no one else got to see your picture. 

A grin formed on your face as you realized that you could play this game too.

Your tone was laced with a certain playfulness when you asked, “What did you do after you saw the picture?”

The change of your demeanor seemed to take Spencer by surprise. “I just told you, I deleted it.” 

“I don't think that's all you did.” He audibly gulped and you noticed his cheeks taking on a reddish color. Stepping closer to him, you whispered, “Did you touch yourself, Spencer?”

A shaky breath left his mouth before he confessed, “Yes.”

“Naughty boy,” You teased him. “You really liked that image, hm?” 

Nodding, he took a step forward until there was barely any space between the two of you. “I can't stop thinking about you.”

His words boosted your confidence. “I know I look great in that pic. But I think I would look even better in this lighting right here, don’t you think?” 

Before you could bring to action what you had insinuated, you felt Spencer's hands cupping your face to pull you into a kiss. The surprised gasp escaping your throat was muffled by his lips against yours. 

He kissed you with a fervor that knocked the air out of your lungs. Weakness rushed to your knees and you had to hold onto him to not tumble back. One hand pawed at his shirt while the other one held onto his shoulder. His lips felt soft yet firm against yours. 

When his tongue begged for entrance, you let it. As he deepened the kiss, you could feel heat rushing through body. A few moments ago you really thought you’d have the upper hand in this game you were playing but now realized you were just as pathetic as he was. 

Maybe sending him that image was a Freudian slip of some kind. Or maybe it was just some odd plan the universe had to bring you together. Either way, you were grateful for how things turned out. 

Your hands became curious as they wandered over Spencer’s body. The tingling in your fingertips could only be soothed by feeling his skin underneath them, so they quickly began unbuttoning his shirt. Spencer showed a similar interest in feeling more of you by the way his fingers dropped down to the hem of your shirt. 

Piece after piece both of your clothes fell to the floor, only ever breaking the kiss for as long as necessary. When you stood completely bare in front of one another, you dared to press your body against his to feel him. 

It was impossible to tell who moaned first when his length pressed against your stomach. With a firm grip on his shoulders, you moved him back until his legs made contact with the edge of the bed. You pushed down until he sat on the mattress, staring up at you with a curiosity in his eyes that made your heart jump. 

As you stepped back, his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick over his lips and you wondered if he thought about tasting you. To your surprise, he managed to not break eye contact until you challenged him, “Go on, take a look.”

His sight scanned your body, lingering on your breasts for a second before moving further down, taking everything in. You couldn’t hold back from looking at him, too. A rosy color had spread all over his cheeks and chest and when you dared to drop your eyes to his cock, you noticed how it twitched slightly against his thigh. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he cooed when your eyes met again. 

“Better than the image?” you teased, smirking at him. 

He only nodded before looking at your body again. It was like he was mesmerized, as if a miracle had just unfolded right before him. It became obvious that he was ready to worship you if you’d let him. But first, you had something else in your mind. 

“Show me exactly what you did when you saw my picture,” you told him. 

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Wh… what?” 

“Don’t be shy now,” you snickered. “Come on, I wanna see how pretty you think I am.” 

The sweet smile on your face seemed to encourage him enough to let his right hand move towards his hardness. It was as if he needed reassurance when he found your eyes and you nodded.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving himself a squeeze and you watched as precum spilled over the tip. Slowly, he began moving his fist up and down his length, swiping his thumb over the head each time he got to the top. The groan that slipped from his lips could only be described as absolutely sinful. 

You couldn’t deny how much the sight in front of you turned you on. Spencer was so incredibly beautiful and the thought that your body had the ability to make him feral like that drove you insane. 

Arousal gathered at your entrance the longer you watched him. This show was no longer enough for you, you needed more. Your hands found the curve of your chest, gently kneading them before your fingers began toying with your hardened peaks. Spencer’s eyes were fixated on your hands, his mouth hanging wide open and unabashedly moaning at the sight while accelerating the pace of his hand. 

Then suddenly, he stopped and got up from bed. Desperation was written all over his face when he looked at you. 

“Please,” he begged as he stepped closer. “I need to touch you.” 

It was everything you wanted right then, too. 

“I’m all yours, Spencer.” 

His mouth was on yours in an instant and he didn’t waste any time to move you over to the bed to push you onto the mattress. He followed quickly, towering over you as he kissed down your neck, making you moan in anticipation of what would follow. 

He moved further down your body, kissing and nipping on the tender flesh of your breasts before focusing his attention on your nipples. The sensation was almost unbearable and you could feel how your arousal began coating the insides of your thighs. 

Spencer smiled against your skin when he noticed you rocking your hips against his leg every so slightly. His confidence grew as he realized that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

“Needy,” he chuckled as he kissed down your stomach. “That’s cute.” 

Right then you couldn’t care less about being in charge, you just wanted to be taken care of. When his lips brushed over your inner thigh, you opened your legs further to give him better access. He lay down between your legs and didn’t waste any time before he began leaving feather light kisses against your folds. 

You watched as he licked his own lips, tasting your essence on them before he found your eyes. 

“You’re so wet,” he teased and let a finger move along your slit. “Is that all for me?” 

He expected a witty response, like you telling him to bring his mouth to good use for once. So it took him by surprise when you simply sighed, “Yes.” 

There was no more game to play. No more back and forth of who was in charge. It was just the two of you, equally as desperate to finally do what you both had been dreaming of for weeks.

“Good,” Spencer whispered, his hot breath tickling your core, before he finally granted you some relief. 

His tongue moved through your folds, collecting your taste before he focussed on your most sensitive spot. He experimented with different motions for a few moments, paying attention to your reactions until he found what you enjoyed the most. Your hand flew to his hair, your fingers intertwining with his curls to hinder him from moving away – even though he had no intention to do so, anyway. 

With one arm wrapped around your thigh he hindered you from bucking uncontrollably against his face while his other hand found your entrance, letting two fingers slip into you with ease. He moved with great precision, adjusting the angle and the pace according to your reactions, bringing you closer to your breaking point with every second passing. 

The sounds of your pleasure filled the room as you began dancing along the brink of euphoria. With just a few more skillful motions, he pushed you over it. Your walls pulsed around his fingers while your entire body shook. He worked you through your orgasm before he lay back down beside you, placing a gentle kiss against your lips. 

You were still panting when you found his eyes. The warm amber of his irises was almost completely swallowed by his pupils, the lust visible in his eyes contradicting the saccharine smile he showed you. 

“You okay?” he breathed as he wrapped one arm around your waist. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed while one of your hands moved down his body. 

Tentatively, you let your fingertips brush along his length, feeling his velvety skin under your touch. “Now what are we gonna do with you?” you purred as you wrapped your fingers tightly around him, making him gasp. 

With a torturously slow pace, you moved along his cock. “Tell me, Spencer. What do you want?” 

“I uhm…,” he audibly swallowed. “I have a condom in my pocket.” 

The fact that he brought a condom to your hotel room when he came over early amused you. He never had any intention of just talking to you. 

“So, you want to fuck me?” 

“Yes,” he admitted unabashedly. “If you want that, too, of course.”

With a nod you confirmed that that was exactly what you wanted as well. Right after you let go of him, he grabbed his pants from the floor to take out the foil wrapper. You watched as he ripped it open and carefully rolled down the condom. 

Then, he kneeled down between your legs, taking a moment to admire the beauty of the woman in front of him. 

“Come here,” you cooed and he leaned over you without hesitation. 

Reaching between your bodies, you guided him to your entrance. He closed his eyes when he slowly entered you, relishing the sensation of stretching you open inch by inch. When he was fully inside you, he kissed you before he began moving with slow thrusts.

Wrapping your legs around his hips, you brought him even closer. When he was sure that you could take it, he accelerated his pace, fucking you against the mattress until you were sure you would lose your mind. 

Spencer’s body began trembling and he suddenly stopped moving. 

“Sorry, I’m really close,” he whined and tried to pull out slightly. 

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded as you kept him in place with your legs around him. “Please, I need it.”

One of your hands moved down to where your bodies were joined to desperately draw circles around your little nub, making you clench hard around his hardness. 

“Fuck,” he whimpered as he began moving again. “I can’t, ah–” 

With just a few more deep thrusts Spencer came, his cock twitching inside you as his whole body shook. It was enough to throw you over edge too, entering a state of pure bliss together with him. After you had both come down from your high, you welcomed him inside your embrace, your fingertips gently dancing over his back as he caught his breath. 

For the sake of getting cleaned up you separated for a few moments, only to lay back down together soon after. A shaky breath fell from Spencer’s lips and caught your attention. 

“So…,” he began talking but didn’t continue. 

You propped yourself up on one elbow to find his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask if maybe–” 

“You want me to send you that pic again?” you interrupted him with a grin on your face. 

“No,” he laughed. “I mean… that’s not what I wanted to say.”

Still in a teasing mood, you snickered, “But you would like to see that pic again?”

“You know what,” he chuckled as he lifted the blanket to get a peek at your naked body. “I think I actually prefer this.”

“Good,” you chirped. “If you want to see more of me you’ll have to take me on a date though.”

Placing a soft kiss on your lips, he whispered, “Deal.”

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings

[kamaluhkhan]

WE DESERVE A SOFT EPILOGUE, MY LOVE.

pairing: vi x firelight!reader word count: 2k summary: after years of thinking her dead, ekko brings vi to the firelight base. you don't really know how to react when the girl you grew up loving is now a woman you know nothing about and still, somehow, feel everything for. warnings: arcane level angst + lesbian yearning. reader is referred to with she/her pronouns. reader has tattoos and a star-shaped birthmark behind her ear (y'all know vi loves a nickname and i thought 'stargirl' was v cute so i had to make it work). fic gets slightly suggestive at the end ;) author's note: happy act iii release day!!! i wrote this instead of working on my thesis oops. in my defense, vi has sparked something in me that i simply cannot ignore. i'm also working on a werewolf! pitfighter!vi x vampire slayer!reader fic (set in the same universe, just with a slight twist) sooo that might be done before part 2 of this fic (which is where the smut happens hehe). anyways, thank you for reading!

inspired by that quote: "i think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. we are good people and we've suffered enough" by nikka ursula

even after all these years, vi is still the first one to notice you. 

her eyes widen as she hesitates to pull away from ekko, but you clear your throat to catch both of their attentions.

“i thought we were gonna question her together.”

ekko wipes a stray tear from his cheek and stands up a little straighter. 

“you were taking too long,” he shrugs. “don’t worry — she’s clean.”

you trust ekko’s judgement, but you still can’t reckon with the fact that vi is alive. you’d splashed cold water on your face just before to make sure you weren’t dreaming. 

“i don’t know.” you walk closer until you’re standing arms length from vi. “the vi i knew wouldn’t be caught dead with a topsider, let alone an enforcer.” 

you examine her carefully, and you imagine she’s doing the same to you. vi looks more grown up — stronger and sharper. you’d spent so much time in limbo, not knowing if she were alive or dead. you aren’t sure how to react when the girl you grew up loving is now a woman you know nothing about and still, somehow, feel everything for. 

“i guess the shoddy undercut is a pretty clear give away,” you deadpan.

vi quirks an eyebrow at you. “shoddy, huh? you know, your tattoos look like they were drawn by blindfolded children.”

she smiles, all bright and toothy. the scar on her upper lip stretches, achingly familiar, and you decide there’s nothing you want to do more than to bring her into your arms, to bring her closer, so you do. 

her hair tickles your cheek as you whisper:

“i did those tattoos myself.”

vi chuckles, and you feel it vibrate across her body to yours.

“i know. they’re beautiful.” her index finger traces the star-shaped birthmark behind your ear; you shiver. “i was just messing with you, stargirl.”

vi was the only one who ever called you that, said you made her life brighter or some other sweet nothing that would effortlessly fall from her mouth.

gods, she was the first one who even noticed that birthmark on your skin. 

“i was messing with you, too. the hair — you look hot.”

you feel her heart beating faster against your chest as she smiles into your shoulder.

she’s here.

she’s not some ghost from your past.

she’s really here. 

you’re so overwhelmed by how solid she is against you that you start to pull away, but vi catches your hand before you can fully untangle yourself from her. 

“that’s all i get?” she wonders, licking her lips.

you’re tempted, very tempted, to give her more. maybe you would have, until ekko clears his throat behind you.

“should i….give y’all a moment?” ekko asks. “i’ll go get the piltie.”

you then remember who vi came here with; she might not be working for silco, but you stand by your suspicions at her bringing a topsider to the lanes. 

you slip your hand from hers. you roll your shoulders back as if that would really shake away the hold she’s always had on you.

time has passed. things have changed. neither of you are kids anymore, and you don't have the luxury of indulging in a frivolous crush.

“it's fine, e. let’s show them around.”

“still a night owl, i see.”

vi finds you perched on one of the trees highest branches, surrounded by firelights as you sketch something. you close your sketchbook instantly and place it on the other side of you when vi sits down.

“thought you’d be in bed with that enforcer of yours.” 

“her name’s caitlyn.”

“caitlyn,” you scoff, shaking your head. 

the bitterness you try to hide is all too transparent to vi, who has to bite back a laugh at your pettiness. 

“you say her name like you’re gonna hex her. never pegged you as a jealous ex.”

“technically, we never broke up,” you point out. 

a firelight lands on your hand, and you let it crawl up the lines etched on your skin. 

“if that’s the case, i owe you an apology for cheating on you when i was in prison.”

you frown, but say nothing, your eyes following that same firelight as it illuminates your tattoos. 

“don’t worry, i’m kidding!” vi pauses. “mostly.”

the firelight flies away, and you huff out an annoyed breath. 

“whatever. i don’t care who you’ve fucked, or who you’re fucking. and, you don’t owe me anything. it’s not like we’re anything to each other, anymore.”

vi sucks in a sharp breath — she wouldn’t have expected such harsh words from you.

“is that why you can’t even look at me?” she finally asks.

you’d been strictly business since you first reunited hours ago. you expertly distanced yourself from vi all throughout the tour of the firelights’ base, and throughout dinner, too. 

where’s the girl she’d spend hours goofing around with, who always had a witty response to her sarcastic remarks, who smiled at her in such a way that made her chest glow? where’s the girl who brightened vi’s life when it seemed like the darkness would never leave?

