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aleskie · 2 months ago

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CRASHED THE WEDDING | Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Max has always been good at winning races. But he's never been good at fighting for what matters most. When he receives an invitation to your wedding years after he makes a decision that ended your relationship for good, he's forced to confront everything he's been too afraid to face. His feelings. Your history. Everything that could have been if he'd only had the courage to reach for the stars.

Warnings: None. It's just a lil angsty at some points, but it's a happy ending!!!

The invitation feels like lead in Max’s hands, heavy and cold, a stark reminder of what could have been.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Y/N L/N and Vincent Astor.

He reads the words over and over, letting them blur in front of him, as though if he stared hard enough, they might shift, might reshape themselves into something less painful, something he could dismiss as a mistake. But no—this is real, a reality he’d rather ignore but can't.

The phone rings, a muffled vibration in his pocket, and he glances at it, prepared to let it go to voicemail. But then he sees his sister’s name, and he hesitates before answering.

“Did you get the invitation?” she asks, her voice tentative, soft, as if trying to cushion a blow she knows he’s already felt.

“Yeah,” he replies, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "Got it this morning. You?"

“Just now.” Her voice dips, caught somewhere between sympathy and a kind of shared grief. Through the line, he can hear the background chaos of her home: his nephews yelling, the clatter of something being dropped, laughter spilling over. The sounds feel like another world, one he’s distant from—a place full of warmth and distraction, the kind of comfort he could have used right now.

He can't help but chuckle, a brief smile breaking through despite everything. “They sound wilder than usual today.”

“Oh, you know,” she says, her voice lightening, “They’re boys being boys. Always testing my patience.”

A pause lingers, stretching between them as both try to find words they don’t really want to say.

“Are you going?” she asks, pulling him back, “I mean, I am. So are Mom and Dad. They already booked their flights.”

Max pauses, absorbing that information, the weight of it settling alongside the invitation in his hands.

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair and rereads the invitation. Somewhere in his mind he thinks that it could have been his name next to yours on the invite. If things were different. If he’d had the courage to fight for you all those years ago. But he knows it’s too late for regrets. The past is locked away now, sealed off with the wedding invitation and all the decisions he can’t unmake.

“Well,” she says, her voice gentle, “For what it’s worth, I think she’d be happy to see you again. Despite everything.”

He closes his eyes, letting her words settle. Despite everything. Despite the years, despite the silence, despite his hesitations that had cost him so much. There’s a part of him that wants to see you, to step into the past just one more time. But then there’s another part—a larger, heavier part—that wants to let it all fade away, like an old, bittersweet dream.

“You think?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“I know,” she says, her voice steady now, as if willing him to believe, "Whatever happens, Max, just remember: this isn't the end of everything. Sometimes…sometimes it's just a chapter. It doesn't mean the whole story."

Her words sink in, lingering long after the call ends. Alone again, Max stares at the invitation, the names on it merging, blurring. Somewhere in that haze, he tries to find the courage to decide—whether to let the past lie or step forward and face it one last time.

Like most things in his life, Max first experiences you at the tracks.

He’s ten years old and has just won a race. His helmet’s still warm, and his heart is racing almost as much as it had on the course. But he knows it wasn’t perfect—he’d made a mistake, a sharp turn taken too quickly, nearly spinning him off the track. His dad is bound to mention it, and Max braces himself as he heads toward where the parents gather after races, moving slower than usual, almost savoring his last moments before the inevitable lecture.

But instead of the expected scolding, he sees his dad smiling, an expression rare enough that it stops Max in his tracks. Standing beside his dad is a tall, older man in a tailored jacket, hands resting in his pockets with a casual confidence that only seems to come with money.

“Max,” his dad says, almost proudly, “This is Joseph. An old sponsor of mine.”

The man laughs, a deep, booming sound, the kind of laugh that fills the air and puts everyone at ease. “Oh, Jos, let’s drop the formalities, shall we?” He turns his gaze to Max and crouches slightly, just enough to meet Max’s eyes. “Call me Joe. I’m a friend of your dad’s. He talks a lot about you.”

“Hi,” Max says, shy under the attention but also intrigued. Friends of his dad usually felt more intimidating than this; Joe seemed…different, like someone who liked people.

“Ah!” Joe’s eyes dart around, searching for something—or someone. “Y/N!” he calls, spotting a figure in the crowd. “Come meet Max!”

And then, Max sees you.

You’re a little taller than him, like most girls his age are, but there’s something about you that stands out. You’re dressed in a soft blue dress, hugging a worn lion plush tightly to your chest. There’s a small nervousness about you, like you don’t belong here but you’re trying to play along, and somehow, he feels an instant bond in that.

You step out from behind your dad’s leg and make eye contact with him, a hesitant smile spreading across your face. For a split second, Max forgets where he is, who he is, even the mistake he made on the track.

“Hello,” you say, your voice soft but clear, “I’m Y/N.”

He swallows, fighting down the nerves that seem to be scrambling for words. “Max,” he manages, his voice a little strangled, “I’m…Max.”

Your smile widens, and Max feels something shift in him, like a tiny door opening he hadn’t even known existed. At ten, he doesn’t have words for it, but later down the line, he’d call it love at first sight.

He’s thirteen when his dad brings him along to spend the summer in your family’s villa for the first time.

The car pulls up to the grand villa, white stone glistening against the lush greenery that surrounds the estate. Max peers out the window, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves twist in his stomach. He hasn’t seen you in years, not since that brief meeting at the racetrack. But he remembers your shy smile, the way you’d clung to that stuffed lion, your blue dress fluttering in the wind.

As he steps out of the car, your father, Joe, greets them warmly, his booming laughter and wide smile putting Max at ease. "Max, look at how you’ve grown! Gonna give us adults a run for our money soon, huh?" He claps Max on the shoulder and gestures toward the sprawling house, where Max can see the faintest silhouette of someone watching from an upstairs window.

“You remember Y/N, don’t you?” Joe says, a glint of humor in his eye as he leads them inside.

Max feels a flush of nerves, not wanting to seem too eager, but he nods. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, glancing around the grand entryway.

A few moments later, you’re there, standing at the top of the staircase, peering down with a curious look. You’ve changed, of course; he doesn’t recognize you at first. You’ve grown a little taller, but there’s something else—a quiet confidence in the way you look at him, assessing him with those bright, observant eyes.

You start down the staircase, and he swears the whole room goes silent, his nerves forgotten as he watches you approach.

“Hello, Max,” you say, offering a small, polite smile as if you’re not sure what to expect from him.

“Hey,” he replies, a little awkwardly, hoping he doesn’t look as out of place as he feels.

You hesitate, clutching a book in your hands, and then you smile, breaking the tension just slightly. “We have a pool out back. Do you like to swim?”

He nods. “Yeah, I mean, I’m not the best at it, but…yeah.”

“Cool,” you say simply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “It’s quiet here. It’ll be nice to have someone else around.”

For the next few days, he watches you from a distance, the way you flit through the villa, always a little elusive, always with a book or sketchpad in your hands. You spend most of your time on the terrace, drawing or reading, occasionally looking up to watch him with a look he can’t quite read. Sometimes, when he walks through the hallways or lounges on the patio, he catches glimpses of you moving through the house like a shadow.

It isn’t until one warm afternoon that he finally gathers the courage to approach you.

You’re sitting on the stone steps near the pool, knees drawn to your chest as you sketch something on your pad, completely focused. He clears his throat, hoping not to startle you. You look up, and he nods toward the sketchpad.

“Can I see what you’re drawing?” he asks.

You glance down at the sketch, then back at him, looking almost embarrassed. “It’s just…a bird,” you say with a small shrug, turning the pad to show him.

It’s beautiful—far more detailed than he expected. The wings are outstretched, frozen mid-flight, and he can almost feel the energy in each stroke.

“Wow,” he says, genuinely impressed, “It’s beautiful.”

You duck your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you mumble, then shift slightly, “Do you draw?”

“Not really. I mean, I think art is cool, but…I’m not very good at it,” he admits.

“That’s okay,” you say, meeting his eyes for a brief, intense second before looking back at the sketch. “You don’t always have to be good at things.”

You say it like you think he needs to hear it. And maybe he does. He thinks that’s what draws him to you, the way you always seem to know what’s going on, silently observing before you make your move.

He realizes he doesn’t feel awkward around you, not really. You’re both quiet in your own ways, but somehow, it feels easy to just sit here, letting the afternoon sun sink lower as you both watch the light dance across the pool.

And in that silence, he senses the beginning of something—small, unspoken, something that makes him look forward to the rest of the summer.

The two of you spend the rest of the summer clinging to each other, perhaps as a way of survival, being the only kids in the villa. But for Max, it becomes more than just a way to pass the time. It’s an opportunity to get closer to you—an unexpected chance to find something that feels real in a world of adults and privilege and things he doesn’t quite understand yet.

You take him to the woods behind the villa, leading him along winding trails and sharing your knowledge about the different plants and flowers you’ve learned to recognize. You talk his ear off about the flora in the area, your voice steady and confident as you explain the different species, and Max listens, captivated by the way you can make something as simple as a flower seem so important.

In return, he tells you about all his pets, the quirky fish in the aquarium, the lazy cat that never gets off the windowsill, the hyperactive dog that chews through shoes like it’s a hobby. He imagines the woods would be a terrible place for them, but you both debate how likely they'd be to survive out there. Your laughter echoes through the trees, a sound so pure and light that Max can’t help but treasure it.

You hang out by the pool, your sketchpad never far from your side. Max watches you draw, completely entranced by the way your hands move over the page, capturing the world with such precision. Sometimes you ask him to strike poses for your drawings, telling him it’ll help with practice, though Max suspects you just find the weirdest poses you can think of just to make him laugh. And laugh he does, usually awkwardly, but always in a way that makes the air feel warmer, easier.

You take him to the lake one afternoon, teaching him about the different fish that swim beneath the surface. He listens intently, trying his best to absorb everything you say, but when it’s his turn to share, he struggles to find a topic. So, he tells you about the different ways his mom cooks fish—nothing impressive, but it’s something, at least. You laugh. Though it’s not in a way that makes fun of him. It’s a sound so carefree and beautiful that Max can’t help but feel like he’s won something, though he doesn’t quite know what.