“i don’t know,” you admit. “part of me still can’t believe you’re alive. i know that i should be happy that you are, but i keep thinking about everything i could have done to protect you, and powder —”

“hey. it’s my job to worry about everyone, remember?”

“you weren’t here.”

“i am now.”

she gently moves your chin so that you face her, so that you can see that she’s not going anywhere, at least for tonight. 

which is probably more time than either of you thought you’d ever have together again.

vi notices how your eyes flick down to her lips and back up, and she feels something spark in her chest. but then, you shake your head as though trying to wake up from a dream and turn away once more. 

“that enforcer of yours —”

“she’s not my —”

“whoever she is, she talked about how we all need to heal. i just keep thinking about what you’ve been through, what we’ve all been through…. how it never really stops. healing would be nice, but it’s hard when you have to keep fighting every day. you remember what ekko said, about why we chose this place?” 

of course, she remembers. 

“that if even a seed can survive down here, maybe we could, too.”

 “we. who’s ‘we,’ vi?” you laugh, but there’s no joy behind it. “we’ve gotten used to surviving without each other. maybe it was meant to be that way.”

“that’s not fair.” 

“a lot of things aren’t fair.” you gesture around at the base. “this — this community — took blood, sweat, and tears to build and i just know how easy it would be for someone to destroy it all. which is why we fight, obviously, to protect all this and each other, but i’m scared that we can only do so for so long before we burn out.”

you press your knees to your chest and curl into yourself. vi notices then — the slump of your shoulders, the shadows beneath your eyes, and just how deeply exhausted you must feel, down to your bones. 

you let out a shuddery breath. “is it even all worth it?”

vi swallows the tears building in her throat. you had always been the hopeful one, and it makes vi’s chest ache to think about what you must have endured to lose the brightness that had been woven into your being. 

that's part of what got her through these past few years, and there's no way she's going to let it fade.

“i....i think so,” vi starts, trying to find it within her to be inspirational. “maybe it'll make a difference in the long run, even if we don’t see that now. maybe someone, someday in the future, will be able to not just survive, but live in a better world.”

you raise an eyebrow at her, and vi swears there's a slight smile on your face.

"what?" she asks, her cheeks heating up.

"i'm just...surprised. how is it possible that prison made you less cynical?”

there's a glimmer to your eyes that wasn't there before, something playful, and vi decides to lean into it.

"oh, it wasn't prison," vi says, nudging her shoulder against hers. "see, i ran into this pretty girl from my past and she's this totally badass freedom fighter now, so i think there's some hope in the world."

you snort. "good to know you're still an unbearable flirt."

"i thought you loved that about me."

you laugh, a sparkling sound that vi wishes she could carry with her wherever she goes. it’s contagious, too, and vi finds herself giggling along with you. when it dies down, you rest your head on her shoulder, something you did even back when you were only friends.

“i missed you,” she admits. 

“yeah?” your voice is softer than a whisper. 

you lift your head and vi cradles your face in her hands.

vi nods. “so fucking much, and i want to prove it. if you’ll let me. please.”

“vi,” you exhale. she’s so close now that she can feel you breathing against her lips. “i can’t. you’re with that enforcer.”

“we’re not together,” vi assures, bumping her nose against yours. 

she leans in ever so closely to kiss you, but you move away. 

“you’re still with her, though, and you’re leaving in the morning,” you continue. “things are already so….complicated. i just don’t think we should start something we won’t be able to finish.”

with nothing more to say, you gather your sketchbook and pencils. vi’s sure that you’re not going to bed, just off to nestle into another hiding spot for the night, away from her.

maybe you’re still putting up a cold front, protecting yourself because that’s how you've been surviving in this world where the risk of losing everything lingers, and only gets heavier as you grow older.

but, gods, vi really has missed you, the you she remembers so vividly, the you that shone through just moments ago. she knows that glowing heart of yours is hardened by layers of ice, and she’s determined to make them all melt away.

so, vi gets up, heart beating in her throat, and calls after you:

“haven’t we already?” 

you stop in your tracks. you slowly turn around to back at her.

a moment passes, maybe more. the two of you suspended in time. your eyes are telling her a million different things – you’re confused, you’re scared, you’re tempted, you’re tired – and all vi can do is unsuccessfully blink back more tears because it’s true, how your story together never got the happy ending you deserved. 

“please, y/n. if this is our second chance, even just for a night —”

she’s cut off by you crashing your lips against hers.

the two of you were young, really, just girls when you first kissed. it was awkward and messy and though it ignited something in the pit of vi’s stomach, it was nothing compared to this.

she lets you guide her as you please, lets you press your warm body against hers against the trunk of the tree. she lets your lips mold into hers until her lungs are burning. 

your chest is heaving as you pull away slightly; vi bites back a whine, feeling empty. but air isn’t what she needs, she’s sure of it. what she really needs is more of you.

you study her like a work of art, like you're committing her to memory in case she slips away. your thumb wipes away a fallen tear, across the tattoo on her cheek. 

fuck, no one's held vi this tenderly since, well, you.

“you’re so beautiful.”

vi blushes, becoming increasingly flustered. she'd wanted to make this about you, take care of you in all the ways she'd imagined, but the way you're looking at her, touching her....she's not a religious person, but vi thinks she might have stumbled into her own, personal heaven, with you having some divine hold on her, soft and bright and passionate.

you're kissing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone when you repeat: "you're so fucking beautiful."

“yeah, i know. they should build statues of me,” she breathes, closing her eyes and trying to keep upright on weak knees. she squeezes your hips in an attempt to keep herself steady.

you’re the only person vi can recall calling her beautiful. 

sexy? oh, yeah. charming? definitely. hot? often. 

no one else calls her beautiful, though, let alone makes her feel like it the way you do.

“bad at flirting and full of yourself," you tease. "some things really don't change."

by now your lips are travelling lower, and vi doesn't want to miss a second watching you have your way with her. when her eyes flutter open, vi gets a glimpse of something over your shoulder.

“hm, i guess drawings are a good place to start.” 

she gestures with her chin, which she instantly regrets as you pull away to follow her gaze, eyes landing on the sketches of her from your fallen sketchbook.

“you weren’t supposed to see those,” you groan. "they're personal...."

it's cute, how flustered you get after making vi all hot and bothered.

vi smirks. "personal, huh? had some fun picturing me when i was gone? missed me so much you had to draw me back to life?"

"well, no - wait, yes, obviously, i missed you, but --"

vi cuts you off with a searing kiss.

she tugs on one of your belt loops to bring you closer to her. vi presses her thigh between your legs, relishing in how your mouth opens in a perfect gasp. vi takes the opportunity to bite your bottom lip and you whimper.

“don't be embarrassed, baby," vi mumbles against your mouth, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hips. "you know i missed you, too. 'cept i'm not talented like you, so my creative imagination had to carry me through some long nights."

“is that so….” your hand slips underneath her tank top, and you manage to pull a groan from vi by scratching your nails against her stomach. “maybe you can clue me in to what, exactly, you’ve imagined.”

vi grins triumphantly. she places a kiss on your birthmark before whispering in your ear:

“sure thing, stargirl.”

[alotofpockets]

Practice makes perfect | Leah Williamson x Reader

Where you and Leah practised kissing each other to prepare for kissing boys, but you quickly realise that after that you don't want to kiss anyone but her

Woso masterlist | Words: 2.5k

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As the only two girls on the boys' team growing up, you and Leah clicked right away. Football brought you together, but it was everything else about her that kept you close. Not many people had stuck around in your life the way Leah had. From meeting at six years old to now, a decade later, she was still your best friend.

The football dream was becoming reality for the both of you. The young Lionesses and Arsenal Academy were where you spend most of your time besides school or each other’s houses. The two of you were inseparable and everyone knew it. Where you went Leah went, and visa versa.

“Remember when we were like twelve and we practised kissing?” Leah asks you out of nowhere while you’re sitting in her bed and playing video games. You think back to the moment.

It was a similar situation to this one, you were having a sleepover and had just finished watching a romcom. “How do you know if you’re gonna be a good kisser if you’ve never kissed someone before?” Leah asked with a voice filled with curiosity. 

“I have no clue. Why don’t they show those parts in the movies?” You turned off the tv and pulled the covers further over your body. “Exactly! Like when I kiss a guy for the first time, I want to make sure that like I can kiss him properly, you know?” 

You nodded, understanding her concerns. “What if we practised kissing together? Then we can tell each other if we’re any good.” Leah loved your idea and instantly sat up in bed again. “You are brilliant!” 

She made you sit up as well and once you did she double checked if it was okay. When you nodded in confirmation, she leaned in and pecked your lips. “How did I do?” She instantly asked. “Good I think, what about me?” She smiled proudly, “Nice, you as well.” 

You had practised a couple more times that night, and when you both liked boys, you had practised some more so that the first kisses you would have with them would be perfect.

“Yeah, I remember.” In the meantime Leah had paused the game to fully focus on the conversation she wanted to have. “I was wondering if maybe we could practise something again.”

“What do you want to practise?” You asked to urge her to go on. “Well, I heard from some girls in our class that they’ve been making out with their boyfriends, and they talked about how it goes and everything, but even with that information I don’t feel even remotely ready to just make out with a guy. So, I thought that maybe, if you’re up for it of course, we could practise like we did before?”

Even with the introduction Leah gave, her question still caught you off guard. Leah’s hopeful eyes were hard to ignore while you thought about her question. “Just so we don’t totally embarrass ourselves when the time comes.”

"Yeah, exactly! I don’t want to make things weird between us though, you can totally say no.” She quickly added.  “It’s not weird.” you said shifting to sitting cross-legged, facing Leah, on her bed. “We’re just practising.”

Leah’s face lit up with relief, “Exactly, Just practising.” She turned to sit cross-legged as well. She told you how your classmates had described making out, so you were both on the same page. 

“So, eh,” you cleared your throat, “do we just go for it?” Leah let out a nervous laugh, “I guess so?” You nodded, which Leah took as her sign to start leaning in. She inched closer slowly, until her lips brushed yours. 

At first she just pecked your lips like you had practised before. Your heart started beating faster, but you didn’t understand why. Her soft, warm lips on yours felt familiar, yet somehow different. “Still okay?” She asked to make sure you wanted to do this as well. “Yeah.”

You leaned in this time and let your lips move in sync with hers. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest as Leah reached out her hand and cupped your cheek to pull you a little closer. 

When she pulled back after a few moments, her eyes searched yours. “How was that?” 

Your brain felt like it was running a million miles an hour, and you were scrambling to find words. “Good.” You managed finally. “What about me?” Leah’s lips quirked into that proud smile she had done last time, “Good too.” 

A feeling came over you that you had never felt before, you couldn’t quite place it, but before you could overthink it, Leah was leaning in again. “Practice makes perfect, right?” she said softly, and when you didn’t move away, her lips were on yours again.

That night while Leah slept soundly besides you, your mind wouldn’t stop racing. Trying to make sense of what you were feeling. 

It wasn’t until a few weeks later when you saw Leah kiss a boy in your class, that you realised what was happening. The moment you saw the two of them together, you felt a pang of jealousy. All you knew in that moment was that you weren’t jealous of Leah in that moment, but you were jealous of him. 

You turned on your heels and got away from the situation as quickly as possible. Of course, you headed straight over to the football field. The one place where everything felt right. You must’ve spent hours kicking a ball around until your parent’s called asking when you’d be home. “No Leah tonight?” Your mom had asked when you walked in, seemingly without the blonde by your side. You hadn’t even thought about it, but usually Leah would join you on Fridays. “Eh, no not tonight.” You say quickly. “Do I have time for a quick shower?” Your mom nodded and you rushed to your room. 

You checked your phone and sure enough you had a bunch of messages from Leah. The last one read I hope everything is alright. Couldn’t find you at school so I headed home. Please text me back!

You didn’t text Leah back that night, or the next morning. It wasn’t that you were mad at her, of course you weren’t, you didn’t think you ever could be, but you just didn’t know what to say. Every time you thought about her, you saw that boy’s lips on hers. Every time you saw it play back in your mind, it made your chest ache.

But Leah was Leah. Persistent, stubborn, and your best friend. So, it didn’t take her long to just show up at your house unannounced. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” She stated from your doorframe, after your dad had let her in. She found you laying on the floor with one of your textbooks in front of you, trying to bury yourself into your homework. “What’s going on?” 

You glanced at her and then quickly focused back on your textbook. “Nothing.” Leah shook her head and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Liar.” She sighed, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” You said a little too quickly and defensive for Leah to believe it. She crossed her arms and leaned against your door, studying you like she was trying to solve a puzzle. “I just need some space.” You said softly, unable to meet her eye.

“Since when do we do space?” Her voice softened. She walked further into your room and sat down on the edge of your bed. “Come on, talk to me.”

You wanted to. You wanted to tell her everything. You always told Leah everything, but how could you tell her about your feelings? How could you tell her that you were jealous of a guy she kissed? Talk about the way your heart raced when you made eye contact with her? 

“I’m fine, Lee.” You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes and Leah could tell. You saw that she was fighting her inner monologue to press further, her lips parting like she was about to. Before she could say anything, your mother yelled upstairs, “Leah, honey, are you staying for dinner?”

Leah turned to you, “Do you want me to go?” You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. You can stay.” She opened the door and told your mom she would love to before turning back to you. “I’m gonna help her with dinner, you know, so you can have some more space.” This time you noticed her smile not fully reaching her eyes, but before you could say anything, she had already closed the door behind herself.

You stopped ignoring Leah, because you knew she would just find a way in, but that didn’t mean that your interactions were any less awkward, well at least for you. From Leah’s side it seemed like nothing had happened, while you questioned every interaction you had with her.

When she laughed at your jokes, or let her hand linger on your arm or leg, everything made your skin feel like it was on fire.

A few weeks later Leah was picking out her prom outfit with her mom. She had tried on a bunch of dresses, but none of them seemed to be what she was looking for. Today was the last chance of finding something, since prom was literally tonight. So, Amanda was determined to spend the whole morning driving from store to store until they found something.

It was the third store of the morning where Leah’s eyes fell on a baby blue suit, and she knew instantly that that was going to be the one. Her mom encouraged her to put it on, and the smile on her daughter’s face was exactly the reason why she had.

“This is going to be the one!” Leah said as she admired the suit in the mirror. “It’s lovely Leah Cathrine.” Leah smiled big, “Thank you.” After paying for the clothes, the pair headed back to the car.

“Oh mom, I wanted to ask if you could drive y/n and me tonight.” Her mom’s brow furrowed. “Darling of course I would, but I thought y/n wasn’t going?” Leah looks at her mom as if she was crazy. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh well, because that’s what she said yesterday. She said she wasn’t really feeling up to going.” Leah didn’t understand, you hadn’t told her anything. “But she was so excited about it and had her outfit picked out like months ago already. Do you know why she isn’t going?”

Amanda shakes her head, “I don’t know.” Leah was quick to respond. “You didn’t push further?” Amanda chuckles lightly, “No, that’s more your thing, darling.”

Leah sat back in the seat and crossed her arm, going over what she could do. “Can you drive me to her place tonight?” She nodded, “Sure, darling.”

You were watching a movie in your sweats when you heard a knock on the door. When you opened the door, Leah stood in front of you with a small bouquet of flowers. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at prom?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Leah shoots back instantly. “I’m not going Lee, you should still go though. I’m sure your boyfriend would like you to be there.”

“Boyfriend?” Leah steps inside and closes the door behind her. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug your shoulders, “I saw you and Steve kiss, figured you two were together.”

“Oh no definitely not.” Leah said defensively, “He kissed me, and I told him that I wasn’t interested.” You searched her eyes for anything to prove what she was saying wrong, but she seemed sincere. “Oh.”

“So, come to prom with me?” Leah said, holding out the bouquet to you. “Sorry, Lee, I can’t.” She retracted the flowers reluctantly. “Why not?”

Her question hung in the air. Again you wanted to tell her, but you just couldn’t. “I just can’t, please drop it.” But Leah was Leah and there wasn’t any scenario in which she would drop this. “I won’t drop it. You’ve been excited about your outfit, the music, the pictures. You’ve been talking about prom non-stop for months and now you’re here in sweats not going. Please just tell me what’s going on. If I did something, let me in and let me fix it.” Her plea sounded desperate.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, and there is nothing you can fix.” You sighed in frustration, wishing she would just drop it. “Did someone else do something? Please just tell me what’s going on.”

“Fine, okay, I’ll tell you.” Leah focussed on you instantly, not having expected you to break so soon. “I can’t go to prom with you because ever since we practised making out, all I can think about is wanting to kiss you again.” 

Your eyes were looking anywhere but Leah, not ready to see the way she would react to that confession. “Please look at me.” She slowly reached up her hand to your cheek to turn your head to face her. You expected anger, disgust, or even hurt in her eyes, but instead you were met with softness. 

“You know the reason I told Steve I wasn’t interested?” You shook your head. “It’s because after he kissed me, I felt nothing. Which was a stark opposite to how I felt when we kissed. I swear it was just practise when I asked you, but I think that was exactly what I needed to realise my feelings for you.” Leah confessed. 

You stare at her for a moment, taking in the confession. She liked you the same way that you liked her? The corners of your lips slowly rose as it was all coming together in your head. And then without hesitation, you lean in and kiss her for real this time. She kissed you back instantly, and pulled you closer like she had done last time. It felt even better than your time practising, now knowing your feelings for each other.

When Leah pulled away, she leaned her forehead against yours. “So, prom?” Your smile grew. “Yes, just let me get changed.” 

You rushed to your room and quickly got ready. “Wow, you look amazing!” Leah said as you walked back downstairs. “So do you!” You pecked her lips appreciatively. She took your hand and pulled you out the door where her mom was still waiting in the driveway. “Ready to go to prom, girls?” She knew by your happy faces that whatever was going on between the two of you these past weeks, was resolved. “Yeah, more than ready.” You said and Leah squeezed your hand. “Yeah, let’s go.”

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[call-me-chips]

Alrighty this is gonna be long but I'm bored so HERE WE GOOO

Kyomu Mori questions

1.Are they associated with a certain colour? What colour do they wear the most?

Because if his hair colour, I'd say he's accosiated with light blue. He usually wears more muted-ish colours like grey, dark blue, and white, but he loves wearing yellow

2. What sort of music would they like? Have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? Do they have a favorite song?

He prefers rock music. Basically any music that makes you feel like you can take on the world. He loves vibing to those. And just because I don't have a fav song, neither does he 😅 (my fav songs change within a week)

3. Weapon of choice? Any particular reason they chose their weapon?

Guns. Any kind of gun, though he prefers pistols and other small, handheld ones. He likes guns because he's always been talented with them. That, and that he was raised by Snipe

4. How crafty/resourceful are they?

I'd say about a 7-7.5 out of ten for this one. Not the greatest, but he can conjure up some resourcefulness when he wants to

5. How do they typically dress? Does their wardrobe lean more toward practicality or aesthetics?

Depending on how he's feeling, his clothing choice changes. On a good day, he'll go for a nice-fitting tank top. On a bad day, he night go for a loose-fitting t-shirt. His clothing style is casual, but kinda aesthetic in a sort of steetsy-kinda way(??). Fashion/aesthetics are important for him, but you'll never catch him wearing anything with pockets he can't shove his whole hand into

6. How do they wear their hair? Do they care a lot about how their hair looks?

He almost always wears his hair in a high ponytail. Although he does this to get his hair out of the way, he always makes sure his hair looks presentable. He's the kinda guy to use a bit too much conditioner

7. Favourite animal? Why?

Dogs. Specifically german shepherds. Because he thinks guard dogs are cool af

8. Do they have a nickname? Who gave it to them? If it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?

His nickname is Kyo. Ashido gave him it randomly one day, and Kaminari immediately started using it too

9. Favourite food? Least favourite? Are they a picky eater? Do they have any dietary restrictions?

Fav: Burgers. Specifically bacon burgers. Least fav: Tomatoes. He's not really a picky eater, but he's not even TOUCHING anything woth tomatoes in it. And he doesn't have any dietary restrictions

10. If they wear jewelry, what kind? Do they prefer silver or gold? Do they have a favourite gem?

He wears earrings and has an eyebrow piercing, but he'll toss on a necklace or two if he wants to look presentable when going out

11. What do they have in common with you? How are they different? Would you get along with them?

He doesn't have a lot in common with me. Ig we both question authority?? Also we both live guns. Overall, he's MUCH more confident than me. We are quite different. I'd say I wouldn't get along the greatest with him, mainly cuz he likes physical touch, and that is something I HATE. You touch me randomly and I freeze, as well as shoot you a dirty look XD

12. How long have they been around? Do you know their birthday? Is their birthday the day you made them or another day? What do they think of celebrating birthdays?

He has been around for 16 and a bit years, and his birthday is on April 6th. This is not the day I made him (actually this is the first I'm hearing of making their release date into their actual birthday. I shall do this for another of my ocs :) ). He loves his birthday cuz it gives him attention xD

13. What languages do they speak? How fluently?

He can speak Japanese, English, and Filipino. He speaks Japanese fluently. His English isn't the greatest, but he's learning from school. His Filipino is REALLY rusty, but he can hold a basic conversation. He knows Filipino because his father is from the Philippines, and he learned the language as a kid, but he hasn't really used it since highschool

14. Are they any good with numbers?

Not really sure how to interpret this, but he's not the greatest at math

15. How big or small is their family? Who did they live with growing up? Do they live with anyone now?

His parents died. He lived with Snipe growing up. Currently, he's living in the UA dorms

16. Do they have any pets? What do they call their pets?

He doesn't have any pets, but he wants a dog. He also kinda maybe sorta wants a bird

17. How did they spend their summers/free time as a child?

He spent a lot of his time at the shooting range growing up, and it's always been a place of comfort to him

18. Their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing?

He thinks they're bad, obviously. But,,, he does think they are justified, and even necessary, in many cases

19. Are they quick to anger? What sets them off?

He doesn't really anger quickly. He's more laid back. And although he does get angry when someone hurts/threatens his friends, he also gets angry when many little things go wrong. Like, you know those days where everything seems to go wrong and you're tripping on things and dropping things? Yeah that gets him angy quickly

20. If applicable, can they drive? If they have their own, what colour is their vehicle? Is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

The legal driving age in Japan is 18, so he can't drive. But he may or may not fail many a driving test in the future... Also he has sworn that his future car WILL have racing stripes.

21. Their favourite place to be?

The shooting range

22. Do they sleep well at night?

Kyomu sleeps like a little baby, if that baby takes up the whole bed while sleeping and falls off the bed randomly in the night

23. How would you describe their voice? Can they sing?

His voice is on the louder side. I don't have a voice claim yet, but I may find one eventually. Also he can't sing. Granted, it's def not the worst out there, but it couldn't be considered "good"

24. Do they have any creative hobbies? (Art, writing, music, etc.)

He likes doing graffiti, tho he doesn't do it often. Other than that, he likes to listen to music

25. How good/bad is their hearing? What about their eyesight?

His hearing is a little better than what is considered normal, and his eyesight is good. Little fun fact about his eyesight: He sees yellow slightly better than any other colour. Yellow is very slightly more vibrant and bright to him

26. How do they move? Are they clumsy? Light on their feet? Do they use mobility aids?

Because of how his legs are built, he is slightly more light on his feet. His footsteps don't make a lot of noise. He can be a bit clumsy tho. He's not the most careful with his actions

27. If applicable, do they have a favorite sport? Do they play any sports or prefer to watch?

He likes basketball (probably cuz Kyomu has a height advantage over his friends). Watching sports is boring to him, and he prefers to play some friendly basketball with his friends

28. How do they show they care about someone? How do they express that they don't like someone?

Kyomu shows he likes someone by doing things with them and touching them (not like that. Stop it.). He'll ruffle his friends' hair or playfully poke them, and he's always down to give a massage if asked. Sometimes he'll even find his tail involuntarily grazing by the legs of those he loves.

29. Are they accosiated with any particular element (air, earth, fire, water)?

I don't think he's really "accosiated" with an element, but he'd probably be water

30. Do they smell like anything notable?

Nope. The only notable smell-related thing I can think of is that he sometimes uses women's deodorant because it smells better than men's "forest mud deodorant" or whatever it's named xD

31. Do they like receiving gifts? Giving gifts? What is their ideal gift?

He loves receiving gifts, but not giving so much, because he rever really knows what to get people. His ideal gift is any like, small, neat, unique, silly trinket. He loves collecting silly shit his friends give him

32. Do they have any hobbies that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

Not a hobby, but he drinks the pickle juice out of the jar when he finishes all the pickles.

33. If applicable, how would your other characters describe them? I mean specifically the people around them.

I don't have any other Mha ocs as of rn, but I can do this for his friends. Also I'm not gonna go into how each character would describe him, so ima do how the characters see him Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero see him as kinda like a cool older brother, and they live hanging out with him Kirishima and Jirou see him as a wee bit much, but they still love him and love the energy that he brings to class. Bakugou doesn't like him. Especially cuz Kyomu is taller than him and he doesn't like that Others like Iida, Midoriya, and Ochako don't care for his rebellious personality, but they will admit that he brings up the mood of just about whatever situation he finds himself in

(The thing above is being a bitch and is refusing to be coloured blue and now we must all suffer.)

34. How would your character describe themselves? It doesn't have to line up with who they really are.

Kyomu thinks of himself as more or less the "popular kid" that just about everyone likes. He would describe himself as brave, strong, and willing to stick up for what he thinks is right

35. Do they ever return home?

. . . . ?? He never "left" home?? I mean, he is living in the dorms rn, but idk what this question is getting at :/

Tagging @bluespider008 because I found these questions cuz you posted yours, but I didn't want this to take up a ton of space on my blog, so I just reblogged the original post 😅

Idk if you wanna see this, but you're seeing it now!

Also feel free to reblog with your oc :)

i wanted to make an oc ask game 😋 things i like to ask people abt their characters:

are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?

what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?

weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?

how crafty/resourceful are they?

how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?

how do they wear their hair? do they care a lot how their hair looks?

favorite animal? why?

do they have a nickname? who gave it to them? if it's not derived from their real name, what's the story behind it?

favorite food? least favorite? are they a picky eater? do they have any dietary restrictions?

if they wear jewelry, what kind? do they prefer silver or gold? do they have a favorite gem?

what do they have in common with you? how are they different? would you get along with them?

how long have they been around? do you know their birthday? is their birthday the day you made them or another day? what do they think of celebrating birthdays?

what languages do they speak? how fluently?

are they any good with numbers?

how big or small is their family? who did they live with growing up? do they live with anyone now?

do they have any pets? what do they call their pets?

how did they spend their summers/free time as a child?

their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing?

are they quick to anger? what sets them off?

if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

their favorite place to be?

do they sleep well at night?

how would you describe their voice? can they sing?

do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc)

how good/bad is their hearing? what about their eyesight?

how do they move? are they clumsy? light on their feet? do they use mobility aids?

if applicable, do they have a favorite sport? do they play any sports or prefer to watch?

how do they show that they care about someone? how do they express that they don't like someone?

are they associated with any particular element (air, earth, fire, water)?

do they smell like anything notable?

do they like receiving gifts? giving gifts? what is their ideal gift?

do they have any habits that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them.

how would your character describe themselves? it doesn't have to line up with how they really are.

do they ever return home?

[howtofightwrite]

What kind of wounds would a shotgun give to someone thats not wearing any bullet proof vest but just thick, winter jackets? Like those heavy jackets with fleece on the inside that old guys wear alot. ( I think its called a work jacket?)

I've always thought a shot gun would give some sort of blast damage and make quite a mess, but in The Day of The Jackal ep 6 it didn't seem that bad when he killed that farmer guy in Hungary lol.

So here's a fun thought to play with. A leather jacket is made from treated animal hide. In most cases, they're actually softened a bit to be more comfortable.

Shotguns are frequently used to hunt large game. Large game where their primary form of armor is their skin. Their skin which does almost nothing to stop a shotgun blast.

So, unless it's loaded with something like rocksalt, a leather jacket is not stopping a shotgun.

In answer to your original question, “what kind of wounds?” Catastrophic ones. It would be really messy.