At night, when the villa is quiet and the world seems still, you sneak into his room, moving with the same grace and elusiveness that you always carry during the day, and you take him to a small, hidden room with access to the roof, and together you sit on the cool stone, gazing up at the stars.

“The stars are nice,” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the glittering sea above. “They make everything seem so small.”

Max isn’t really watching the stars. He’s watching you, captivated by the way your face glows under the moonlight, by the way your words drift into the night like they belong to the stars themselves. He doesn’t understand why it’s so easy to look at you, and yet so hard to understand what you’re thinking.

“I think I want to be an astronomer when I grow up,” you say suddenly, your eyes shifting to meet his, “I wanna write about the stars—where they come from, why they’re there in the sky.”

Max nods, but his words feel clumsy and out of place. He doesn’t know much about stars, and even less about what you’ve just said, but he doesn’t need to.

“That sounds cool,” he says, his voice a little quieter than he meant it to be, “You can even draw the planets…put your art skills to use.”

In the silence that follows, Max can’t help but feel the weight of it—the space between you both, the gap that somehow always feels wider than it is. He’s not sure what he’s meant to do with the way his chest tightens when you’re near, or the way his thoughts scatter when you speak. You might just be the first person that’s been able to shut him up.

He still can’t read you, still can’t quite decipher what’s going on behind your eyes. But God, he wants to.

He wants to know you more than this summer will allow him to. He wants to know the things you keep hidden, the dreams you have that you don’t speak aloud. For a moment, he lets himself imagine a future where he gets to be a part of that, where he’s not just watching you from the sidelines.

But for now, he’s content to sit there beside you, under the vast, endless sky.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” you ask him, your voice casual but laced with curiosity.

Max doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll drive in Formula One,” he says, his words certain, as if the path ahead is already paved for him.

You look at him, unimpressed, and raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you want, or what your dad wants?”

The question hits him like a punch to the gut. It’s blunt, and Max is stunned by the simplicity of it. No one’s ever put it to him like that before. Everyone else has always seen the potential, the future that’s been laid out for him. But you—you—see him. And it’s more than a little disorienting.

He thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s what I know.”

You nod, but your gaze is soft. “It doesn’t have to be,” you say, your smile gentle, reassuring, “We have so much time. You’ll figure it out.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, but your words settle in him, like a seed planted deep in the soil, waiting to take root.

After a beat, you look at him with a spark of mischief in your eyes. “But I’ll be there when you make it. I’ll try to make it to every race, so you have to do really well. You have to win everything.”

He can’t help but smile at how sure you are, how unshakable in your belief that his future is something worth rooting for. He likes that you’re not just thinking about the races, but about him, about his future. The idea that he’s a part of yours is something he hasn’t quite let himself acknowledge, but it feels like something real, something tangible.

Without thinking, he extends his pinky toward you. “I’ll win everything. I promise.”

Your smile widens, something brighter, something more pure than he’s ever seen, and you link your pinky with his. It’s a small gesture, but to Max, it feels monumental. The promise is a weightless thing, a thread tying the two of you together.

It’s the first of many promises he’ll make, but it’s the only one he hasn’t broken.

That summer gifts him with three things: time spent with you, your friendship, and—most importantly—your phone number.

The summer feels endless, stretching out like a road that Max is more than happy to walk with you. In the few short weeks you've spent together, you've become a constant in his life—more dependable than any of the things that came before. You make the dull moments feel full of possibility, even when nothing is happening. It’s as if you have this quiet magic, turning ordinary moments into something extraordinary just by being there.

He doesn’t want to leave.

No, he doesn’t want to leave you.

One afternoon, the day before he's supposed to leave, you both find yourselves by the lake again, the air still and warm, the water rippling lazily in the breeze. You’ve spent hours there, talking about everything and nothing, and somehow, you always circle back to the future—this elusive thing that neither of you can fully grasp, not at thirteen, not when everything still feels so wide open.

You’re sitting side by side at the dock, your legs dangling over the edge, your feet brushing the water as you look out over the lake. The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, painting the water with strokes of gold. It’s the perfect end to a perfect summer, and it makes the thought of leaving feel unbearable.

Then, without warning, you turn to him and ask for his phone. Max hands it over, confused, but you take it in stride, tapping a few digits into it with quick fingers.

“Here,” you say, handing it back to him with a grin. “Now we can talk all the time.”

Max takes the phone, feeling a sudden rush of excitement, mixed with something else—something deeper, something that makes his heart beat a little faster as he saves your number. He hovers his thumb over the screen, unsure of what to say. It’s just a phone number. Just a few digits on a screen. But somehow, it feels monumental. Like crossing a line that’s only been drawn in the sand until now.

You nudge him gently, a playful look in your eyes. “Go ahead,” you tease. “Send me a text. I promise I won’t bite.”

He smiles at that, feeling a little shy suddenly. After all, it’s just a message, just a casual note between friends. But it feels like a step forward. A bridge between the two of you, no longer just the endless days of summer, but something more—something that could last.

Max types out his first message, his fingers a little hesitant as he starts the sentence.

Maxhey, it’s max. thanks for the cool summer :D

He presses send, his heart racing slightly as the words leave his phone.

Your response comes almost too quickly to be real, even though you’re right next to him. It’s as if the message was waiting on the other side of the screen, just waiting for him to type those first words.

Y/N Of course! Thank you for spending it with me :DDD It would have been soooo boring without you!

Max feels a grin tug at his lips, the warmth of your words filling the space between you both, and he realizes—this is just the beginning. Even though summer is ending, and everything about this place feels like it’s about to slip away, something has shifted. He holds the phone in his hand, knowing that this connection, this friendship, is something that will stay with him far beyond the villa, beyond the lake, beyond the months to come.

It’s just a few digits. But to Max, it’s everything.

The messages come and go at first, fleeting moments scattered throughout the day, each one a brief connection that feels more significant than it should. You send him pictures of the sketches you’re working on, and he responds with a blurry shot of his dinner, laughing at how terrible it looks. You talk about your families, about the little things happening at home, and slowly, those texts begin to fill in the spaces where the silence used to be.

He starts texting you late at night, when he should be resting before the race just a few hours away. He knows you’re asleep, but he likes the thought of you waking up to his messages, likes knowing that he’ll be the first thing you see when you check your phone in the morning. He likes imagining that you’ll think of him, even if just for a moment, before your day really begins. And he looks forward to your replies—there’s something about the way you respond that makes him feel seen

One night, a message from you makes him smile as soon as he reads it.

Y/N I think I’ll be asking for a telescope for my birthday. It’ll be perfect for next summer! We can see the stars from sooooooooo close!!!

Max grins at the thought, picturing you sitting on the roof with a telescope between you, both of you gazing up at the stars just like you did that one night in the summer. His grin widens at the mention of next summer, at the idea that you want him with you again. The thought feels natural, almost inevitable. It feels...real.

Max it’ll be great! we can bring snacks on the roof and you can tell me about the different stars !

Sometimes, your message threads are full of lighthearted memes, just silly things to make each other laugh. Other times, they’re more thoughtful, more serious.

Y/N Isn’t it kind of sad how the stars are just, like, out of reach? Like, they seem so close, but they’re so out of reach.

Max it’s still nice to know they’re out there. like, you look at them and you know you’re not alone ://

Neither of you reply immediately. But then, every now and then, your schedules collide, and you end up talking for hours. It doesn’t matter that the messages come at odd hours, or that the conversation takes unexpected turns—sometimes, the silence between them feels like its own conversation, a shared understanding that doesn’t need words. It feels like a memory waiting to be made, like everything that hasn’t been said yet, but will be, under the summer skies.

Somewhere along the way, Max realizes something without even noticing when it happened: your texts are no longer just words on a screen. They’ve become something more—pieces of something real, something tangible, something he can’t quite explain. They’ve become a thread that ties you to him, a connection that stretches beyond the distance.

And in those moments when he stops to think about it, he starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, the stars aren’t as far out of reach as he once thought.

The invitation sits on the bedside table like a weight, an anchor keeping him in place as Max paces the room. His empty suitcase lies open on the bed, a quiet reminder of the decision he still hasn’t made. Should he go? Should he leave you be? Why would you invite him? Why would you want him there on what’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life?

Why don’t you hate him?

Maybe that’s the real question he can’t stop circling back to. Why don’t you hate him enough to leave him out of this entirely? After everything?

There’s a small, dangerous part of him that thinks—maybe, just maybe—you still feel the same. He shuts that thought down immediately. You aren’t the same people you were back then. You’re older now, and wiser, maybe, though it doesn’t feel like it when his heart still races at the thought of you. The two of you aren’t nineteen anymore—but God, he wishes you were. He wishes he could go back, that he could do it all differently. That he could be braver.

He would’ve changed everything.

He would’ve given up everything—every championship, every trophy, every podium—to have you by his side. He’d settle for second place every year if it meant you’d have stayed. If it meant you were his and not—

He stops the thought before it can finish, dragging a hand through his hair as his eyes drift back to the invitation. It’s taunting him. A reminder of what he lost and what he’s still too afraid to face.

Max opens the closet, rifling through his clothes without any real focus. If he decides to go, what would he even bring? He wasn’t in a rush—there were still a few days left to RSVP—but the indecision gnawed at him. His usual jeans and t-shirts clearly wouldn’t cut it, so he shifts to the back of the closet, to the suits he rarely wears. His fingers pause on a familiar one—the classic black tuxedo you’d helped him pick out all those years ago. The memory flashes fast and sharp: your laughter as you adjusted his tie, the warmth of your hands smoothing the lapels, the way you’d looked at him like he was someone worth looking at.

He pulls his hand back like the fabric’s burned him.

There are other options. Safer ones. Ones that don’t feel so tied to you. But even those feel wrong somehow, like they don’t belong in a moment where you’re promising forever to someone else.

He thinks about calling his sister, half ready to ask for advice, but he stops himself. He knows exactly how that conversation would go. She’d convince him to go. She’d tell him it’s the right thing, the mature thing—and maybe it is. But he’s not ready.

He’s not ready to see you again.

Not if it means watching you end up in the arms of someone else.

He digs deep, pulling out every combination he can think of—shoes and watches included—before something catches his eye. A box, tucked away in the farthest corner of the closet. The design is intricate but worn, the edges faded like it’s been handled a thousand times and then forgotten. And it has been. He put it there for a reason, pushed it out of sight so it would stay out of mind.