Also, remember shotguns are still usable up to ~100 meters, at which they'll have a roughly 2m spray pattern. Getting hit by a shotgun, even at 50 meters, is going to be really bad. It's a bit like hitting someone simultaneously with a hail of small caliber rounds. Individually one piece of shot isn't likely to be lethal, but get hit with five or six of them, and that's a real problem. It's going to create a bunch of wound channels, and each wound has a chance to hit something vital, or ricochet and try again. And even at best, you're going to be losing blood from each of them simultaneously.

As for actual armor, most Level III or higher armor should stop a shotgun blast. However, shotguns are pretty good at damaging body armor. So someone wearing a ballistic vest who takes a shotgun hit, probably isn't going to be safe from the next pistol round that hits their vest anywhere near where the shot landed.

Similarly, with plate carriers, it should be fine, but there's a real risk that some of the shot chipped the plate. That's not going to cause the next shotgun blast to punch through, but it does mean that carrier now can't be trusted to stop rifle rounds.

Now, none of that are things you usually obsess over. For the most part, ballistic armor is single use anyway. If you're wearing a Kevlar vest and get shot, it's time to replace that vest. So, having your vest soak a shotgun hit isn't some kind of special tactic on your enemy's part, and is really just your vest doing its job.

Against unarmored targets, shotguns can be downright horrific.

So, using a winter parka to stop a shotgun blast is probably the result of someone who heard the, “shotguns are horrible at armor penetration,” line and took it a little bit too seriously.

There are some AP shells out there. Including slugs that market themselves as armor penetrating. I've never looked too deeply in to these. I know of their existence, but not how effective they actually are.

There's also probably some close quarters scenarios where a slug might punch right through body armor, even though, generally speaking, slugs lose energy extremely quickly, and at mid to long range, they're not going to penetrate. Ultimately, it is an 18mm bullet without a lot of powder behind it, so the drop off makes sense, but it's still a lot of mass to deal with when it's leaving the barrel. Even if your armor holds up, taking that hit is probably not going to be fun.

-Starke

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[prozacwhorehouse]

paparazzi | mgg x SNL cast member gf

Summary: comments from the paparazzi instill doubt in you, but Matthew is there as a voice of reason

this was a request but it got deleted when I was making edits so I hope this finds its way to that lovely person !

—————————————————————————

pre and post show paparazzi outside the studio wasn’t uncommon. but when speculation that you and Matthew were dating blossomed, they got more incessant and difficult to ignore. it seemed as if they were always around, with the intention of spotting the two of you and documenting it. they were constantly nagging for answers and details about your relationship, most specifically mentioning the age gap.

the both of you knew it’d would be hard for some people to understand, but the idea that you were both legal consenting adults seemed more logical and would be accepted easier. originally, you had kept the relationship private - wanting the intimate moments to be kept to yourselves, only for yourselves. eventually the love becomes to great to hide, so you started dropping hints to the public. hints weren’t enough, there were always the small few who liked to dig a little deeper, push sensitive buttons - almost always internet trolls, or worse, in person paparazzi.

no matter what, they’ll always jab at the age gap. it’s always flashing cameras followed by comments, from “your relationship is inappropriate” “she’s young enough to be your daughter” and even, “is you dating an older man rooted in daddy issues?”

a video of the interaction goes viral and all the comments are offering support for the two of you:

they are both consenting adults. those who can’t accept that need to grow up and mind their own business.

these poor angels. the paparazzi is disgusting, ill never understand why it’s still a thing

they’re both grown leave them the fuck alone

daddy issues?? holy shit. the pap is getting so much worse.

two talented people reduced to their relationship. do better

you knew accepting a job on television came with its consequences, but you weren’t going to let people who get paid to be nosy stand in the way of your dream. so, with time you had learned how to handle paparazzi with ease. what was typically praise now being sprinkled with hate, it got harder and harder to ignore.

because the more someone says something about you, the more you start to believe it.

why is he with me? is this weird? am i wrong? is he wrong?

Whenever Matthew happened to be with you during these paparazzi incidents, he’d always guide you through the crowd by the small of your back or your hand. Weaving through people wordlessly, only whispering assurances into your ear, squeezing your hand to calm your heart beating in your ears.

—————————————————————————

The whole ride home to your apartment is silent. With Matthew, you two are always talking, always sharing thoughts, making the occasional silence reason for concern.

“Are you okay? You din’t say more than a word or two at a time not the way home,” he says while shutting the apartment door behind him.

“Are we, wrong?” you turn to gaze up at him through your lashes, the look on your face hurt.

“What do you mean, angel?” he croons, concern and confusion blossoming across his face.

“Like,” you pause and scoff, trying to find the words for your question. “Is what we’re doing wrong. Being together.”

“Do you not want to do it anymore? Cause we don’t have to-” his face turns to worry, your heart dropping at the thought of him thinking you’d say anything other than no. because no matter what anyone says, he’s so in love with you he can’t even imagine losing you.

“no! oh my gosh, no.” you’re quick to assure, holding his face in your hands. it’s just exhausting. why are they so concerned with our lives? can they not just-“

“you love me?” he interrupts, looking at you intently.

“what?” you scoff in disbelief, pulling back slightly. “of course I do - why?”

“because I love you. And that’s all that matters, yeah?” he brushes his thumb across your cheek, gazing into your eyes so lovingly. he always looks at you that way.

“It could be worse. They could be comparing me to Leonardo DiCaprio,” he smiles, causing the corners of your mouth to turn up, “and I’m definitely not DiCaprio level.”

“If you were, you would’ve dropped me when I turned 25,” you snicker and he sighs, throwing his head back.

“You’re funny, you know that?”

“I’d hope so. It’s kind of my job.”

—————————————————————————

mgg x SNL cast member taglist

@sarcasm-and-stiles @mystargirl-interlude @rubyirene @ashrrams @ghostatrixx @forevermorepassionate @saint-boudica @reidmarieprentiss @awakeforu @spencerlicious @kittycat-april @baudarling @delusional-4-fake-people @avenlymars @angelinajolie0213 @arusio @littleslayofhorrors @jezabelle9299 @jaemnationnn @princess-ofthe-pages @flow33didontsmoke

[multipleoccupancy]

Theo anticipated questions of course and he knew he really should talk to others about his missions more but he shook his head, "I am very, very rarely on my own in field missions. I have others with me, a team of agents with different skills and access rights and know how." He at least offered as some reassurance he was not just bottling everything up, even if he was very mistrusting of those her went on missions with. "I've got my outlets," he tried though whether or not they were healthy he didn't answer.

"You should still tell me about your travels, I need to know these things so I understand what's going on." He insisted, though he knew it could come to a point where she did trigger an episode from him he thought it was far worse if she decided to keep such things a secret from him. That probably made him a hypocrite but it was different for her, he was her father. "I always have back up, someone in Delta Green always knows where I am and I update them on what I am dealing with." He tried to justify, "you don't have that back up, only me."

He saw her piecing things together, though he was sure to shake his head around Davidson threatening the family, though he wouldn't have put it passed him to have suggested it. "It took a while but they don't do things like that anymore, Samantha and I, once we were in deep enough we could start to adjust things. They don't recruit like that anymore." Delta Green had certainly changed in their time of working for them. "They are not going to send you anywhere and there's nothing that would stop me coming for you if they tried." He promised and hoped she wouldn't think they would trap her in such a place as they had done to him.

Layla came up and Theo's gaze dropped to the floor, he felt terrible for what happened to that group of agents too. None of them had made it out of the mines, except for himself and Violet. "I... went back to the mine after I left you at the hospital," he explained, he had gone there instead of to see a doctor, she might as well know. "I collapsed it, no one is going to find anything or anyone down there." He had also gone after the cultists but that was details she didn't need. "How Layla died isn't known by anyone except you and me." He had not put Violet in his report. How could he?!

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

Violet hadn't really thought about it that way, that her dad wasn't keeping secrets from her, but was actually protecting her from potential episodes. He had told her that knowing about monsters could be dangerous, but she had soaked in so much knowledge in the cowboy timeline and had never felt it chipping away at her mind. What if it still had? What if she was just 'bottling it up' like Samantha had said? And what if it exploded one day? The thought sent a cold shiver down her back.

"I understand," she whispered, "but if you never talk about your missions... how do you deal with them? Whenever I come back from a travel, I tell you all about it, and it helps-" She stopped, and opened her mouth in horror. "Should I stop telling you about it? Could it trigger more episodes?" It was her fault her dad had spent the last four days struggling with his memories. But what if she triggered another episode one day? Because she kept telling him about the monsters and the travels?

She nodded. Yes, she remembered Agent Davidson and the many threats he had told her dad. Just thinking about it made her blood boil. Delta Green might have a noble purpose, but it was not a noble organization. "It must have been horrible," she said with a frown, "knowing that they were always holding this threat over your head." And yet he was so dedicated to the Program. Was it just because he believed in their cause? Because he wanted to protect the world?

"They threatened our family, too?" Her frown deepened. "Did Agent Davidson threaten our family?" Oh, how she hated this man! She hated him more than she had ever hated anyone else. She hated him more than she hated Sloane. She hated him more than she hated the Horned One.

This explained his dedication to the Program, at least. He had given them everything because if he hadn't, who knows what they would have done? Even without the threat of the ward, they had used other ways to force her dad into fighting their battles. "They're wicked," she croaked, shaking her head, "I know they fight monsters but... what they did to you... it's cruel. And it's unfair."

Fear started to trickle down inside her chest, drop by drop, as she thought about the letter she had received. The letter her dad had shredded, to protect her. "Are they going to do something like that to me? Are they going to send me to a ward to recruit me? I- I killed Layla and- what if they tell the Police?"

[fillinforlater]

The Archive of Smite

This page belongs to the writer named Smite. He wrote fics starting in September of 2021 up until April 2024. In these 2,5 years, over 8.000 people followed him to read some of the craziest k-pop girl group smut out there. Almost 150 stories of sex in all kinds of positions, for many reasons, all over the world (and in outerspace), with too many kinks to count.

"When I started, I kinda wanted to become the best. I wanted my favorite writers at the time - Levi, Peach, Sins, and many more - to know that I could write as good as they can. I wanted to go wilder and crazier."

Smite, though ambitious, was also stupid and naive. At roughly the same time he started writing, two other community legends began their careers. IZ and Kaede crushed everything in their sight, especially the former becoming an absolute legend.

"Writing was fun. At times, it was escapism from everyday worries. At other times, it was fulfillment of fantasies I could never reach. Mostly though, it was just horny. BFH that just became words. If you go through my Masterlist, you might see which idols had some random heights or were just... Always on my hot list."

Smite never really stopped writing, not for long stretches that is. It didn't really occur to him that there might be a sudden, drastic reason to stop. He considered doing so anyways. Something about writing porn about irl people without them knowing or wanting - needless to say, it is an odd hobby. Nevertheless, he enjoyed it amd the community it brought with it.

"I fucking love these guys. So many hilarious peoplefrom all over the world. One became like my best friend, a rock during my emotional struggles. Another was my boyfriend for a short time. Man, I screwed up with him kekw. There are too many to mention. I've had long talks with some, others just came by and listened to me mald or something. I love you all, some of you I consider true friends - part of my soul - and I feel connected, even if you are thousands of miles away."

2024 started stressful for Smite. The pressure of Uni started to collapse on him. Even the thought of big kpop concerts wasn't enough to cheer him up. Luckily though, there was this girl. Sweet, kind, caring and in the same position. Soon, he had found something that seemed impossible. She was in love with him and he in love with her. And when everything unraveled.

"I stopped writing. I burried my drafts. I finished only one story and released it way later. I'm sorry I didn't announce it properly, but I just felt that this smut writing career was over. I don't regret it - I gained something beautiful I want to keep for the rest of my life. She is at least as pretty as Minju, so I call that the biggest win imaginable lol."

So no more smuts from Smite?

"99% no"

No more fanfictions/girl group stories in general?

"Eh, 80% no. Still some unfinished angst that I would love y'all to read tho"

Will you ever reach those 150 fics?

"We will see. In this count there are fics with less than 1000 words. I might just sneeze and finish it kekw"

Any fic you regret not writing?

"Not really? Maybe a proper ending for Starship: Horizon? Or yet another Minju fic? Futa stuff? Gaeul angst x female reader? Or how about a fic with 69 different idols at once? Who but me would dare to write something so stupid?"

Do you think you reached your initial goal?

"Do I consider myself the GOAT? No. That title belongs to either Peach, Levi or IZ. But I know that of my now 8.700 followers some consider me their favorite writer. I'm flattered and thank you very much for reading amd enjoying my work."

Now for the most important question: does this post mean you are finally leaving the community behind for good? Is this your last hoorah?

"..."

"Never."

[jayden-writes]

safe

pairing: Lucifer x gn!Reader

wordcount: ~3k

genre: hurt/comfort, angst, whump

cw: kidnapping, strangulation, threats, violence, murder

summary: Did it truly matter that the hands cradling your face so very gently were bloody?

other notes: no name, Y/N or MC used // AO3 // thanks again to @gravedwe11er for helping me so much with this fic

A piece of fabric pressing over your mouth and nose was all it took to plunge your world into darkness, a pungent smell being the last thing you could process. You’d been on your way back from a short trip, unsuspecting, unaware of who was lurking in the shadows. How much time had passed, you couldn’t possibly tell, but as you finally came to, all you could feel was a dull pain engulfing your entire body. Upon trying to check for any injuries, you realized your wrists were tied, bindings digging tightly into your skin. Slowly, your other senses started to return to you, and you registered that you were sitting, something around your chest keeping you upright.

Forcing your eyelids open, you blinked a few times, attempting to make sense of your surroundings. It was dark, the small, sparse room only dimly lit. If you had to guess, you'd say it was some sort of basement; the floor was unfinished, and the brick wall looked rough. “Mh-” you tried to speak, but all that you managed to get out was a muffled, quiet sound. You’ve been gagged. A heavy weight settled deep in your stomach. The cloth forced between your teeth tasted musty, already damp with your saliva. Looking down with wide eyes, you took in the multiple rows of rope wrapped around your upper body, restricting your breathing, arms bound behind you at an awkward, painful angle that made your shoulders ache. The edge of the metal chair you were sitting on cut into your thighs.

When you wiggled around to free yourself, or at least loosen the restraints, the legs scraped on the crude floor, making your ears hurt. But no matter how hard you fought, it was futile. Holding back tears, you let your head hang, closing your eyes. Deliberately keeping your inhales slow and steady, you tried to think of a solution despite your racing thoughts. Panicking wouldn’t save you, you knew that. Clearly, you would be unable to free yourself without outside assistance. And with your mouth gagged, you weren’t even able to invoke one of your pacts to call them for help. So, what should you do? What could you do?