But it calls to him now, quiet and insistent, pulling him closer until his hands are brushing against the lid and—before he can stop himself—he’s opening it.

The first thing he sees is you.

Not literally, but it may as well be. The box is filled with pieces of you, pieces of everything you’d given him over the years.

There are the little trinkets you brought back from your family trips—strange, whimsical things that you’d pressed into his hands with a grin, telling him they reminded you of him. He remembers the first time, the utter confusion he felt staring at a tiny wooden monkey carving. You’d laughed at his expression, and even though he didn’t get it, his heart had raced at the thought of you thinking of him.

He sets the monkey aside carefully, and there’s more. The crafts you made during those long, quiet days at the villa: a woven bookmark, a beaded bracelet, a tiny frame with delicate pressed flowers. He traces a finger over the petals, softened by time but still intact. He wonders if you kept the ones he made you—though his hadn’t been perfect like yours. His hands were clumsy with thread and beads, and his art never quite captured what he wanted them to. But they’d had his feelings in them, even if he never said it out loud.

And then there are your drawings.

Every single one you’d ever given him, carefully kept and hidden away like the fragile, precious things they are. Birds in flight. Trees bending in the wind. The stars you loved so much. Him. You.

He thinks his favorite is the one of him sitting on the villa’s roof, peering through your telescope with a look of quiet wonder on his face. Or maybe it’s the sketch of the night sky, dots and swirls of ink creating something so vast and beautiful it almost feels alive. Or maybe it’s the self-portrait you gave him, the one that captures you in a way no photograph ever could—the softness of your expression, the hint of a smile, the light in your eyes.

He remembers the day you gave it to him.

It was right before his first race in Formula 3. You’d slipped it into his hand when no one was looking, your fingers lingering just a little too long.

“So you don’t forget what I look like when you travel,” you’d said, trying for lightness but not quite managing it.

“Why would I forget?” he asked, genuinely confused. He could never forget you. He would never forget you. You were forever etched into him, someone as familiar as his own heartbeat.

“What if you get busy and we stop being friends?” Your voice was soft, your eyes darting everywhere but him. You’d sounded so small, so uncertain—and it hit him then, the fear in your words, the possibility that you’d already started to feel the distance that hadn’t yet formed.

“I could never stop being friends with you,” he said, the words sure and immediate. “You’re my best friend.”

And the smile you gave him…God, it’s still ingrained in his mind. It haunts him.

Because now, years later, he knows he’s the reason you stopped smiling at him.

He grips the paper a little too tightly, slightly smudging the ink. He lets out a dry chuckle.

He keeps ruining you.

Even now—years later, miles away—he still manages to leave marks on the things you gave him. Still leaving evidence of his carelessness. Of the way he could never quite hold on to you without hurting you in the process.

The drawing shakes in his hands, and he forces himself to set it down, smoothing the corner like it’ll erase the damage he’s done. It doesn’t, of course. It never does.

He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The invitation stares at him from the bedside table, pristine and elegant, with your name in curling script next to someone else’s.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

It shouldn’t feel like the air’s been knocked out of him every time his eyes catch on those words. But it does. God, it does.

Why did you invite him? Why did you want him there? Why are you putting yourself through the pain of having him there?

Maybe it’s pity. You’d invited everyone else in his family, after all. It would have been strange to leave him behind.

Maybe you’re offering an olive branch—a final act of kindness before you leave him behind for good.

Or maybe—and this is the thought he’s afraid of, the one he keeps buried—maybe some small part of you still wants him. Maybe you’re hoping he’ll show up. Maybe you’re hoping he’ll…

No. He can’t let himself think like that.

He stands up abruptly, crossing the room before he can talk himself out of it. The invitation is cool and smooth between his fingers. He flips it open again, scanning the details he already knows by heart. The date. The venue. Your name.

His chest tightens.

He shouldn’t go.

He shouldn’t put himself through this—shouldn’t sit in the crowd and watch you promise forever to someone else. Shouldn’t watch you smile at someone the way you used to smile at him.

But then his eyes drift back to the open box on the bed. To the life you built together, piece by fragile piece. To the promises you made when you were too young to know how easily promises could break.

And suddenly, the idea of staying away feels so much worse.

He closes his eyes and breathes. He thinks about the way you looked that first summer, standing by the lake with the sun painting gold into your hair. He thinks about the sound of your laugh in the dark, your hand warm in his as you made him pinky swear on dreams you both believed you had endless time to chase.

He thinks about your voice over the phone after his first big win, giddy and proud, as if the victory belonged to both of you.

He thinks about all the things he never said.

Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it always was. But if there’s one thing he owes you—if there’s one thing he’s sure of—it’s that he can’t let you go without showing up one last time.

Even if it breaks him.

He sets the invitation down and reaches for his phone. The screen glows in the dim light, and his finger hovers over his sister’s name.

He takes a breath and presses call.

“I need help finding something to wear,” he says when she picks up. His voice is rough, but steady. “I’m going to the wedding.”

Something old. Something new. Something borrowed. Something blue.

You’d chosen everything but your something blue.

The old necklace your fiancé had given you on your first anniversary, warm with memory and love. The new pair of shoes his mother had gifted you, delicate and perfect, still pristine in their box. A borrowed pair of earrings from your grandmother, their vintage shine whispering stories of the past. And…

You stare at your jewelry box. The golds and silvers and gems shimmer in the light, casting reflections that dance across your room—bright, elegant, easy choices. But your eyes settle on something far more understated. A slightly faded blue bracelet, its woven threads fraying just a little at the edges.

You hadn’t seen it in so long. You’d buried it deep in the box for a reason.

Because it hurt.

It hurt to see it and remember the boy who’d tied it around your wrist with a grin, so proud of the clumsy thing he’d made for you. It hurt to think of simpler times—of long summers at the villa, of lazy afternoons by the pool sketching him while he complained about the weird poses you made him do. Of midnight adventures on the roof, staring at the stars like you could reach out and touch them if you just wanted it badly enough.

You wanted to be an astronomer then. He’d wanted to race in Formula One.

Only one of you got what you wanted.

Your fingers brush against the bracelet, lifting it carefully as if it might crumble in your hands. The blue has faded a little over the years, but the knots are still tight—sturdy, despite everything. Despite time.

You wonder if he even remembers giving it to you.

You wonder if he kept the things you gave him, too. The pressed flowers, the sketches, the tiny trinkets you picked up from family trips because they reminded you of him.

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to push the memories back into their quiet corner. But they come rushing in anyway—the way they always do when you think of him. You remember the way his eyes lit up when you talked about the stars, the way his voice softened when he promised you’d always be friends. You remember the way he used to text you before his races, even when you were countries apart—how it felt like you were still right there beside him.

You remember the day he stopped.

The bracelet trembles between your fingers. You shouldn’t wear it. You know that. It doesn’t belong in this new life you’re building. It doesn’t belong in the future you’re about to step into, with a man who loves you and sees you.

A man who chose you. A man who you know will keep on choosing you.

But still, you hold it close to your heart. Because there’s a small part of you—one you never quite managed to silence—that never stopped wondering. Never stopped hoping.

And maybe, just maybe, wearing it will feel like keeping a piece of the past with you. Even if it stays hidden beneath the sleeve of your dress.

Just like the feelings that still linger.

You close your eyes, the bracelet pressed tightly to your chest, and let yourself remember the day he gave it to you.

“I got news the other day,” he’d said with a grin, his brows furrowed in concentration as he fiddled with tiny beads, his fingers struggling to string them together. The thread kept slipping, the beads kept rolling away, but he didn’t seem to care. “I think you’ll be proud of me.”

“I’m always proud of you,” you said, popping a blueberry into your mouth as you lounged on the picnic blanket you’d set up together. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting golden streaks across his face, and you watched him with a quiet kind of fondness you never quite managed to hide.

“This time it’s different. Better.”

You tilted your head, curiosity blooming in your chest.

“We got a call yesterday.” His smile broke wide and boyish—so full of joy that it was almost blinding. “They want me in Formula One.”

For a second, the words didn’t quite register. And then—

“Oh, Maxie!” You barely let him finish before you launched yourself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a tight, breathless hug. “I’m so happy for you! This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

You didn’t even think—didn’t hesitate—before pressing a quick, excited kiss to his cheek. It felt natural, instinctive, the kind of thing that happened when your heart was too full and there were no words big enough to hold your happiness for him.

But when you pulled back, both of you froze.

Your breath hitched. His eyes widened. And for one terrifying second, you thought maybe you’d ruined everything—that you’d crossed some invisible line you couldn’t step back from.

“I—” You opened your mouth, scrambling for an explanation, an apology—something to take the moment back before he decided he didn’t want to be near you anymore, before he decided you were too much, too—

He kissed your cheek.

It was light and quick—barely there—but it said everything you needed to hear.

The air shifted, the space between you suddenly too small and too charged, and he reached for your hand, his fingers warm and sure around yours. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, thick with everything you were too scared to say out loud.

With his free hand, he kept working on the bracelet, the tiny beads slipping but eventually falling into place. When he finally tied it around your wrist, the knots were clumsy but tight, and the beads—small and delicate—shimmered a pale, translucent blue. The color reminded you of his eyes.

“I’m going to be busy,” he said, his voice soft but certain. “But I will always make time for you. I promise.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and you saw the truth of it in his face. In the way his hand tightened around yours. In the way his eyes softened like you were the most important thing in the world.

“You’re…everything.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest.

“Everything?” you whispered.

“I’m not good with words,” he admitted, his voice rough and a little uncertain. But then his hands found your face—gentle and steady—and the way he held you felt like a vow. “But that’s what you are to me. I want to give you everything. Everything I can give.”

Your eyes burned, and you placed your hands over his. “You’re enough.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek before he pulled back to fiddle with the bracelet again. “I’ll get you a better one soon,” he promised. “So keep this safe until then.”

You looked down at the simple, imperfect thing wrapped around your wrist, your heart so full it ached.

“This will always be my favorite, though,” you said.

And you meant it.

You still mean it.

Even after all these years. Even when he broke every promise he gave to you. Even when he stopped choosing you. Even when you stopped being his everything.

Maybe that’s why you invited him. Because a selfish, mean part of you wants him to see how happy you are—wants him to sit there and watch you promise forever to someone else. Or maybe it’s because you want to see him—because you want to ask how he’s been, want to hear his voice again, want to look into his eyes one more time and see if they still soften when they land on you.

You wonder if they’re still as intense as you remember. If they still light up with that quiet warmth, that gentle steadiness that always made you feel safe. But you push those thoughts away because they don’t matter anymore.

You’re getting married soon.

You like your fiancé. You like your life now.

You’ve finally—finally—healed from him.

You don’t love him anymore. You don’t love him anymore. You don’t love him anymore.

…Right?

Max Verstappen is eighteen years old and high off of winning his first Formula One race when he kisses you for the first time.

A real kiss this time. Not the chaste pecks on the cheek he’d been giving you thus far. No, this time Max Verstappen had taken you to a private hallway at the Red Bull garage, cupped your face, and put his lips on yours.

Logically, he was sure it was just a few seconds. But when you kissed him back—soft and certain, like you’d been waiting for this just as long as he had—it felt like a forever that was finally in his reach. His heart pounded, not from the race this time, but from you. Always you.

Your lip gloss is slightly smudged when you pull away—strawberry-flavored, he realizes, as he runs his tongue over his lips. Your eyes are wide, your breaths deep, and he thinks, in that moment, that you are the most beautiful thing in the universe.

The universe—something he learned to love, to appreciate, because you loved it. Because you taught him the names of constellations on long summer nights, because you whispered stories about galaxies and planets as if they were fairy tales meant just for him.

Because you had learned to love and appreciate his world of racing, even when it took him away from you. Because, to him, you were like the stars—distant at times, maybe, but always there. Constant. Something that would never leave.

He exhales shakily, resting his forehead against your shoulder, letting himself sink into the warmth of you. “I always want you with me,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath, as if saying it too loudly might make it less true. “I love you.”

Your arms wrap around him, holding him tighter, anchoring him in place. Your voice is soft but certain, filled with all the things he’s been aching to hear.

“I love you too.”

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he has his first serious talk with your father. Joe has always been kind to him—always treated him like part of the family. Max liked that about him, how welcoming he was. But, most of all, he could relate to him when it came to you, when it came to loving you and cherishing you. He knew exactly what it felt like.

He remembers Joe being happy—ecstatic, even—when you’d told him the two of you were finally together.

“It’s about time!” Joe had laughed, giving Max a firm pat on the back. “I was wondering when you two were gonna realize it.”

Max remembered his cheeks flushing, his smile sheepish at the thought of everyone recognizing your feelings for each other long before the two of you had.

But the tone now was different. The mood was different.

They were sitting at a table by the pool, admiring the view, talking about life. Joe gave great advice and even better observations—kept everything real and blunt. It was something Max appreciated and realized you’d inherited as well.

“Max, my boy,” Joe let out a slow breath. “Please take care of her.”

Max looked at him. Really looked at him. And he saw something in Joe’s expression that wasn’t there before—a plea, a quiet desperation begging to be heard.

“She’s my baby girl.” Joe’s voice softened, but the weight of his words made Max’s chest ache.

“I’ll take care of her,” Max promised without hesitation.

“Can you?” Joe asked, his eyes steady and serious. He ran a hand through his graying hair. “You love her, Max. I can see that much. But sometimes that isn’t enough.”

“What do you—”

“I mean…” Joe interrupted gently, searching for the right words. “I mean that reaching your dreams at this age is an incredible feat. You worked hard, you took great care of your ambitions, and now you’re reaping the benefits. But, Max…what about the people left behind? What about Y/N who watches from the sidelines? How do you take care of her? How do you keep the balance?”

The air grew thick with tension, with questions Max didn’t know how to answer. The silence stretched between them.

“She’d never say anything,” Joe said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “She would never ask you to choose her over your life’s work.”

“But?” Max’s throat tightened.

“But you’re never there anymore.” Joe met his gaze, unflinching. “You rarely visit. You wait for her to come to you. You miss her events. Your phone calls are cut short. I’ve been told texting has gotten rarer. I—” Joe stopped himself, taking a long, steadying breath. “I want it to be you, Max. Because I know you. I know how much you love her. But I don’t want to keep asking the stars for you to just…be there for her.”

“I…” Max takes a breath, his voice quieter than before. “What do I do? I don’t know how to be better... how to make things better for her.”

Joe watches him for a long moment, his face soft with understanding. When he finally speaks, his words are gentle but steady. “That’s something you need to think about. I’m sure you’ll find a way. But Max… the question isn’t just how to make things better. It’s if you’re willing to.”

Max feels the weight of those words settle over him, heavy and suffocating. He wants to protest—to say, of course, he’s willing. But the truth sticks in his throat because there’s doubt creeping in, and he hates himself for it.

He just nods, even though his mind is spinning. He still doesn’t know what to do. But…he does wonder…does he even deserve you? Can he give you everything you want? Everything you deserve? He’s not sure anymore.

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he realizes he can no longer be enough for you.

“I think I want a summer wedding,” you tell him one day.

You’re lounging in his hotel room, binging on room service with the sound of a movie playing in the background. The sun’s setting outside, casting a warm, golden light over the room, and for a second, Max lets himself imagine it—imagine you in white, your hand in his, laughter in the air. He lets himself imagine the perfect proposal—at night, under the stars, or at a planetarium standing underneath the universe. He wonders what kind of ring you’d like, what kind of venues you’d look at, what kind of cake you’d choose.

The thought fills him with joy—it does. But there’s a certain tightness in his chest too, one he can’t quite explain.

“Summer’s nice,” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

“It is,” you agree, picking at the fries between you. “Warm, but not too warm. And the nights are perfect for stargazing.”

There it is again—stars. Your first love. The thing you’ve dreamed about since you were kids. And he wonders when the last time was that you even got to look at them. When the last time was that you weren’t stuck in a hotel room or an airport lounge, waiting for him.

“What about you?” you ask suddenly, eyes on him. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

He freezes. Because the truth is, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about it—not because he doesn’t want it with you, he does—but because every day is a blur of circuits and races and media appearances. His life is fast-paced, and sometimes it feels like the only time he gets to slow down is when you’re there. But even then…even then, you’re always the one making time for him.

“I…” He hesitates, and the silence stretches just a little too long. Your smile falters, just a little.

“That’s okay,” you say softly, brushing it off like you always do. “We’ve got time.”

But do you? The question hangs heavy in his mind.

Later that night, when you’re asleep next to him, your hand resting against his chest, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what you see when you look at him. Does he still feel like your everything? Or is he just an anchor, keeping you tied to a life you never asked for?

He thinks about your father’s words. About the quiet way you always say, “It’s okay,” when plans fall through. About how the stars you used to love so much feel farther away than ever.

And for the first time, the thought crosses his mind: maybe loving you isn’t enough. Maybe the best thing he can do for you…is let you go.

Max Verstappen is nineteen when he loses you for good.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, your voice trembling as tears well up in your eyes. The words barely come out, strangled and thin, and the ache in your chest tightens when you see the way he looks at you—like you’re already slipping through his fingers. “What did I do, Max?”

You’d come to see him at a race, though you weren’t staying for the actual race, just qualifying. You had school after all. And now here you are, in his hotel room just hours before your flight home, feeling the ground crumble beneath you.

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, his voice low and strained, chest tight with the weight of what he’s about to do. “You were perfect.”

“So, why?” The word cracks in the middle, and you can’t stop the way your hands start to shake.

“Because I can’t give you what you need.” His voice rises just a little, frustration and heartbreak bleeding through. He looks away when he says it, like he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“You don’t get to tell me what I need, Max.” The desperation creeps in, your breath catching on the words. “I just need you. That’s enough for me.”

“But it shouldn’t be!” The words burst out of him, his hand raking through his hair, his face contorted with anguish. “You need someone who’s there for you. Someone you can count on to celebrate you, to show up for you. You deserve someone who will at least do the bare minimum—call you back, text you—who remembers your birthday without it being a last-minute text or a bouquet of flowers arriving days late.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, his voice gathering momentum.

“You need someone who isn’t me. Because I can’t be that for you.” His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s like the floor drops out beneath you.

“I just need you, Maxie.” The nickname slips out, soft and broken, and the tears start falling before you can stop them. You scrub at your face, trying to hold yourself together. “You’re busy, I get it. But I can make time for us. I’ll call more, visit more. I’ll—”

“Baby.” The word is so gentle it breaks you further. He steps forward, his thumb brushing the tears from your cheeks. “That’s my point. You sacrifice yourself for this. And it’s not worth it.”

“It’s everything!” Your voice rises, sharp and pleading. “You’re everything! You said I was your everything!”

The sight of you like this—sobbing and shattered—makes him want to take it all back. Every single word.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why don’t you want me anymore?” Your voice wavers, heavy with heartbreak.

He still wants you. He’ll always want you. But wanting you isn’t enough when it keeps hurting you.

“You promised me, Maxie,” you whisper, your voice breaking under the weight of it. “You promised you’d make time. You promised you’d always be with me. You promised to stay.” The sob builds in your chest, raw and ragged. “So fucking stay.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. It’s all he can manage to say. It’s all he can think of saying.

In the silence that follows, you swallow your tears and move to grab your bags.

“Baby—”

“Don’t.” You glare at him, the fire in your eyes cutting through the pain. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.” You take a deep breath, turning to face him fully. Your face is flushed, and he can see the marks left by the tears. “When I walk out that door, we’re over. For good. No second chances. You don’t get to call me. You don’t get to text. If you see me on the street, you don’t have any fucking right to talk to me.”

He stands frozen, the weight of your words sinking in, but before he can even think of how to respond, you’re moving again—zipping up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Don’t do this,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

But you don’t even look at him when you say it.

“You already did.”

The door closes behind you with a final, hollow click.

And as the silence of the empty room wraps around him, the regret comes fast and hard. It knocks the breath out of him, leaves his chest aching like he’s just been hit. He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and for the first time in a long time, Max Verstappen breaks.

He reaches for his phone before he even knows what he’s doing—his thumb hovering over your name. But he remembers your words, the sharp edge of them, and his hand falls away.

He’s made his choice.

And now he has to live with it.

Weddings are supposed to be the best day of your life, something special to cherish and keep in your heart. Weddings are also notorious for the stress they bring, for the storm that comes before the perfection of the day. You expected to crash out, to crumble under the weight of it all. But you didn’t. Instead, all you felt was… nothing. A hollow, quiet nothingness that settled deep inside your chest.