Before you had any more time to reflect on your circumstances, you heard heavy footsteps above you, drawing your attention. Seconds later, a door was opened, the light momentarily blinding you, then it was cut off again. In the remaining light bleeding through the crack of the door, you saw feet, legs and after that, slowly, the rest of someone unknown to you entered your field of vision - though it was obvious that it was a demon. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, the pale blue piercing through you. A wolfish grin curled around her lips as she stepped closer. You wanted to shrink back, huddle into the furthest corner of the room. But you couldn’t.

“Ah, finally awake, are we? I bet you must have a lot of questions.” Her voice was casual, as if she was simply out for a stroll while she towered over you. “Well, too bad! You see, as much as I’d like to have what would undoubtedly be a very productive conversation with you, I know you’d just call upon one of those so-called Lords that grovel at your feet.”

“Mph…! Mn…!” you tried again, only earning an amused chuckle from her.

“I’m not particularly keen on having one of those brothers that practically fawn over you come to your rescue. Pathetic, really. Demons of their status acting like that around a human. They're supposed to be leaders, to be an example to us lowly demons. Ha, as if! Traitors, all of them, and they should be treated as such.” She gripped your chin roughly, her pointed fingernails scraping along your flesh as you glared at her defiantly despite the ice-cold sensation running through your veins.

“Don’t give me that fucking look, human, show me some respect,” she sneered. For a moment longer, she held your gaze, then her eyes wavered. Faster than you could comprehend, a sharp smack resounded in the small room, and your cheek stung. The force of the slap made your head spin. “You’ll lose that defiant look of yours soon enough and learn to grovel at our feet, just the way it should be. I’ll correct the mistake that fool of a prince made.”

Leaning even closer, she brought her hand down to your throat, closing her grip tightly around it. “I could kill you, just like this,” she whispered harshly into your ear as you struggled against her. Faintness quickly took you over, and your vision became frayed at the edges. Were you going to die like this? “Throw your decaying corpse at the feet of these pathetic weaklings and watch them become consumed by their emotions. And then, I’ll be the king.” You couldn’t die. Not now. Not like this. Not here. Not at her hands.

Finally, she let go of you, and you slumped forward. Blood rushed in your ears and you coughed into the cloth. “Tsk.” She spat on the ground right next to where you were trembling on the chair. “That was more boring than I’d expected. Thought you had more fight in you. But you'll see-”

Her speech was cut off when, suddenly, the door was thrown open, banging against the wall and making both you and your captor flinch. “And what exactly,” drawled a frigid voice as slow steps descended the stairs, “was ‘more boring than expected’? Enlighten me.”

You immediately recognized who it was - of course you did. But the softness that usually laced Lucifer's tone whenever he was talking to you was entirely gone, replaced by a sharpness you’d rarely heard from him. It wasn't directed toward you, you knew that, and yet you couldn't help the shiver running down your spine at the sound of his booming voice. Though he sounded composed, it was clear that he was anything but. The air felt electric, and the dangerous aura he exuded made your hair stand on end. Your heart skipped a beat, only to start pounding faster, a whimper escaping from behind the gag.

Lucifer came to a stop in front of the other demon, who had become virtually frozen in place, all color drained from her face. Gleaming red eyes glanced at you, swiftly assessing your state, before, whatever it was he saw, made his gaze harden even further. “Look away,” he instructed you in an oddly soft tone, and then his focus returned to your abductor, who was now visibly shaking.

“M-my lord,” she stammered, the quiver in her words unmistakable. “Please, you must understand-”

Within the blink of an eye, Lucifer had her pinned against the wall, a pained shriek filling the room. “What must I understand?” he asked, sounding deceptively calm, as his fingers dug into the throat of the other demon. She fought against the grip, trying to loosen the hold. To no avail. Lucifer was unmoving, unbothered by the nails scratching at his gloved hands. Clicking his tongue, he let go, and she collapsed to the ground.

“Please,” she tried, her voice strained as she coughed, attempting to gather herself. A hard kick was delivered to her stomach, causing her to cry out again and curl in on herself. When it was followed by Lucifer stepping on her hand, you knew you should have heeded his order and looked away. As it was, you were unable to avert your gaze as the bones of her fingers cracked beneath the force of his foot. She was pulled up to stand, though most of her weight was being held up by him, pinning her against the wall once more. “I-I'm sorry,” she choked out as he pressed his forearm into her throat.

“Are you truly sorry? Or are you merely trying to save your worthless skin?” Lucifer questioned in a dangerously low voice. He trailed a finger along her cheekbone. “Perhaps,” he mused, “I should rid your body of it. Find a better purpose for it. I believe some bookbinders still use demon skin for books. It would make a terrific present for your family, wouldn't you agree?” He paused, taking in the horror flickering across her face with an impassive expression. “Of course, that would be rather time-consuming. And, quite frankly, I have more important things to tend to than your worthless existence. Let's make this quick then, shall we?”

As if she weighed nothing, he slung her toward the opposite wall, a sickening crack audible as her head made contact with the bricks. She bonelessly fell to the floor, groaning in pain. Before she was able to regain her bearings, Lucifer was kneeling beside her prone body, not caring about the rapidly forming puddle of blood that was dirtying his pants. A dagger glinted in the dimly lit room, and only when blood spurted from her throat, her last, gurgling attempts at breathing filling the air, did you look away, your breaths coming in sharp gasps against the cloth. You felt sick.

With the mangled corpse of the demon lying at the feet of Lucifer, his gaze returned to your quivering form. The intense sheen in his eyes vanished as he took swift steps toward you, appraising your pale appearance. Crouching near you, he partially obscured the gruesome scene behind him. But now, with him finally by your side, he didn't need to. You didn't want to look at it, didn't care about the dead demon, the only thing your sight was drawn to was him. All that mattered was the man before you. The man who could easily kill you just like he killed her, who barely even batted an eye at the wounds he’d inflicted upon that woman. You knew that, rationally, you should be terrified of him, at least as much as you’d been terrified of her. And yet you weren't.

Those same hands that had just killed in cold blood, still stained red, were gently working on undoing the painful restraints keeping you in place. Those same eyes that had shone with ruthless indifference as he had taken a life now looked at you with carefully guarded concern and cautiousness. The crimson streaking his sharp features, dripping off his jaw in beads, complemented the eyes that were looking at you with a contradictory softness perfectly.

Once the cloth was removed from your mouth, all you could muster was a broken sob in the vague shape of his name. With a soft sigh that was probably shakier than Lucifer would have liked to admit, you were gathered into his arms. A hand gingerly pressed against the back of your head, guiding your face into the crook of his neck. The wet blood on his glove was undoubtedly staining your hair, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care; the warmth and safety you found in his embrace was all that mattered.

“Do you have any serious injuries?” he asked quietly, his breath brushing against your ear. Upon feeling you shake your head, he lifted you from the chair, carrying your weight with ease, and you instinctively wrapped your arms over his shoulders. As soon as he'd made it up the stairs, you could hear multiple sets of steps approaching in a hurry alongside several voices, yelling over each other. You recognized all of them, and they rushed around you, a few of them touching you.

Lucifer tightened his hold on you as the sudden onslaught of sensations made you whimper and burrow yourself further into him. “Stop it. This is not helping,” he reprimanded them sharply, and immediately, it grew quiet and the hands withdrew. “I will return home,” he continued. “Do with the body as you wish, though you ought to leave some remains. And don't dawdle too long.”

With that, he went outside, the fresh, cool air replacing the stuffy, metallic tang of the basement. The trip back was short - or was it long? You weren’t sure. It was silent, neither you nor him said anything. The tension in Lucifer was palpable, his posture rigid as he carried you. You mindlessly played with the fabric of his shirt, rubbing it between the tips of your fingers while your head rested on his shoulder.

“I'm okay,” you whispered, although it sounded hollow even to your own ears. He released a heavy sigh and hugged you closer to him.

“You're okay,” he simply echoed.

Next thing you knew, you were back inside. Lucifer's bloody hands were gentle as they worked on divesting your still-trembling form of your clothes, his gaze never lingering anywhere but his own fingers. Not that you would have noticed either way; you were blankly staring ahead, only vaguely aware of his actions. When he had finished, he spoke in a soft voice, as if afraid to startle you, “All done. Are you ready to get in?” Your attention snapped back to the present, to the warm bathroom you were standing in. The tiles beneath your bare feet were a little cold, just now starting to heat up. In the background, water was running, gradually filling the bathtub right next to you.

“Lucifer…?” you mumbled, receiving a squeeze to your hands in response. Looking down, you realized he was gently holding them in his own, ugly bruises and abrasions blooming across your wrists. His gloves were still damp, some of the blood staining your skin.

“Yes. I’m here. Let’s get you cleaned up now,” he responded patiently, directing you toward the tub. Your steps were mechanical as you followed his guidance, entering the warm water and submerging your body in it. Drawing your knees up to your chest, you hugged your legs to yourself, simply gazing at the rippling shapes around you.

“I will leave for a moment to change. Call for me if something is the matter.” For a beat, Lucifer waited for a reply, a reaction, anything from you. When he received none, he sighed wearily. “It will only be for a moment, I will be right back,” he said before stepping out. As you submerged your hands, you watched as the water surrounding you turned a light shade of pink. The pain radiating from your wrists was distant, detached from your being. You observed how you flexed your fingers, then curled them toward your palm, nails digging into the flesh. Had your hands always looked like that? Turning them around, you inspected them, spreading the fingers apart, pressing them together and-

“Does it hurt a lot?” a voice asked and you flinched hard, spinning toward the source. Lucifer was kneeling next to the tub, his brow creased in a frown. “I did not mean to startle you. You seemed very… absorbed in your thoughts. I suppose you didn’t hear me return.” His gloves were gone now, with no traces of the blood that had marred his skin just minutes ago. He had changed into clean, comfortable clothes as well. Upon your prolonged silence, he reached for a nearby cloth, dipping it into the water, then moving it over your body in slow, gentle circles.

“Is this real?” you muttered, the words leaving your mouth before you had even formed the thought.

“Yes, it is real,” he confirmed calmly, though his ministrations faltered briefly. “We are in my bathroom, back in the House of Lamentation. You are safe here.”

“Mhm…” you hummed noncommittally, your gaze drifting down to your submerged hands as you balled them into fists and stretched them out. The water rippled at the repetitive motion and you couldn’t help but stare at the patterns it created. The sensation of the cloth brushing over your skin faded into the background. Only when larger hands stopped your movements, grasping yours gently, did you glance at Lucifer again. You blinked at him blankly. Something in his expression was off, though you couldn’t tell what it was.

“I’m tired,” a voice said and you didn’t have the energy to think about whether it was your own or not.

“Let’s get you into bed then, hm?” he suggested softly, letting the water drain and carefully supporting you as you stood up and stepped out of the tub. A large towel was wrapped around you with which he patted you dry before he helped you into a set of clothes. They vaguely smelled like him. With an arm over your shoulders, he guided you out of the bathroom and back toward his room. Once at the bed, you lay down, sinking into the mattress. For a moment, Lucifer simply remained next to you, regarding you with an unreadable look on his face. Eventually, he knelt beside you and opened the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a small container. Gingerly, he took one of your arms and scooped out some ointment to apply to the raw skin on your wrist, then he repeated it on the other side as well.

After stowing it away again, Lucifer turned off all the lights besides the candles and climbed into the bed next to you, cautiously gathering you into an embrace. A hand cupped the back of your head, hugging you into his chest as the fingers stroked your scalp. Aside from his even breaths and your slow, shallow ones, it was silent. An invisible weight was tugging on your limbs, the only thing holding you in place, holding you together, were the arms enveloping you.

“Can I let go?” you mumbled, not quite sure yourself what you were trying to ask, but he seemed to understand nonetheless.

“Yes, it’s alright to let go now,” he reassured you, squeezing you a little tighter. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.”

Humming in response, you nestled closer to him, feeling your breaths gradually synchronize with his as you surrendered yourself to the heavy warmth overcoming you. Soon, everything else slowly faded away until you finally drifted off to sleep, safe in Lucifer’s hold.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Question 6 anon here, obvs u rlly don't have to but if u wanna argue w/ my comment pls do argue, if I'm full of shit I wanna hear it 👍 This question has been driving me up the wall for years I just want to know why ppl all seem to agree fandom racism is bad and agrees with all the arguments and yet everything's still so racist and would appreciate different perspectives

I just think that the idea you have, that the people who are racist and aren't don't hang in the same circles, is just fundamentally not true.

Like sure, Trumpers might not click on my blog to learn about designing Black characters lol. But a good majority of the antiblackness I've seen on this website has come from people who swear they're liberal or progressive or fight for some cause for something that they deem important... And then just don't apply that grace and logic to Black people. So you'll see people saying intelligent things... and hate negroes 🤣. And then you'll see those people being reblogged en masse by people who agree with their good takes... And maybe don't know about the antiblackness they were just spewing. Not that you can tell who does and doesn't, out of the tens of thousands.

So yes, y'all do hang in the same circles. Yes, the people who need this page very much are also people around you. We have to stop acting like they aren't. I have mutuals who reblog people that I won't follow, simply because I've seen those people keke-ing it up with antiblack, whitewashing bloggers. Even the distant connection there is enough for me to be like "nah, unfortunately I can't kick it with you", even though we're in the same fandoms and such.

Essentially, the call is more often coming from inside the house, and the unwillingness to approach it from within because "oh I'M not racist" is preventing it being answered. Every antiblack sentiment you see in fandom isn't gonna look like an overt slur. It's gonna be in the way people perceive and treat Black characters versus others, in the way they treat Black character design, the way they allow others to slide when they are racist because "their art is cool". That tolerance I've been talking about? That's where you see the line for people, and it's so much closer than folks think.

[back2bluesidex]

Slide - The Trial - MYG

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 1.1k+

Summary: 

"Caught in a daze, I persuade her with my own complications"

Alternatively, 

You have some questions and Yoongi has no answer.

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Warnings: Angst, reader's turning point. Yoongi's suffering has began.