It was your wedding day. And you felt nothing.

You wanted to say that the sight of yourself in the mirror showed the image of a glowing woman, excited for her big day. And in some ways, it did. Your make-up was flawless, the dress fit perfectly, the accessories were dainty and meaningful. Every decision you’d carefully made and poured over in the year you’d spent planning this event had come together exactly how you wanted it.

So why did everything feel so empty? Why did you look so… distant? So detached?

The woman in the mirror looked like you, but there was something missing. The spark. The light you used to have when you dreamed of days like this. You tilted your head, studying the reflection—searching for something, anything—but you came up empty. And the longer you stared, the tighter your throat felt, the harder it was to breathe.

A soft knock on the door pulls you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Wow,” a familiar voice says, warm and full of love. Your father peeks his head inside, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. “I know we chose the dress together, but seeing it in this setting makes it even more wonderful.” He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “You look beautiful, my darling.”

You smile—or at least, you try to. “Thanks, Dad.”

He takes a slow step closer, his eyes softening as they take you in. “I can’t believe my little girl is already getting married,” he says, his voice quiet and nostalgic. “Are you ready?”

You force another smile, one you’d perfected over the years of pretending that things were fine, that you were fine, that nothing bothered you. “Almost. Just need a moment.”

But your father knows you too well. He always has. His head tilts, his brows knit together as he studies you—just like he always did when something was off. “Is everything alright?”

You want to say yes, to brush it off and blame the nerves, the pressure, the overwhelming nature of the day. But the words won’t come. They stay stuck in your throat, heavy and unspoken, because you know the truth.

And the truth is scarier than any storm.

“I just…”

There’s so much you want to say. So much you want to admit—not just to him, but to yourself. But the truths you ache to speak sit heavy in your chest, tangled up with fear and doubt, and you’re not sure you’re ready to set them free.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his voice warm and steady, “Whatever you decide, I’m with you. If you aren’t sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, but your voice wavers, cracking under the weight of the lie. “I like what we’ve built together.”

And you do. You really do. You’ve enjoyed the life you’ve created with Vincent—your fiancé, your safe place. He’s kind and patient, steady in a way you’d once thought you needed after Max broke your heart in a way you still haven’t fully recovered from. Vincent has been yours, wholly and without hesitation. And you’ve tried to be his.

But when you think of forever…

The ache in your chest flares, and your fingers brush against the faded blue bracelet hidden beneath the delicate lace sleeve of your dress. It was reckless, sentimental—stupid, even—to wear it today. But when you’d reached for your “something blue,” nothing else had felt right. Nothing else had felt like…him.

Your heart twists, the ache deepening.

“Talk to me, hun,” your father urges, his voice gentle as he guides you to the couch in your changing area. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper, your eyes glassy with unshed tears, “But I know I have to.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I need to stop not seeing things through,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “For once in my life, I need to finish something I start. I need to prove I can.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know that’s not always true.” His hand finds yours, warm and familiar, and he brushes away a tear that’s slipped free. “You don’t have to torture yourself for the sake of accomplishing something.”

“But I’ve let so many things slip away,” you confess, the words pouring out before you can stop them. “I wanted to be an astronomer—remember that? I worked so hard, I was on that path, and then I just…let it go.”

“And look at what you’ve made for yourself,” he counters gently, his smile soft and proud. “You’re a corporate force to be reckoned with. It may not be what you always expected, but you’ve built a life of success and grace. That’s not a failure at all.”

He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. “We need to let go of things that hurt us, things that give us pain.” He takes your hand in his. “If we can do that, then we’re free. Then we can heal. Be happy. Love without fear. That’s what we all deserve, bub.”

You just nod. It feels like you’ll start bawling if you say anything. So you don’t, choosing to bask in the comforting silence instead. But he understands. Your dad always did. He always knew how to sit with your silence without trying to fix it, without pushing you to speak before you were ready. And for that, you were grateful.

“Is he here?” you ask after a moment, your voice soft, barely above a whisper.

“He’s here.” He nods, knowing exactly who you’re talking about.

The air shifts, heavier now, pressing down on you with the weight of things unsaid and years you could never quite get back. You take a deep breath, trying to ignore the way your heart races, how your palms grow damp, how your throat dries up. You shouldn’t want him here. But you do. God help you, you do.

“Do you want to see him?”

“I—” The word sticks in your throat as your mind spins. You think about what’s waiting for you outside—the vows, the promises, the life you’ve built with someone steady and kind. But then there’s him. Somewhere in the crowd, a ghost you’ve never quite been able to shake, a part of you that still aches in his absence. He taught you how to fall, and how to break into pieces. And now he’s here. At your wedding. And you don’t know what to make of it.

But you want to figure it out.

“Can you… Can you bring him here?”

Your dad studies you for a beat, the corners of his eyes softening. “You really wanna see him?”

“It’s time to let go, dad.”

He nods slowly, squeezing your hand. “Alright, bub. I’ll go get him.”

Max Verstappen is twenty-seven when he sees you again.

He arrives at the venue with his family, his mom and dad reuniting for the event, awkward as it is. His sister brings her husband, the two of them playing middleman for the parents. They find seats somewhere in the middle, though Max opts for one near the exit. Just in case everything gets to be too much to handle.

The air is thick with celebration, but it feels suffocating to him. Every smile, every laugh, every perfectly placed decoration makes his stomach twist. He shouldn’t be here. But he couldn’t stay away either. Not when it was you.

He sits quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. The familiar ache he thought he’d buried long ago starts to creep back in. He can hear the hum of conversation around him, the soft music floating through the space, but it all feels distant—like he’s watching the world through glass.

“Max?”

The voice startles him, familiar and warm, and when he looks up, Joe is standing there. He looks just as Max remembers him—steady and kind, smiling gently, like he was still part of the family even after everything. Like Max hadn’t broken his daughter despite Joe’s words of caution all those years ago.

Max stands quickly, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. He feels suddenly unsteady, like the ground beneath him is shifting.

Joe studies him for a long moment, and Max braces himself, half-expecting him to tell him to leave—to save them all the trouble. To spare you from whatever pain his presence might stir. But instead, Joe reaches out and pats Max on the shoulder. Firm and determined.

“She wants to see you,” he says, his voice gentle but his eyes filled with something Max can’t quite place. Hope, maybe. Or worry. Or both.

Max freezes, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“She asked for you,” Joe repeats, his voice soft but sure. “Do you…do you want to see her?”

Every instinct in his body screams yes. But fear—sharp and cold—holds him still. “I…I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Joe says, watching him, patient and knowing, “But she asked for you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He nods, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. “Okay.”

Joe gestures for him to follow, and Max’s legs feel unsteady as they walk through the venue. Every step brings him closer to you, and with each one, the memories flood back—the laughter, the fights, the promises, the love. The heartbreak. The feel of your hand in his. The sound of your voice calling his name.

By the time they stop in front of a door, his palms are damp, his heart racing.

Joe turns to him, his voice soft and steady. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in there,” he says, “But whatever it is—just know that everything will fall into place.”

Max nods, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Joe knocks gently on the door, his voice warm and calm. “Bub? He’s here.”

The door opens slowly, and Joe gives him a reassuring pat on the back before stepping away, leaving Max standing there with his heart in his throat. The soft click of the door shutting behind him feels deafening, and then—

There you are.

There’s a familiarity in the way the sight of you knocks the air out of his lungs—a feeling he hadn’t realized he missed until this very moment. You stand there in your wedding dress, the delicate lace brushing against your skin, embroidered flowers cascading down the train like something out of a dream. The soft glow of the room casts a gentle light on you, making you look ethereal.

But there are changes, too—subtle, quiet things that hit him just as hard. The tiredness around your eyes, the way your shoulders hold a weight they never used to, the reserved grace in the way you carry yourself. And yet, despite all of it, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

And the vulnerability of standing here, of seeing you like this when you’re about to belong to someone else—it hurts. It hurts in a way he isn’t sure he’ll ever recover from.

“Hi,” you say, your voice soft and tentative. It’s the first word you’ve said to him in years.

“Hey,” he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.

And then there’s silence. The kind of silence that isn’t empty—it's heavy and full of everything unsaid, everything they’ve both carried for so long. The weight of it settles between them, and neither one seems to know how to break it.

He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and maybe you look at him the same way—like you’re seeing a ghost. But neither of you moves, and the silence stretches on, thick and aching.

“You look beautiful,” he says after a beat.

You smile and turn slightly—as much as you can with a heavy dress anyway. “You think so?”

“I mean, you’re right in front of me.” He smiles, taking a tentative step forward. “I only said what I saw.”

Your eyes soften, but there’s a guardedness there too. You let the silence stretch between you, the weight of unspoken things filling the space. “Thanks for coming,” you say after a moment, your voice quieter.

His breath hitches. “You sent me the invite.” He looks you in the eyes for the first time in years. “Why?”

You break the contact and stare at the ground, the lace of your dress brushing against the floor. “I don’t know,” you whisper. But that’s not entirely true. You know why—you just aren’t sure you’re ready to say it.

Max watches you, the way your fingers twist together, the way your shoulders tense like you’re holding something back. And he can’t help himself.

“Is it because you wanted me to see this?” he asks, his voice soft but steady. “To see how happy you are without me?”

You blink up at him, startled. “No. That’s…that’s not just it.”

“Then what is it?” he presses, his voice low and urgent as he takes a step closer. The space between you feels too small, too charged. “Because I know why I’m here. We both know why I’m here.”

“Don’t,” your voice shakes, and it’s barely above a whisper. “Don’t say anything else.”

But he can’t stop. He never could when it came to you.

“Y/N, tell me I’m not wrong. Tell me you want me here. Tell me you miss me too. Despite everything. Despite how I hurt you.” His voice trembles, the pleas spilling out faster than he can contain them. “Y/N, all you need to do is say the word and—”

“I never pushed through with astronomy,” you interrupt, your words sudden and sharp.

He freezes, confusion flickering across his face. “What?”

“I switched majors. Went into corporate after graduation.” Your voice is calmer now, but there’s a weight behind every word, like they’re stones sinking to the bottom of your chest. “I wasn’t like you…I never became what I wanted to be.”

You take a step closer, your eyes never leaving his. “It wasn’t fun anymore. After what happened. I had no one to talk about it to. No one to watch the stars with. They didn’t seem as beautiful anymore.”

He inhales sharply, and the sound feels like a knife twisting in the air between you. God, he ruined it all for you.

“So, I wanted you to hurt,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I wanted to make you see me happy without you. You deserve that much.”

And he does. He knows he does.

“I needed you, Max.” The words come out raw, almost broken. “All I ever needed was you. And you left. You left after you promised me you wouldn’t, after you promised to give me all you could. You left after you made me fall in love with you!”

Tears stream down your face, and before you can pull away, his hands reach for you—gentle and familiar—as his thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks. He’s careful, so careful, like touching you too harshly might shatter you completely. And God, he hates that he caused this. Hates that even now, he’s still making you cry.

“You know what the worst part is?” your voice cracks.

He shakes his head, his throat too tight to speak.

“You ruined me for everyone else.” You let out a bitter, broken laugh. “You left after you made sure I could never feel the same kind of love for anyone else. And now I’m here marrying someone who makes me feel absolutely nothing.”

“Why then?” The word comes out like a breath, like he already knows the answer but can’t bring himself to accept it. “Why do this? Why marry him?”

“Because he’s nice. Safe.”

“That’s it?” Max’s voice rises, his frustration breaking through the surface. “You’re marrying him because he’s nice?”

“He chose me, Max.”

“Y/N, I could do that too!” The words are loud and desperate and aching.

“But you didn’t!” You pull away from him, and the loss of your warmth feels immediate and brutal. “That’s the point, Max, you didn’t!”

Your voice breaks, and you bring your hands to your head like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “And I’m so, so tired of not being someone’s first choice. My mom left, my dad had work, you chose your career. And, God, I just want to be someone’s first.”

Max takes a step closer, his voice soft but urgent, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. “I wasn’t good enough for you, Y/N. I didn’t deserve you anymore. Not after I kept on hurting you.”

His fingers brush against yours before he takes your hand fully, his grip warm and familiar. “I was afraid that you’d wake up one day and realize that you wanted someone better than me, someone who could actually be around. I didn’t want it to be too late for you. I didn’t want to hold you back.��

“You never held me back. I never needed anyone better,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the emotion that’s been building since the moment you saw him again. “I only ever wanted you.”

The weight of your words settles over him, and his thumb moves in soft circles over your knuckles. The touch is tentative, careful—like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You never do.

And then his eyes catch something. A sliver of color peeking out from beneath the delicate lace of your sleeve. His breath catches as he lifts your wrist, his fingers brushing against the worn, faded blue of a familiar bracelet.

“You kept this?” His voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes locked onto the reminder of a love he thought he’d lost.

“I kept everything.” Your voice is soft, but there’s a quiet kind of fierceness in it. A truth you’ve never let go of.

A beat. “So did I.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Every drawing, every bookmark, every bracelet. I still have it all.”

The room feels smaller, the space between you shrinking with every second. He inches closer, his breath warm against your skin.

“Max,” you breathe, and there’s a tremble in your voice—a plea, a warning, a hope.

“I miss you,” he admits, his voice breaking. “I miss you every day. Every single day since I made you leave.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, soft and reverent. “If I could go back, I would. I’d fix every mistake I made. I’d risk every championship just to have you again.”

His hand moves to your face, cupping your cheek with the gentleness of someone terrified of breaking what’s already so fragile. His thumb grazes your skin, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“I can’t go back,” he says, his voice rough with regret. “But I can tell you I miss you. And that I still want you. And I never stopped lov—”

“Max, please.” You rest your forehead against his shoulder, your body trembling. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. Don’t say it unless you’ll stay. I don’t think I can handle you leaving a second time. So, please.”

“Y/N.” He tilts your chin up, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want to tell me. And I’ll tell you what I want to say. No regrets for either of us.”

Your breath shudders, and your eyes dart away before finally settling on his. “You hurt me, Max.”

“I did.” His voice is steady, but there’s a crack in it, the guilt bleeding through.

“I didn’t need perfect. I wanted you. I wanted us. And you walked away. You took that away from me.”

“I know,” he whispers, his forehead pressing softly against yours. “I’m so sorry.”

“And now I don’t know what to do.” Your voice breaks again, and the tears spill over once more.

He presses a kiss to your cheek—soft, tender, full of all the things he never got to say. “I love you,” he breathes against your skin, the words a gentle confession. “I love you.” Another kiss, this time to your forehead. “I never stopped loving you. I don’t think I can.”

“Max…” Your voice shakes, and there’s fear and hope and longing all wrapped into his name.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Don’t marry him. Come with me.”

Your heart pounds so hard it hurts, but for the first time in a long, long time—you feel something.

“Where do we go, Maxie?”

“Anywhere you want.”

Hope.

EPILOGUE

Max Verstappen is twenty-nine when the two of you elope.

It’s nothing extravagant—just the two of you, a quiet courthouse, and rings that fit just right. You wear a simple white dress, the fabric light and flowing around you like a second skin, and he’s in a crisp button-down and slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at the easy intimacy of the day. And yet, despite the simplicity, it feels like the most perfect thing in the world. Because the only thing that matters is the way he looks at you when he says his vows—like you’re his whole world. Like you always have been.

The words come softly but with certainty, and his hands tremble just slightly as he slides the ring onto your finger. You squeeze his hand in reassurance, and the emotion in his eyes nearly undoes you. You exchange quiet promises and soft kisses, and when it’s done, when the judge finally pronounces you husband and wife, Max doesn’t hesitate. He lifts you off your feet and spins you around, his laughter ringing out into the afternoon air, joyful and unrestrained. And for the first time in a long time, you feel weightless.

The photographer you hired captures it all—the laughter, the stolen glances, the way his hands never stray far from yours. Outside the courthouse, the two of you pose in front of the steps, your head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Each photo feels alive, like a memory in the making, every smile a testament to the love you fought so hard to find your way back to.

Max is thirty when you tell him he’s going to be a father.

You hadn’t planned it—not now, not yet. But when the two little lines appear on the test, you can’t stop the tears from falling. You sit there on the cold bathroom floor, the weight of the moment pressing down on you until you can hardly breathe. It’s fear and joy and disbelief all tangled up inside you, and you don’t know how to move, how to think—how to tell him.

You wait until late that evening, when the two of you are curled up on the couch, the soft hum of the TV filling the room with a comfortable stillness. Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Your hands tremble as you reach for the tiny pair of baby shoes you bought that afternoon—the only thing you could think to get, a physical thing to make this real.

“Max,” you whisper, your voice uncertain. He turns to you, his brows knitting together when he sees the tears in your eyes. “I have something for you.”

You hold out the little shoes, and for a moment, he just stares at them. His eyes go wide, his breath catches—and then the realization dawns. “Are you—?” His voice breaks, and when you nod, his face lights up with a joy so pure it steals your breath away.

He’s holding you before you know it, his arms wrapping around you tight, his laughter soft and disbelieving. “We’re having a baby,” he whispers against your hair, the words thick with emotion. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “We’re having a baby.”

You nod, tears falling, and he kisses you—again and again—like he can’t get enough of this moment, like he’s afraid it’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go. “I love you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you so much. And I love them already. So much.”

And just like that, the fear fades. Because you know—no matter what comes next, he’ll be right by your side facing it with you.

Max is thirty-one when he tells you he’s retiring from Formula One.

It’s after the baby’s born, when he’s holding your daughter in his arms, her tiny fingers wrapped around one of his. There’s a softness in his eyes, a peace you hadn’t seen in him before—like the weight he’d been carrying for years had finally been set down.

You’re standing next to him on the terrace, the cool night air brushing against your skin, as he rocks your baby to sleep. His voice is low and soothing as he tells her about the stars above, pointing out constellations and weaving stories about the shapes they form.

He tells her about Andromeda and Orion, about how the light she sees traveled for thousands of years just to reach her eyes. He promises her that one day, when she’s older, he’ll take her to watch the stars properly. That they’ll lie on a blanket in the grass and map out the night sky together.

You just hug him from behind and bask in his scent, appreciating the calm and quiet the night brings—the three of you under an endless expanse of stars. The same stars that you used to watch together all those summers ago at the villa wishing for something you never thought you’d ever have.

“I’m done,” he says quietly after a moment.

You blink at him. “What?”

“I’m retiring,” he repeats, his voice steady. “I want to be here. For you. For her. I missed too much before. I don’t want to miss a second more.”

The words take a moment to settle, and your heart twists—not with fear, but with love, with gratitude for the man who once walked away and now refuses to leave.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” you say, your voice soft. “You’re still at the peak of your career and—”

“You didn’t regret it, did you?” he asks gently, his eyes finding yours. “Leaving with me that day?”

You move closer, placing a hand on his arm. “I would never.”

“I won’t regret this either.”

And just like that, the ache you didn’t even realize you were still carrying eases. Because he’s here. He stayed. He chose you. And every day since, he’s kept choosing you.

Above you, the stars twinkle—bright and infinite, like they’re bearing witness to the life you’ve built, to the love you’ve found again.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing a kiss against his temple.

He smiles, looking down at the life you made together. “I love you more.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fic #max verstappen #mv1 #mv33 #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #formula one #f1 x reader #✩ allie's writing ✩

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artficlly · 11 days ago

Note

Hello lovely! I heard you were taking requests, so maybe bucky barnes x depressed reader hurt comfort. with requests “Let me see. Please, just let me help.” and “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” maybe just comforting reader or even reader SH (ONLY IF YOU FEEL COMFORTABLE!! )

Have a great day! ☕️🍪

burnout [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader when a mission goes wrong, you revert to bad habits, much to bucky’s dismay

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, !SELF HARM!, please do not read if sh triggers you!, angst, death, blood, wound descriptions, hurt/comfort, fluff near the end, protective bucky, established relationship, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: hi lovely, i hope this is okay and that you enjoy. ngl i totally forgot about the depressed!reader part until i had written this and reread your request soooo oops sorry this is a lot more SH heavy than i thought it would be. been in a weird mood recently so maybe that contributed, lol? planning to write a very cute and fluffy request after this one. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

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You and Bucky had never said the ‘L’ word.

Love.

I love you.