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

Taglist requests are closed for now

A/N: another Yoongi's pov. before we dive into reader's post miscarriage angst. also, I have tagged everyone who asked to be tagged after I closed the request for the first time but I have only tagged the blogs which have age mentioned in their bios.

Read the next chapter

“I want a daughter first and then… ummm… probably a son too. We will name her Yunri. Yoongi plus Gyuri, Yunri.” Gyuri had told him once, latching onto his arm as if it meant everything to her. 

Yoongi knew he should have felt warmth bubbling in his chest, he knew he should have felt giddy but what he felt was dread running through the entire course of his body. 

Getting married, having kids are two of the things he never planned for in life - not even when he fell in love with Gyuri, not even when he got engaged to her somewhat against his own will. 

But now he feels weird, he feels something really really uncomfortable in his chest as he stares at your weak frail form weeping while sitting at the couch. 

His own limbs feel like jelly as he realizes again that you were pregnant and the baby was his. 

A baby - his and yours. 

Why doesn’t it feel so dreadful anymore? 

Yoongi puts the entire weight of his body on his arms and pushes himself off of the ground. His toes carry his body towards you. 

But he is afraid - what if you push him away now? What if you break when he touches you? 

What if you scatter and disappear in fine dust as soon as he gets close to you? 

What if… what if… all of this is a dream? 

You don’t look at him when he silently sits beside you. It hurts him but he knows better than putting the blame on you. 

If anyone is to be blamed, then it’s him for sure. 

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something - anything. But he only gapes like a fish out of water because his thoughts don’t form a coherent sentence. 

Your face is covered with your small palms, Yoongi wants to reach out, clutch those and apologize to you until you forgive him for all the damages he has done. 

But he can’t. 

Again he is afraid to break you even more. 

“Why.. why didn’t you tell me?” Yoongi doesn’t recognize his own voice when it leaves his throat. There is much more pain than he has heard himself speak with in a while - certainly for the first time after Gyuri left. 

You sniff, then rub tears off your eyes and stare blankly at the ceiling.

The scene is awfully similar to your and his first night together. He still recalls losing himself in those dark eyes of yours little by little and then finally diving into your abyss.  

“There are tons of reasons why. But even if I did, would it change anything?” your voice is completely opposite of his - steady, firm, doesn’t bear a single hint of all the tears he has been watching you shade. 

You are truly just another version of him. 

“That doesn’t answer my question, Y/N. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” Yoongi scoots a little closer to your body. 

You sigh, a deep, resigned sigh that says you are exhausted - both mentally and physically. 

“If I told you, wouldn’t you think that this is an excuse? For keeping you all to myself? For not letting you go back to the only woman you have ever loved? Wouldn’t you, Yoongi?” You finally look at him, eyes red with continuous crying. 

Yoongi can’t stare into your eyes now. He is ashamed because you are right. He would have thought you are just like other women out there - trying to latch onto him for god knows what. 

He licks his lips instead, prepares to say something but you cut him off again. 

“Also you said … you don’t want to have kids.” your voice trembles now. 

Again you are right - Yoongi definitely doesn’t want kids. But then why losing your and his baby tugs painfully at his heartstrings? 

Why? 

“But I am responsible for your pregnancy, I- I should have been there for you.” Yoongi tries to reach out for your hand but you move away, standing on your weak feet. 

“There’s no point of regretting now. The baby is gone.” you inhale a long breath and then continue, “but I really want to know what you are doing here? At this hour? Right after rejecting me?” 

Yoongi stands up too, somewhat hyper, “I didn’t reject you. I was- I was just shocked. You ran away before- before I got to utter a single word, Y/N. I wanted to go after you but-” 

“But then the right person came to claim you and you ended up lost in her lips, am I right?” you don’t scream but anger is evident in your voice anyway. 

Yoongi recalls the doctor asking him not to stress you out any more. 

“It was a trial, Y/N. Me and Gyuri getting back together was a trial. I knew it wasn’t a good idea but when she begged me- I- I couldn’t say no. I knew I was hurting you too and I thought getting back with her would set you free. But I- I was wrong. I wasn’t free myself. I kept thinking of you.” Yoongi stops, gulps the lump in his throat and proceeds to continue, “I know I sound selfish but I got attached to you during our time together. And it is not meaningless to me as you happen to believe. You are more meaningful than most of the people in my life… including Gyuri. I… I broke things off with her, this time forever. And I came to tell you that… that I want to try being with you. If you’d let me.” 

You scoff, “and why so? Why do you want to try being with me?” 

Your question renders Yoongi speechless. He doesn’t know the answer to your question. 

“Tell me, Yoongi, why do you want to try? What is it that you feel for me?” you press more. Your new found determination of cornering him shocks him, but he knows he is the one to blame. 

And now that he wonders the answers, he can’t find any firm sentence to offer you. 

He still doesn’t know what he feels for you. 

“I- I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel for you.” 

You laugh, dry but dripping with amusement and anger, “then I would ask you to leave. You may only come back with the thought of getting together with me when you are sure about my place in your life.” 

You slowly walk away from him, taking careful steps towards your bedroom. 

Yoongi stands there as he feels the void in his chest getting bigger and bigger. A tear escapes his eyes but he still doesn’t know what he is crying for - you? The unborn baby? Or himself? 

His real trial, probably, begins here. 

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[meazalykov]

battle of the blood

esmee brugts x reader x sister!OC

summary: el clásico gets the best of your emotions

warnings: childhood trauma, strained family relationship, angst, swearing, verbal abuse, mentions of physical abuse, long chapter, I know esmee started during this el clasico but I changed it for the plot.. please be warned.

oc: your sister's name is isla, you can make up her face claim

as one of the best defenders in the world at 21, you remind everyone why you’ve earned that title, having faced some of the world’s best forwards and come out on top. 

you love football, its your entire life, but there’s something else that was added to that: 

your girlfriend, esmee.

esmee, who came to barcelona in 2023, is your love. her presence makes everything feel right, and you can’t help but smile whenever you see her at all. you remember the day she arrived, the way her eyes sparkled with excitement, the hint of nervousness as she stepped into her new life. 

it was the start of something beautiful—not just for her, but for you too. you had been searching for something deeper, and there she was.

being with esmee has awakened a side of you that had been dormant, buried beneath the pressures you’ve had throughout your entire life. 

during training sessions, the intensity can be overwhelming. despite the urgency of it all, esmee is always there. she makes your heart race, not just from the adrenaline of the sport, but from the love you have for her. when you catch her gaze from across the training pitch, it’s as if time slows down. 

the world around you fades away, and all you see is her.

in those fleeting moments, you can’t help but sneak in quick hugs, a brief escape from the tiredness of training. yes, you keep things professional in front of the public but the team adores the mutual love you have for eachother. 

esmee giggles, a sound that sparks warmth in your chest, but you can see the hints of nervousness creeping into her demeanor. her teammates, playful and lively, often tease her, and while you know it’s all in good fun, you can’t help but feel protective of her. 

when the world gets too loud, esmee knows how to bring you back down to earth. she asks about your day, your plans, anything really, and in those moments of vulnerability, something you weren’t granted as a child.. you find peace. 

you cherish the little things, like the way she plays with your hair or how she leans her head against your shoulder, finding safety in your presence. mosttimes, when the pressures of life seem too heavy, you sit together in silence, holding hands and blocking the world away. 

evenings spent together often find you curled up on the couch, watching your favorite shows, stealing kisses during the best parts, or sharing popcorn as you giggle at the most ridiculous moments. these are the times that reaffirmed your belief in love.

a few months into your relationship with esmee, an undeniable comfort settled between you two. you realized that the walls you had built around your heart were slowly coming down, allowing her in. 

those late-night conversations that once danced around the surface now floated into deeper waters. you acted in certain ways that made esmee knew that you had a difficult past, but she never questioned you about it. she would never force you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. 

one evening, while sitting on your cozy balcony, the barcelona street lights twinkling below, you felt compelled to open up about something that had long weighed on you.

“esmee,” you began, your voice just above a whisper, 

“you know my sister, isla?” the light from the street below caught the glint of curiosity in her eyes. she nodded, already aware of that fact but eager to hear more. 

“we don’t really get along,” you continued, almost wanting to laugh since your words were  an understatement. 

esmee leaned closer, her expression shifting to one of concern. 

“i get that, but… what happened?” her gentle prompt encouraged you to delve deeper. you took a deep breath, gathering the courage to share the truth.

“it’s not just sibling rivalry, esmee,” you began, your heart pounding. 

“it’s… it’s more complicated than that. when we were kids, isla was never really nice to me. she would tease me, and I tried to brush it off, but it was relentless. as we got older, it turned into something darker.” 

esmee’s brow furrowed, and you could see the flicker of concern in her eyes. 

“what do you mean?” she asked softly, her voice steady but filled with empathy.

“there was this one time,” you recalled, the memories flooding back with clarity. 

“we were in the field, just playing football during one of the days that we didn’t have practice back at my childhood club, then, out of nowhere, she just… snapped. she started pushing me, calling me names, she beat me up then started saying I’d never be as good as her.” 

your voice trembled as you continued. 

“that was just the start. it got worse. she’d corner me, taunt me. when my parents weren't home, she would always beat me up. its not like they would have cared since they were never around but isla alway reminded me that I would never be her.” 

esmee’s hand found yours, her grip tightening slightly as if to reinforce the bond you shared. 

“y/n, I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her eyes glistening with understanding. 

“that’s awful. no one should have to go through that, especially from your sister.” 

the weight of your confession felt heavy yet liberating. as you spoke, you worried that it might shift her perception of you, but her unwavering gaze reassured you. 

“it’s been hard for me to reconcile those memories,” you admitted. 

“i wish she would snap out of it, be the sister I always wanted. but every time I think about confronting my past, about talking to her, it’s like that darkness just pulls me back.”

“you have every right to feel how you feel,” esmee replied, her voice a soothing balm against the turmoil inside you. 

“sometimes letting go is the healthiest choice. it’s okay to put distance between you and someone who brings you pain.” 

in your mind you had esmee’s love, and that was more than enough. 

when isla transferred to real madrid from aston villa back in august, it sent shockwaves through the football community, but for you, y/n, it was merely a confirmation of what you had always known. everyone expected the announcement to create an excitment among you, with commentators dissecting every angle, but you felt strangely detached. after all, you had long ago come to terms with the reality of your relationship—or lack thereof—with isla.

most people suspect that you and isla aren’t close at all, and they’re right. the truth is, you don’t even follow each other on social media. it’s not an oversight; it’s a deliberate choice. you’ve both carved out your own professional existences in the world of football, but the disconnect runs far deeper than just career paths. 

when isla’s name surfaces in interviews, you always say, “she’s my sister,” but even that feels like a hollow statement. it’s the only phrase you can utter without spiraling into a torrent of emotions that wouldn’t be conducive to your public image. 

your pr team constantly reminds you to keep it professional, advising you to avoid any personal comments that could lead to negative speculation. they know the rumors swirl, that fans are eager to dissect what must be some family drama. 

they think it’s just sibling rivalry or jealousy. if only they knew the truth—that isla’s presence in your life had been more harmful than supportive, and that your silence is more a shield than a statement.

as the media continues to pair your names together, it’s irritating to reflect on the fact that you’re linked by blood and talent, yet worlds apart in spirit. you wish you could express how isla’s competitive edge always crossed the line into emotional and physical abuse, how the shadows of your childhood still loom large, how her triumphs feel like a stark reminder of your own struggles. 

for now, those words remain locked away, buried under layers of professional decorum and public expectations of barcelona players.

as el clasico approached, you felt your mood souring more and more each day. anticipation crackled in the air like a thousand tiny static shocks. for you, it felt heavy, oppressive—a cloud she couldn’t shake off. 

the usual buzz of excitement that surrounded the biggest match in football felt muted, as if you were standing behind a glass wall, watching everyone else thrive in the moment while you grappled with your own turmoil. 

only a handful of people on the team seemed to understand why your demeanor had shifted so noticeably. esmee was one of them—brash and spirited, always ready to sprinkle a bit of humor to lighten the mood, yet deeply empathetic when it came to your struggles. 

esmee had a sixth sense for when y/n was struggling. alexia, as captain, also had a deep understanding of the weight y/n’s situation with isla. she’d made sure to keep conversations about family issues to a minimum during training sessions. 

the rest of the team suspected something was off, but they respected y/n’s space, choosing not to pry or gossip. 

“things will be okay, y/n,” esmee reassured her you afternoon, giving a supportive squeeze to your waist after the conversation of el clasico was brough up. 

“we’ll get through madrid together. we’ll play the full 90 minutes and then come back to barcelona. you won’t have to see isla again until march.” 

despite the attempt at comfort, y/n felt her heart sink. she appreciated esmee’s sentiment, but the thought only compounded her feelings of dread. 

“i didn’t see her for three years when she was at aston villa,” y/n muttered, frustration clawing at her chest. 

“why did she have to come to madrid? it’s like she’s intentionally making my life worse.” 

y/n had achieved her success in her own right, yet every time she saw isla on the edge of the pitch, posing for photos or congratulating teammates, y/n felt herself slipping back into the background. the knot in her stomach twisted tighter, amplifying her anxiety. do any of those people know that isla is an abuser? do they know that she used to beat up her younger sister until her hands started to hurt too much? probably not. 

“c’mon, y/n, try to see the positives,” esmee urged, attempting to pull her friend from the dark place lingering in her thoughts. 

“this is your chance to show madrid what you’re made of! i know you’re a defender but maybe we can get a goal out of you!.” 

you forced a laugh with a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. the idea of stepping onto the pitch, with thousands of eyes watching you—not only as part of barcelona but in direct comparison to isla—sent your mind spiraling. 

what if you didn’t perform well? what if your sister outshines you? 

you had wanted to have this magical moment as a pro player without isla looming in the background, always casting a lengthy shadow over your achievements.

“look, why not make this game about us?” esmee continued, trying to penetrate y/n’s wall of anxiety. 