Your relationship had always been strong, a quiet constant in your life. It had started slowly, lingering glances, late-night walks back from missions, casual coffee runs to the place Bucky swore had the best muffins in the city. ‘friend dates’, he’d call them. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment things shifted. Maybe it was the night the two of you stayed up watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reruns until dawn, only to wake up tangled together on the couch, too comfortable to move. Or maybe it started when you found yourself spending more nights at Bucky’s place than your own, helping him fumble through whatever mysterious recipe he’d picked from the new cookbook you gave him, only to end up dusted in flour, his handprints stamped like soft proof on your hips and waist. Or perhaps it was the moment he went dark on a mission, no comms, no updates, just a sinking feeling in your gut, and when he finally returned, stepping off a bullet-riddled quinjet, you kissed him in front of everyone. You didn’t care about the smug looks from the others. You were just relieved he was alive.

And now, sitting on the floor of your bathroom, knees hugged to your chest, contemplating the mess you’d made of yourself, of your career, of everything in the past twenty-four hours, you wondered if he ever could truly love you.

You didn’t feel lovable. You felt like a failure, well and truly a fuck up of a human being.

You knew Tony hadn’t meant the things he’d shouted at you during the debrief, not really, but that didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t quiet the echo of his words still reverberating through your bones. You knew the team was exhausted. Defeated. Grieving in the wake of a catastrophic mission. In your few short years as an Avenger, you’d already learned that for every victory, there were just as many failures, some more devastating than others. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t entirely your fault. You’d all been doomed from the start, ambushed, outnumbered, overwhelmed. It was a miracle any of you made it out alive.

Still, twelve didn’t.

Twelve agents, gone forever.

Twelve sets of eyes you had slowly watched fade, twelve bodies you watched grow blue and cold, twelve families who would never see their loved ones, twelve families who were likely receiving the news now. It hadn’t been enough.

You hadn’t been enough.

You ran through it in your head endless times on the Quinjet back. You’d done everything you could. Pushed yourself to the brink until your magic sputtered and died, until your limbs trembled and your vision turned to stars. Until all you could do was fall to your knees and watch it happen. Watch them go.

You had tried desperately to explain in the debrief, practically pleading with Tony as the room turned into a warzone of insults and frustration.

‘I can only be in so many places at once! There were too many. I did what I could, I tried, but my magic has limits. I have limits!’

Tony had stared you down with a look of disgust. He was still in his suit, dirt and blood smeared on his face, dust and grit gathered in his brows and beard.

‘Yeah, well, if you can’t handle it, if you can’t keep up, maybe you shouldn’t be an Avenger at all.’

The air had vanished from the room in an instant. And in that silence, a part of you decided they all agreed with him, that they all hated you. The eight surviving agents sat motionless, watching the argument unfold with haunted thousand-yard stares. Even Natasha and Sam couldn’t quite meet your eye.

‘Maybe we need another healer.’ Tony had spat, and your face had crumpled. ‘One who can handle what we’re asking of them.’

You barely registered Natasha’s voice, ‘You’re being too harsh, Tony’, as you fled the room, shame burning hotter than the tears you refused to let fall.

Now here you were, still stained with blood and filth, unable to breathe under the weight of it all.

You stared at the bathroom tiles, blinking through tears, chest aching like something was caving in from the inside. Every breath felt like a struggle, like your body didn’t want to keep going if your mind wouldn’t fight for it. You weren’t even sure when the small paring knife from the kitchen ended up in your hand. You’d taken it with you without thinking, without planning, like your body was moving on some quiet, desperate instinct.

You turned it over in your palm, watching how the metal caught the light.

It was a bad habit, you knew that. One you thought you’d buried years ago.

One of the first times you and Bucky had been intimate, he’d noticed the faint scars that lined your thighs and hips. The marks were in places no one was meant to see. You hadn’t expected to be seen. He had asked about them only once.

‘What are these?’

You had answered honestly. ‘I was in pain. And I didn’t know how else to make it stop. Hurting myself was the only thing that made sense.’

He hadn’t judged you, hadn’t pulled away. His brow had furrowed, and in all his frustrating kindness and understanding, he had simply kissed them.

You wondered where Bucky was now. He hadn’t been on the mission, he was off helping Steve train the agents. You wondered how he’d react when he heard the news. When he learned that so many of the agents he’d personally trained were gone because you hadn’t been enough. Would he hate you for it? Pity you? Look at you with that same flicker of disgust Tony hadn’t bothered to hide?

Your hand shook as you raised the knife, but there was no hesitation. You pressed the blade to your wrist. A sob slipped out, trembling and thin, as the edge bit deeper, pain flared through your nerves, burning like fire. You squeezed your fingers into a fist, muscles twitching beneath the metal as if it were trying to shy away. You dragged the blade up your forearm vertically, watching how the blood welled up and spilt across your skin in a crimson rush.

You stopped only when you reached the crook of your elbow, breath hitching as you watched the blood drip onto the cold white tiles, pooling in the grout like spilt wine. The pain in your chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, it throbbed harder, your breathing ragged and shallow.

Your magic spluttered to life, hesitant and fragile after hours of overuse. You felt it in the searing coil deep in your gut, in the ache threading through your shoulders. You were moments away from collapse. A thin sweat clung to your brow, the salty sting mixing with tears as you pressed your thumb into the fresh wound you’d carved.

A sharp hiss escaped your lips as the flesh began to knit under your touch. Healing had never been painless. The manipulation of blood and bone was something unnatural, meant to be a weapon just as much as it was a remedy. Muscle pulled tight beneath your skin, twitching and resisting, as your magic forced the edges closed. By the time you reached the tender crook of your elbow, you were sobbing again, jaw clenched hard against the searing pain. But after one final pass, it was done. All that remained was a thin, raised scar tracing your forearm and the evidence of your lapse in the form of blood smeared across the tiles.

Your brow furrowed, and you struck again. You needed to feel it. You needed to understand. What was the point of surviving if you couldn’t prove your worth? If you couldn’t push past fear and failure? If you couldn’t protect the people who counted on you?

Your teeth ached from the pressure of your clenching jaw. Your head pounded, vision blurring at the edges. Still, you raised the knife again. Your skin was a patchwork now—angry, raw, blistered red with that fresh, pink scar where your magic had forced healing. You wanted to open it again. Just to feel. Just to remind yourself.

Your hands trembled. Your magic flickered weakly at your fingertips, barely more than a dying spark. Your body screamed for you to stop, muscles sluggish and mind thick with exhaustion, but you couldn’t hear it through the noise in your head.

You pressed the blade’s tip to your wrist.

And that’s when the apartment door slammed open.

“Hey!” Bucky’s voice called out, panicked. “Are you okay? I heard what happened—”

You froze.

Blood still warm, still trailing from your fingertips. The bathroom reeked of iron. You were crouched on the tiles, surrounded by red.

“Where are you?” he called again. “I know you’re home, your shoes are here—”

You scrambled to your feet, reaching blindly for a towel, anything to hide the mess. The knife clattered to the floor, the sound ringing like a gunshot in the stillness.

“Fuck—” you whispered.

Panic flared. Without thinking, you stumbled over your own feet, crashing to your knees as you tried to swing the bathroom door shut and lock it. But you were too late.

Bucky caught the door with ease, too fast for you to react. His eyes found you instantly, pale, shivering, feverish, crouched in a pool of blood. His expression shattered into alarm.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, breath catching in his throat.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice cracking. “Sweetheart.”

You let out a sob and folded forward, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing left in the world. His arms came around you without hesitation, cradling you against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—” you gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh. I know,” he whispered, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

Your face buried into his shirt, the warmth of his body soothing your fraying nerves as sobs tore out of you, raw and helpless. Shame burned beneath your skin like acid. You couldn’t hide, not from him, not like this.

“I’m here,” he whispered again into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t want this. I’m a mess, Buck. I’m broken—”

“You’re not broken,” he said fiercely. “You’re hurting. There’s a difference.”

Bucky didn’t move for a moment. Just stared down at you, breath caught somewhere between panic and heartbreak. His hands hovered, unsure of where to touch, not wanting to hurt you more than you already had. But then you looked up at him, shoulders trembling, and his instinct kicked in.

“Let me see,” he begged, voice rough. “Please, just let me help.”

Shame curled through your stomach as you drew your arm from behind your back, presenting the angry scar like a guilty confession. He didn’t flinch at the sight of the scar, nor the raw magic still flickering faintly beneath your skin like dying embers. His touch was impossibly gentle as he took your wrist in both hands, his thumb brushing the raised edge. You watched his expression twist, not in disgust, but in something quieter. Sadder.

“You healed it yourself?” he asked hoarsely. “Shit, sweetheart… You’re burning yourself out doing this. You already feel like you’ve got a fever, your magic’s drained, you’re shaking—”

“I have to,” you interrupted, voice brittle. “I need to push further. I need to suffer like they did. I need to feel it. Otherwise, how do I understand how I failed? How do I carry their pain if I don't take some of it into myself?”

He froze, as if your words physically struck him.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” his voice cracked. “Driving yourself into the ground just to prove you're useful? That you care? Everyone knows that you do your best, that you care more than any of us.”

You looked away. This was different. This wasn’t just exhaustion from overcasting. You cut this time. You bled. You fused your magic with an act you couldn’t explain, not even to yourself.

And now, even the scar throbbed with shame.

“You’ve always done this,” he went on, softer now. “Pushing your limits. Refusing to rest. Like every ounce of pain you feel somehow makes up for what you think you did wrong. But this…” He looked down at the mark again, his jaw tightening. “This is different. This isn’t just burning yourself out. You hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you choked, the words scraping up your throat. “It just…”

“You think suffering will make you worthy,” he said, quietly but firmly. “But you’re already worthy. And pain isn’t proof. It’s not some punishment you earn for failing.”

Your lip trembled. “It feels like it is.”

He gently reached up and cupped your cheek with a scarred hand, tilting your face toward him.

“I know that feeling,” he said. “Trust me, I know it better than anyone. But this isn’t the way. You don’t have to destroy yourself to prove something we all already know, that deep down you are a kind and caring person who works so incredibly hard to make sure we all return home safe.”

Your tears returned with fresh force, hot and relentless. You leaned into his palm when he cupped your cheek.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you choked out.

“I needed to,” he whispered. “So I could be here. So I could help.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just made a soft, broken sound and let yourself fall into his arms again.

“C’mon,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

He helped you up gently, arms steady as your legs threatened to give out. You were still shivering and pale. Feverish from the overuse of magic. He turned on the bath and tested the temperature.

“Let’s get you out of these,” he said gently, voice barely above a whisper.