“play for the team, for each other. we’re going to have fun! it’s el clasico! if anything, we should be excited! forget about isla.” 

it was hard for you to forget, very hard. how could you? memories of childhood flashed through your mind: the abuses, the times when isla’s achievements always overshadowed your own spark. it felt like being trapped in a cycle she couldn’t escape. 

you remembered celebrating each of your own milestones quietly, while isla was surrounded by adoring friends and admiring coaches. 

taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you felt a flicker of determination ignite within you. esmee was right about one thing: it was important to rely on your teammates, the women who had stood by your side through victories and losses alike.

perhaps, if you reframed your perspective, you could focus on what you could control rather than the shadows of your past.

as training sessions progressed, it became harder for you to keep your emotions in check. every exercise, every drill, became a mental obstacle course. the tension built up not just for you but for the entire team. they were gearing up for a match that was not only an opportunity to prove themselves against their fiercest rivals, but also a chance for you to confront some demons that had followed you into the present.

the morning of el clásico broke in madrid, sunlight streaming through the hotel room window, illuminating every corner and filling the air with an electric energy. 

“hey, sleepyhead! wake up! it’s match day!” kika chirped, her voice bright and cheerful as she moved around the room, throwing a pillow on your sleepy head.

you couldn’t help but wake up and smile at her enthusiasm, though the knot in your stomach tightened a little more.

“morning,” you replied, stretching and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. the vibrant posters of barcelona hung on the walls, a reminder of the mission ahead.

 “did you sleep at all?”

“of course! i had this amazing dream about scoring the winning goal,” kika laughed, her excitement contagious.

you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of that same energy, even as your mind drifted back to other thoughts.

“i barely slept. too many thoughts,” you admitted, the weight of the day pressing on your shoulders.

“about isla?” kika guessed, her tone shifting to something more understanding. you nodded, your heart sinking a little at the mention of her name. 

the reminder of being in the starting lineup sent a mix of nerves through you. as you and kika finished getting ready, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

you looked focused, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of longing for the comfort of esmee’s arms. it was hard not to wish you could have a moment away from the pressure, to feel the warmth and safety of your partner’s embrace. 

“let’s head down for breakfast,” kika suggested, sensing your distraction. you nodded, knowing that you needed to center yourself and prepare for the day ahead. the atmosphere in the dining room was buzzing with excitement, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries filling the air.

as you entered, the chatter of your teammates surrounded you, their laughter and energy infectious. you settled at the table, and soon the conversation turned toward the madrid lineup. your heart raced as they mentioned isla's name, and you felt the knot in your stomach clench tighter. 

“of course, they’ll have isla,” mapi said, a slight edge of playful rivalry in her voice. 

“she’s one of their best forwards. should be fun trying to keep her in check.” 

“fun,” you murmured, trying to smile. inside, you felt a mix of admiration and jealousy, an emotional tug-of-war that blurred the line between sibling rivalry and personal ambition. 

“we’ll handle it,” frido chimed in, trying to lift the mood.

as breakfast came to an end, you took a moment to reflect on everything swirling in your head. thoughts raced as you prepared to head to the stadium, the enormity of the day dawning on you. 

this wasn’t just another game; it was el clásico. you would be facing isla, your biological sister.

"you ready?" mapi asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement, oblivious to the storm inside you. you forced a smile, nodding tightly as the whistle blew, marking the beginning of el clásico. 

you quickly tucked your worries to the back of your mind, focusing on the game ahead.

as you maneuvered up the pitch, you could hear your teammates calling for the ball. aitana had it, and you made your way toward her, preparing to receive the pass. just as you felt the rhythm starting to flow through you, a figure rushed at you, and adrenaline kicked in. 

at the last moment, you spotted that familiar silhouette, but it was too late. 

you managed to push the ball to caro just in time, but the force of the collision pushed you back slightly. steadying yourself, you took a quick look only to realize it was isla. instinct kicked in, and you pushed her away from you. 

"don’t push me!" she snapped, her tone a mix of irritation.

“i just did!” you shot back, your heart racing as your blood boiled. you could feel the heat of her presence instantly igniting all those old wounds. 

“whatever, just wait until the end my little sister. I hope your teammates are ready to pick up the pieces when you fall apart.”

the exchange hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze as the intensity of the game continued around you. you fought to push out the old memories of isolation and hurt, taut and angry.

“not today, isla,” you muttered under your breath, refocusing on the game, trying to shake off the encounter. deep down, you knew this game was about more than football; it was about proving to yourself and to her that you were no longer the scared girl she once abused. 

you were a force to be reckoned with—a player in your own right.

 

isla shot you a dirty look before returning to her position, the tension prickled in the air. you forced yourself to breathe through it, channeling the storm of emotions into energy for the game. 

ignoring her felt like a mini victory, and you strived to sink back into the rhythm of the match.

the chaos of the field surrounded you—the shouts from your teammates, the roar of the crowd, the pounding of feet on the grass. 

with a swift glance up the pitch, you saw patri breaking through the defense. it was now or never. positioning yourself perfectly, you lifted your foot and sent a precise cross sailing through the air. everything slowed down as you watched the ball arc toward her. 

in the glorious moment that followed, patri met it with her head, sending it soaring into the back of the net. 

“vammoooss!” you shouted, adrenaline exploding through you as the crowd erupted in cheers. overwhelmed with joy, you sprinted toward patri, 

your heart racing. when you reached her, you jumped onto her back, wrapping your arms around her shoulders in a triumphant embrace.

“what a header!” you laughed, squeezing her tightly as she hoisted you up effortlessly. the bond you shared with patri was one of the deepest you had on the team too.

“you played it perfectly!” she beamed, her smile contagious.

the second half kicked off, and when esmee came on, you felt a rush of excitement. she was not just your girlfriend but she was an excellent player. as you positioned yourself on the right wing, you watched with anticipation as esmee was on the left.

suddenly, the joy of the moment was shattered. without warning, isla charged toward esmee, pushing her hard at full force when the dutch girl had the ball. you felt your stomach drop as you witnessed the blatant foul unfold right in front of you. 

esmee hit the ground with a thud, disbelief written all over her face as she looked up at the referee. the whistle blew, but to your disgust, isla received only a simple yellow card.

“that should’ve been a fucking red card…” you mumbled to yourself, unable to hold back the frustration bubbling up within you. you were furious—not just at the referee’s poor judgment but also at the way your sister exploited the situation. 

it was conscious and cruel, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as your fists clenched at your sides.

mapi, who was close enough to overhear, giggled softly, sensing your ire. 

“I think we all saw that, you know?” she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. you shot her a glance, half amused but still seething. 

“not funny,” you replied sharply, trying to keep your focus on the game. you could see esmee slowly getting up, shaking her head in disbelief as she brushed off the grass on her legs. 

a mix of sadness and anger welled within you—it wasn’t just a foul; it was a reminder of how your sister’s actions affected not just you, but your loved ones as well.

it was hard to shake off the fight in your chest. the thought that isla was playing dirty, particularly against someone you cared about, burned intensely. you glanced back at esmee, who shrugged off the hit.

shortly after, the game continued.

the tension in the stadium reached a fever pitch as the clock ticked down to the 87th minute. barcelona had just scored their fourth goal, courtesy of alexia, and the crowd erupted in cheers that reverberated around the pitch. 

just when you thought the game was stabilizing, hell broke loose in a way you never anticipated.

isla broke past ingrid as if she were a mere hurdle, her focus unyielding as she made a reckless dash toward the goal. in that split second, your heart raced—not in excitement, but in horror. that familiar cocktail of hatred and anger surged through you, overwhelming all rational thought. 

you weren’t just standing by anymore; you were compelled to act, to protect what was rightfully yours on the field.

without a second thought, you lunged forward at full speed, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you executed the fastest and cleanest side tackle imaginable. your body struck the ground, sliding into her with precision. isla flew away from the ball, sent sprawling across the pitch as your foot sent it careening toward the crowd, safely out of harm’s way.

the satisfying thud of your tackle felt like a victory, but it was short-lived. as you stood up, energy still crackling in your limbs, you felt a rush of pride—until that pride morphed into a tension that shadowed the field.

isla sprang to her feet, standing right in front of you with rage bubbling in her eyes.

“who the fuck do you think you are?” she spat, invading your personal space, her face a mask of anger and disbelief. her breath was heavy, and you could see the seething hatred reflected in her dark gaze.

you pushed back, adrenaline mingling with defiance. “i’m the one who stopped you from making a fool of yourself! that was a pathetic run!” you felt empowered, knowing you had thwarted her attempt to score, and relished the moment of victory. 

isla laughed bitterly, her voice slicing through the chaos around you. “pathetic? look who’s talking!” 

“you’re a joke, isla! you always have been!” 

“joke?” she echoed, her mouth twisting into a sneer. 

“at least i’m not the one who needs to prove myself every time i step on this field. everyone knows what a failure you are!” the venom in her words stung, and her face was a twisted mirror of the anger that coursed through you.

“maybe if you spent less time abusing people and more time focusing on your own game, you wouldn’t be in this position right now!” you responded, the heat of the moment making you bold. your gaze locked onto hers, refusing to break contact, as if the intensity could somehow ward off her next assault.

“you think this is about me?” isla laughed, the sound cruel and mocking. 

“this is about you, desperate to be seen, desperate for validation!" the derision in her voice felt like a blade, piercing the surface of your confidence.

“this is so fucking hilarious, you’re scared!” you shot back, your voice shaking but resolute. 

“scared that if you lost, you wouldn’t know who you are anymore. you’re obsessed with proving you're the best, shit you abused me for years and that wasn’t enough, maybe you should’ve killed me isla!”

“look at you! the fact that you’re still here makes me sick!” isla ignores what you said, failing to admit her abuse towards you.

“you’re such a bitch, thinking you could go to barcelona and think you’re hot shit—” 

“says the one who chose madrid of all teams, look at your team with zero goals!!” you snapped immaturely, the words spilling out before you could even catch yourself. 

cata tried to pull you away from your sister for the last twenty seconds, but it was no use; your anger suddenly surged, fueling a strength that felt almost uncontrollable. 

at that moment, everything around you turned into a blur as adrenaline surged through your veins.

alexia had noticed the commotion and began to move toward you, determination etched on her face. 

“leave her alone!” athenea shouted at you, stepping between you and your sister.

“score a goal then come back to me, you bitch,” you shot back, your voice laced with defiance as you metaphorically swatted athenea away like she was an annoying fly. 

“don’t speak to her like that!” your sister yelled, pushing you.

the crowd around you watched in shock, drawn into the escalating drama, whispers and gasps cutting through the din of the match.

suddenly, both teams surrounded you, players from both sides trying to break up the heated argument. tensions flared further as a few of your teammates exchanged barbs with madrid players, the atmosphere thick with hostility. 

the referee rushed in to maintain order, but you and your sister remained locked in a fierce gaze, hatred radiating off you like heat from a fire.

“i haven’t seen you in three years—what the fuck? you know what? you’re hopeless. you’ve always been the one holding everyone back! shit, you guys would’ve been up to six if you didn’t make those mistakes you did!!!” isla spat.

“you’re pathetic, isla. maybe shut up and stop pretending you’re even close to being good enough. maybe try watching your balance next time?” you shot back, the memory of the side tackle you had executed flashing before your eyes, where she had fallen face-first into the grass.

“do you think anyone actually believes in you at barcelona? i don't, and i’m positive your captain doesn’t either!” isla laughed, the sound harsh and mocking, as if your words were nothing more than a joke to her. 

“you don’t know me, you don’t know y/n, and what happens at barcelona, go away!” alexia shouted, her voice cutting through the chaotic atmosphere as she rushed towards you, clearly infuriated by what had just transpired. 

she pulled you away from the escalating confrontation, her grip firm and protective, while olga carmona was busy dragging isla away, separating the two of you in a tangle of emotions and disbelief.

as the whistle blew, signaling the end of the match, the rush of emotions hit you like a tidal wave—embarrassment, anger, sadness, and confusion twisted together in an overwhelming torrent. 

your heart raced, every beat echoing your thoughts over and over: why did your sister hate you so much? yes, you had initiated the encounter with a side tackle, but it was just a game! a competition, something you had always loved, something that was supposed to bring joy. 

yet, here you were, feeling like a stranger in your own life, treated as though you were the villain in a twisted narrative that belonged to Isla.

deep down, you knew you weren’t the evil one. it was Isla—the sister who once had control over your life through years of emotional and physical abuse. the memories rushed back, uninvited and unwelcome, as you thought about the day you finally managed to escape at 16, signing with la masia and vowing to break free from the darkness that had enveloped your childhood. 

you had fought tooth and nail to build a life away from that pain, so why, after all these years, did she still hold such a powerful grip over your emotions?

the anger began to bubble to the surface, fierce and unyielding, igniting sparks of determination within you. you promised yourself you would never let anyone, least of all her, treat you like that ever again. yet with that anger came an undercurrent of sadness, an ache that resonated deeper than you wanted to admit. 

you realized, more painfully than ever, that you didn’t know your sister anymore—this Isla was a stranger in your life, and yet the years of shared history felt like a heavy weight pressing down on both of you. how had this happened? it felt surreal, standing on this battlefield of memories past, both of you reduced to adversaries when you should have been allies.

watching teammates embrace amid cheers and celebrations around you, you began to feel profoundly isolated. their laughter rang in your ears like a mocking reminder of the bond you once had with Isla, a bond that was now fractured, strained by the years of resentment and pain that simmered beneath the surface. 

it was as if you were caught in some cruel twist of fate, living out a nightmare where your family ties had turned into shackles, binding you to a painful legacy.

questions raced through your mind like a whirlwind: was there any hope for repair? could you ever bridge the chasm that had formed between you? every thought pulled you deeper into the confusion of your feelings, and you wondered if healing was even possible after so much trauma. 

the night wrapped its heavy cloak around madrid, its bustling streets still alive with the echoes of celebration and the collective energy of the crowd. bright lights illuminated the cobblestones, but inside the dimly lit bus, you felt completely enveloped in darkness.

the soft chatter of ecstatic teammates faded as you made your way to the farthest back seats, seeking solitude and privacy in the midst of a chaotic victory.

as you settled into the back corner, you pulled your hoodie over your eyes, the fabric a barrier from the vibrant world outside. your chest felt tight, a vice slowly tightening with each breath. the floodgates opened, and tears streamed unabated down your cheeks. 

you couldn’t remember the last time you had cried like this, where each sob felt like a physical release, an expulsion of the pain that had been building inside for years. the laughter and joy of your teammates were a distant hum, far removed from the anguish that churned in your heart. even in your secluded corner, memories of your fractured relationship with Isla rushed over you, relentless waves that threatened to pull you under.

“you don’t have a sister. you don’t have a sister,” echoed in your mind, each repetition stinging sharper than the last. the thought sank deep, raw and brutal, leaving you feeling utterly unmoored.

as you rested your head against the cool glass of the window, gazing out at the blurred lights of the city, the world outside became a mere backdrop to your inner turmoil. you could hear muffled conversations, the exuberant energy radiating from your teammates—a stark contrast to your spiraling emotions. 

the victory that had once been something to celebrate now felt meaningless in the face of the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

just then, the door creaked open on the bus, and vicky stepped in. she was still glowing from the game, her face alight with enthusiasm, but that expression quickly faded when she spotted you in the back. 

concern etched itself across her features, and her heart sank. she could see from the shadows of your hoodie and the position of your body—hunched and closed off—that you were in distress. overwhelmed, vicky turned on her heel and dashed back out of the bus, seeking out esmee, who stood chatting at the entrance with ellie.

“esmee! y/n is on the bus crying,” vicky mumbled, urgency lacing her words. the concern in her voice was palpable; she wanted to keep the team from overwhelming you, sensing how raw your emotion was and how much space you needed.

esmee felt her stomach twist at vicky's words. she had watched you take that fateful departure from the group, and it had left her heart heavy. she knew you better than most, knew when you needed to be left alone and when you needed someone to pull you back from the edge of despair. 

without hesitation, she scooped her things into her bag and sprinted past vicky, urgency pushing her feet to move faster.

the bus interior was dim, the only light provided by the streetlamps outside the window. it was quiet and still, a place where vulnerability thrived. esmee's heart raced as she stepped onto the bus, drawn immediately to the haunting softness of your cries. 

approaching you cautiously, she felt a pang of sadness pool in her chest. settling down across the aisle from you, she could now see the crumpled sleeve you were using as a tissue.

“y/n,” she whispered softly, her voice barely breaking the silence between the two of you. you didn’t respond, lost in the storm of your emotions. esmee took a deep breath, grounding herself as she tried to navigate this delicate moment. 

“can I sit with you?”

the slight shift in your posture told her it was okay. she moved into the seat right next to you, close enough to feel your warmth without infringing on your space. you still kept your eyes fixed on the streaks of light melting into the darkness beyond the window.

“it’s really okay to cry, baby,” esmee said gently, her tone soothing and patient. it was a balm for your frayed nerves, and for a moment, you blinked through the haze of tears. 

“I’m right here with you. you’re not alone.”

you drew a shaky breath, but the tears kept coming. it felt too heavy to be cradled alone in this storm of feelings. esmee reached forward, resting her hand on the empty seat between you, her fingers subtly inviting closeness. 

“I can’t take what you’re feeling away for you,” she continued softly, 

“but I can sit here with you while you feel it. it’s okay to not be okay.” esmee stays realistic. 

the tenderness of her words seeped into the crevices of your heart, and for the first time, you glanced towards her. her eyes were filled with concern, a deep and genuine empathy that made something inside you shift. 

the warmth of her gaze encouraged you to speak, to let out the words you had been holding tight within.

“it’s just… everything,” you managed to choke out between sobs, your voice breaking as the weight of the years spilled from your lips. 

“Isla… everything that happened at the end of the game, everything.”

esmee nodded, completely attuned to your pain. 

“I know it’s changing everything you thought you understood about things. It’s like a dark cloud, isn’t it?” she said, her gaze unwavering as she leaned closer, conveying both solidarity and strength. 

with gentle resolve, esmee shifted a fraction closer, and as if sensing your need for comfort, she brushed her hand against your back, the soft contact grounding and familiar as you lean against her chest. 

it felt as if she was sending warmth through that simple gesture, wrapping you in the safety of her presence. you blinked at her, your tears mixing with the warmth that slowly began to settle in your chest.

“i hate her.” you mumbled. 

“i can see why,” esmee understood. 

esmee gently placed her hand on your waist, her fingers squeezing lightly as if to remind you she was there, physically and emotionally. 

as the tears poured forth, each drop carrying away a piece of your pain, a piece of the suffocating grief that had held you captive for so long, it felt easier to breathe. esmee didn’t shy away from the gravity of what you were feeling; instead, she leaned in closer, her presence a steadfast beacon. 

the familiarity of her touch ignited a sense of safety, drawing you just a bit closer to the shore after feeling lost at sea for so long.

“let it all out,” she encouraged, brushing her thumb softly over the back of your hand that rested limply in your lap. it was a gentle caress that seemed to wipe away some of your doubts, a silent promise that you were moments away from finding solace in companionship. 

“nobody’s judging you here, I promise.”

you clung to her hand, feeling an unexpected safety in that small gesture.the tears continued to flow, but rather than a dam holding them back, it felt like a river running its course, tearing along and removing the debris of old pain.

esmee did not shy away from the intimacy of the moment; she was your shelter from the turmoil, absorbing your sorrow alongside you.

“no one has to know we’re having a moment,” esmee teased gently, her playful spirit shining through despite the gravity of the situation. she added a smirk, trying to raise the corners of your mouth into a semblance of a smile. 

you couldn’t help but chuckle at her light-hearted attempt to coax you from the shadows. laughter bubbled up from the depths of your throat—tentative at first, but it felt slightly like sunlight breaking through the clouds. 

“I might be too emotional for this team,” you replied, your voice still thick with emotion but softened by humor.

“at least we have each other to be emotional with,” esmee offered with sincerity, squeezing your hand gently before letting it settle back on your thigh, a touch that was both supportive and grounding.

as you both sat in the quiet of the bus, the soft sounds of the city thrumming outside, you found solace in the physical closeness and the shared silence after esmee’s words. 

you might not have your biological family, but you have found your family at barcelona. 

masterlist

[paragonrobits]

It was an honest question, and not meant in mean-ness or disrespect. So Auxillary Arch-Sciencewretch Bongo paused, a cup of tea up to his mandibles.

He gently put the cup down and folded several of his arms together, contemplating how to proceed. First he wondered if it was important to correct the ambassador on the mistake of referring to him as human. He decided to dismiss it; there was generally a growing period for species new to the galactic community where they were prone to thinking of broad, species-based groups. The error of species-as-society. In time, they'd adjust to the idea of a society being bigger than a single species, of forms of identity on a shared cultural basis in a way different than they might be used to.

He was not human in a technical sense, but as the humans had begun what was generally called the Pansolar Coalition, an interplanetary governing body and representative democracy of many species, it was pretty common to conflate humans with the group as a whole.

And to be fair, his own species had been made on Earth; uplifted arachnids, and he was among those who had chosen to go about piloted a humanoid robotic chassis to interact with larger beings, which also looked like a big humanoid spider-thing because he had an aesthetic and by God he was going to STICK TO IT.

The ambassador was a robot; not an organic being using a chassis or a voluntary cyborg, nor was he a sapient artificial intelligence installed into a robotic platform. His kind were naturally occurring robots; Bongo wasn't sure how that happened, but there they were.

Bongo said, carefully, "That question is more delicate than you may realize."

"How so?" The ambassador's optics flickered in a way conveying genuine puzzlement, so Bongo chose to take things easy on him.

"Well, is not terraforming something done by your people?"

"Ah. Yes, but not as much as you; we don't need to adapt a planet to suit ourselves to it, we just adapt ourselves."

"Indeed. Well, I am afraid the majority of my... well, not my species exactly, but my kind, or rather the fellow kin among the Coalition, we can't adapt as easily as you. And there's ethical concerns."

"Ethics? In what, exactly?"

"Tell me. What do you know about the religious concept of stewardship?"

"Hrm. I think I had a briefing about it. Isn't the idea of sapient beings given a charge by divinity to protect and care for the world as they know it?"

"Quite so."

The ambassador hesitated. Bongo gave off the impression that it was self explainatory, but it seemed a mystery to him. "I'm not sure I follow?"

"As being with the ability and power to do so, we feel it is an obligation to care for our worlds; we have hundreds, yes, and that is because we are prepared to spend so much time and resources caring for a single world, and we apply that to all our worlds. Great damage has been done in the past, during a more thoughtless age. Now we are wiser, and we understand that it is our duty to care for the worlds."

The ambassador was quiet.

Eventually he said, "So its like gardening, I think?"

"Yes, that's a way of looking at it. We're not seperate from the garden; we're a part of it. We're all part of a vast and flowing network of life and death, birth and rebirth. We cannot be seperated from it, and so it is bad, to us, to exert power over it. If we spend many resources to do just that, it is simply our way."

The ambassador was quiet, again, this time for a while.

"I think," he said carefully. "I still don't quite understand, but I think I would like to."

There were some who disputed that the ambassador's people were ready to join the galactic community. But in the ambassador's words, Bongo saw hope for the future yet.

"You humans have hundreds of planets under your control, so why do you waste so many resources trying to make that Earth planet habital? I genuinely don't understand."

[once-a-singlet-nevemore]

Trans Feminism and the Human Domestication Guide

Or

Wishing on a misogynistic star won't make your dreams come true

Thesis: A running theme in some parts of the HDG sphere is the unintentional chase and valorisation of misogynistic standards for women in the pursuit of validation.

“The most radical thing that any of us can do is to stop projecting our beliefs about gender onto other people's behaviours and bodies”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity

I would like to open by declaring my own identities, both as a shield against a particular kind of bad faith criticism, but also to demonstrate that I’m operating in good faith here. I’m a fat, hairy, physically disabled, transgender, butch dyke who writes within the HDG setting with great joy and greater love for the community. I’m also hot as fuck. That established, I’ll continue:

There is a particularly pernicious lie that revolves around the state of women's bodies; that there is a correct way to have one and that those who do not meet these standards are unfeminine or otherwise worthless. It must have a vagina, of course, but it must also be white, thin, able, hairless, youthful, fit but not strong and, of course, soft. 

Trans feminism, and by that I direct my attention to feminist speech within trans and gender non-conformist spaces, has managed to, if not defeat, then at least combat one of the great evils of cis sexism, the necessity of the vagina. The ongoing and necessary validation of the girl cock as beautiful, as wonderful, as feminine is a wonderful, joyful thing. We (trans feminine people) exist as part of the spectrum of womanhood, and that means that our bodies also exist within and without that spectrum of womanhood as well. 

However, trans feminism of a particular kind has - rather than continue the work done to uplift the gock - has embraced a particular kind of ugly lie we’re taught. In many cases - due to a perceived desire to be as close to flawlessly woman as we can be - the focus will instead fall on a particular kind of trans feminine person who manages to engage with and evoke those standards aside from the obvious. To paraphrase Julia Serano in illustrating this point:

“Whether unconscious or deliberate, the gatekeepers clearly sought to … ensure that most people who did transition would not be “gender-ambiguous” in any way”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity 

One of the beauties of the class-G is that it allows the character to experience their body in an idealised form. I recognise and applaud this position, it is beautiful to see a writer able to imagine themselves completely idealised, completely transformed into something that doesn’t hurt. However, therein lies the rub; the ideal depicted displays some of that ugliness, some of the roots of misogyny that thread their ways through our brains like poison and make us into useful fools for its goals.

The thought that brought about this essay is a repeated phrasing that appears across several works within the HDG milieu; that to be hairless and soft is to be feminine. A character will have their body hair, all their body hair bar that on their head, removed and thus will be made ‘girly’. They, and other characters, may remark on how much more they feel like a woman, unconsciously or consciously linking womanhood to that hairlessness. 

You may note that this directly plays into another cis-sexist standard of beauty; that to be feminine requires a certain girlishness, a pubescent budding that belies the possibility of cellulite or wrinkles or the consequences of living a life where one is not simply a doll.

What is my objection to that? Surely, every writer has the right to depict their own wish fulfilment fantasies. Certainly yes, but also… one must ask at which point we celebrate their dreams and at what point we ask people to engage with their biases and question what they consider to be true. Women, all kinda of women, are hairy. Women have pubic hair, arm hair, leg hair, chest hair, even facial hair. The seeming desire to be completely hairless is as ‘unnatural’ a goal as any other, as ‘unnatural’ as any expectation set for us by the white supremacist culture most of us are steeped in. To return to whipping girl:

“Rather than question our own value judgments or notice the ways that we treat people differently based on their size, beauty, or gender, most of us reflexively react to these situations in a way that reinforces class boundaries: We focus on the presumed “artificiality” of the transformation the subject has undergone.”

― Julia Serano, Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity 

It must be noted that at least part of this problem is with what the reader brings to the table. When something goes unstated, we resort to the baseline of our biases and, due to the way society is structured, that baseline is generally white, thin and physically able. Beauty and femininity are racialised concepts, and I think we fall into traps headlong that white supremacy establishes for us. I am not the person to write an essay critiquing race in HDG, but I recognise the consequences of race and the expectations of white femininity on the work. Thus, then, we must consider the text, and the text is very often pretty clear about its characters.

How many protagonists of a human domestication guide story are textually fat? How many are stated in the text to be people of colour? How many of them are, if not stated to be, then implied through lack of mention, white, and thin? These questions ignore the many that are actively identified as those things. (I will pause here to note that Dog of War - notable as the most popular piece of work in the setting - features a protagonist who is both brown and fat, and I’m extremely happy to see it).

Collectively, as writers, we have seen a future where everyone is accepted and have created a world where the depictions of acceptance come with conformity to modern misogyny. We create a world without boundaries, where a person can be digitalised or made into a dog, and our characters are still aping their ancestors of five centuries prior in seeking validation of self. We are, I would argue (and borrowing heavily from Butler), ‘uncritically mimicking the strategy of the oppressor instead of offering a different set of terms.’

This is not, I would like to be clear, an attack on any particular story. You may recognise elements of several stories in this essay, and perhaps there are particular things I am drawing on, however, this essay does not charge the product of the writer's work with anything. That body of text can exist and be critiqued, but does not exist as a thoughtful, philosophical actor. Rather, I would charge us writers, all of us, with being more thoughtful as we engage with what femininity means to us and what is and is not feminine in a world where anything is possible.

Finally, a quote from Gender Outlaw that I direct at myself as much as anyone else:

“Let's stop pretending that we have all the answers, because when it comes to gender, none of us is fucking omniscient.”

― Kate Bornstein, Gender Outlaws: The Next Generation