You let him undress you with careful hands, peeling the soiled clothes from your skin one piece at a time. The fabric clung stubbornly in places, stiff with blood. Your own, and that of the agents you couldn’t save. You tried not to think about that, tried not to see their faces. Bucky said nothing as he kicked the clothes aside, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of pain in his eyes. You swallowed hard against the lump rising in your throat.

The bath burned as you sank into it, but beneath the sting was something else, relief. The kind that reached deep into your bones, unravelling the numbness that had wrapped around your limbs like ice. You exhaled shakily, sinking lower into the water as the steam curled around your face.

Bucky knelt behind you on a folded towel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He reached for your shampoo without asking, your favourite one, the expensive kind you only used on special occasions. You glanced back, surprised.

He caught your eye and offered a soft, crooked smile. “The one you wear to parties,” he murmured. “Smells like heaven. Drives me crazy every time.”

“You remember that?” you asked, blinking at him.

He gave a soft laugh. “I’ve watched you do this a hundred times.”

It was true, you always took longer than him to get ready. He never minded. He’d lean in the doorway, smirking or pretending to sigh dramatically like some love-struck puppy while you did your makeup. You’d catch his gaze through the mirror as you smoothed on your lipstick, always choosing the brightest shade so that it would leave a mark on his cheek when you kissed him. And he would linger too close under the guise of helping, fingertips grazing up your arms as you asked him to zip your dress, his calloused hands pausing a moment too long at the nape of your neck when he swept your hair aside to clasp a necklace. He touched you like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to, like every moment near you was something he didn’t want to end.

His fingers worked the shampoo through your hair in slow, soothing circles, like he had all the time in the world. The scent of lavender bloomed in the steamy air, wrapping around your frayed nerves like a balm. He rinsed, then repeated with conditioner, combing gently through each tangle with care.

The rhythmic motion lulled you. Your head dipped forward, eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion tugged at you like a tide. You forced your hand to move, dragging a washcloth over your limbs just to stay conscious, present. Bucky didn’t speak, not really, just soft hums under his breath, the occasional brush of his knuckles down your spine to let you know he was still there.

By the time the water had cooled and your skin was no longer flushed with fever, he helped you stand. Your legs trembled beneath you like a newborn deer, unsteady and aching, and you sagged into the towel he wrapped around your shoulders.

“I’ll find you something comfortable,” he said as he helped guide you back to your room.

You dressed slowly, your skin prickling with fresh warmth. When you stepped into the kitchen, wearing one of his old sweatshirts that reached mid-thigh and a pair of fluffy socks.

But it was the sight that greeted you in the kitchen that nearly undid you.

Bucky was standing at the counter, flipping through one of your old cookbooks, the one you’d dog-eared and tabbed over the years with sticky notes and scribbles. He was studying every note you'd left in the margins.

The lump returned to your throat.

“I figured we’d eat in bed,” he said casually, glancing up when he sensed you hovering near the island. “Watch something dumb. That sound good?”

You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah. That sounds… good.”

He turned to look at you, really look at you. Something in his expression shifted, softened. Without a word, he crossed the room and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You melted into him. Arms wrapped tightly around his waist like he was the only thing tethering you to the world.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you had the sense to stop yourself. You didn’t look up, couldn’t.

For a heartbeat, you braced for the silence. For the stillness he sometimes slipped into when feelings got too loud.

But it never came.

Instead, he held you closer, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he voiced a low murmur against your damp hair.

“I love you more.”

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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halsteadlover · 2 months ago

Text

𝐀𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐞

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Jay Halstead x Fem!Reader.

• Requested by @hart-kinsella: Basically, the fan fic could be set at one of Jay's Intelligence colleagues' wedding and mc is one of the bride's closest friends; the bride wants to set her up with one hot cop (could also be one who works on patrol). It could either be that the 'chosen' guy is not Jay, but then mc and Jay naturally connect at the reception (maybe through her wanting to avoid the guy she's set up with) or Jay being the 'set up' guy from minute 1 and them just meeting there (with the usual embaressement that comes from friends insisting you should get together) and hitting it off immediately.

• Warnings: curse words/strong language, mention of alcohol consumption, lots of tension and physical contact, heavy making out, suggestive at the end.

• Word count: 8.8k

• A/N: PLEASE READ ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+ DUE TO SUGGESTIVE THEMES. The way I was so excited about this fic but I reread it and now I hate it why am I like this 😭 Let me know in the comments what do you think about this one, I love you all ❤️

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you said to Kim as you watched her sip the champagne from her glass, her huge ring shining against the lights of the room.

She was radiant, a smile plastered on her lips as wide as you had ever seen her in all the time you were friends. She was happy and your heart exploded with joy seeing her finally have her happy ending with Adam, especially after everything they’ve been through.

She looked beautiful in her white wedding dress and you couldn’t hide the tears of happiness you shed when you saw her walk down the aisle, a radiant smile on her lips. Adam looked at her with eyes so bright and full of love it made you wonder if there’d ever be someone who’d look at you like that, as if you were the only person who mattered, as if without you he couldn’t even breathe.

“Of course it’s a good idea! There’s nothing better than a blind date with a hot cop,” she finished sipping her champagne and set it down on the tray as a waiter walked by, thanking him immediately after. “You don’t trust me? Have I ever let you down on the men front?”

You didn’t respond, just looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay there might’ve been some unfortunate meetings but this won’t be the case. Please, please, please. I swear he’s a really cute and good guy!” She begged, putting on her cute puppy face that not even the devil could resist.

Little bitch.

You sighed and rolled your eyes and that was enough to make her clap her hands with joy. “Only because it’s your day.”

“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

The fact was you were already regretting it.

You had never been very good at blind dates, you hated not knowing who you were going to talk to and spend the evening with, you wanted to be able to decide first if you liked that person. What if you didn’t like him, or if he didn’t like you? It would’ve been very awkward.

Actually, it was. It was definitely awkward.

Kim had pointed out from afar a man who was talking to Adam—ignoring how the latter was watching Kim without ever taking his eyes off her even while talking to other people—and you took your time to observe him.

He was a tall man, from behind you noticed his ash blonde hair and a statuesque body that was embraced by a tuxedo. Without even saying anything, Kim grabbed your hand and dragged you towards them, ignoring your signs of protest.

You were so nervous and you hated it.

And it certainly didn’t help that Kim had made it her mission to pair you up with someone, since you were the only single girl in your group of friends.

But you were happy, you weren’t lonely, you were fine being alone and that was important, you didn’t need a man by your side to determine your happiness. You defined your own happiness.

“Hi babe,” Kim greeted her husband, who smiled before sliding his arm around her hips and kissing her. The two of them were so in love it was almost disgusting. “Sorry I was rude. Caleb, I wanted you to meet my friend.”

Your cheeks flushed red as you felt the man’s gaze on you. “Oh so you’re the famous Y/n right? I’ve heard so much about you.”

God please have mercy.

“I hope only good things,” you replied with a smile and offered him your hand, which he immediately shook. The way his eyes moved up and down your body made your skin crawl, and the smirk he had plastered across his lips as he looked at you didn’t suggest anything good.

You pulled your hand away, forcing a smile as he started to speak, and cursed both Kim and Adam when you saw them sneak away, both giggling as they left you alone with that guy.

As they say, a woman’s sixth sense is like a gift, it never fails.

And it didn’t even take half an hour of talking to Caleb to realize he was self-centered and you’d never see him again. He talked your ear off as if you’d known each other your whole life, focusing mostly on him, his work, the gym, his exploits. You nodded every now and then, just to give him the impression you were listening when in reality your mind had dissociated after the first ten minutes of conversation.

And by conversation you obviously meant monologue.

He didn’t ask you anything, and by nothing you really meant nothing, not how old you were, your job, your hobbies, in short the simple questions one asks when one is getting to know another.

You looked around bored, cursing Kim and yourself with every fiber of your being for letting yourself being dragged—for the million time— in a situation you didn’t want to be in.

You decided you’d never take a single piece of her advice about men ever again.

“Once, when I was still on patrol, there was a robbery a few blocks away. I was alone and when I got there the thief was already running. I’ll make this short but even the commander congratulated me…”

You were trying really hard to listen to him but every time you tried to pay attention, he was still talking about himself. It was hard to follow his conversation/monologue without being fascinated by some random spot in the room like the chandelier.

Caleb was a beautiful man, that was objective. He was tall, broad-shouldered, he had a sculpted physique, defined jaw, eyes as blue as the sky. But beauty wasn’t everything, not when his character was similar to a mollusk.

“Hey baby, here you are, I’ve been looking for you for a while,” a male voice reached your ears from behind and you almost had a heart attack when you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. You snapped your head towards the man, finding yourself in front of one of the most beautiful man you’d ever see.

Forget Caleb, who the hell was this man?

You froze, having no idea what to say or do. Who the hell was he? What did he want?

“Sorry it took so long but the line for the bathroom was endless,” the stranger continued and you tried with every fiber of your being to remain impassive. Your body was tense as a violin string as you tried to subtly move away from his grasp.

Breathtaking or not, you didn’t know him.

“Baby? You have a boyfriend? Kim told me you were single,” Caleb exclaimed almost indignantly, alternating his gaze between you and the stranger. You thanked God he was a second-rate cop and had the detective skills of a hamster or he would’ve seen from a mile away this was the first time you’d seen that man around you.

“Oh, well this is pretty new not many people know about us, but we’ve been seeing each other for a while. Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company—”

“Caleb.”

“Carl. Thanks,” the stranger held out a hand and Caleb looked at it before looking back at you and walking away without a word, a furious expression on his face.

You didn’t even bother following him because damn, you were so relieved you got him out of the way.

The stranger’s gaze was on you even though he had removed his arm from around you.

“Well, I guess you need to work on your acting skills but it went well right?”

You widened your eyes, still confused about what the hell was going on. “Who are you?”

“Oh you’re welcome, I didn’t just save you from the most boring date of your life,” he smirked.

You continued to look at him, confused, embarrassed and unable to form a coherent sentence. Who the hell was this man? And why was he so breathtakingly handsome? And why did he just pretend to be your boyfriend?

He held out a hand towards you, a smirk plastered across his lips, acting like he hadn’t just pretended to be in a relationship with a stranger. “I’m Jay Halstead. You must be Y/n right? It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Jay? Why does this sound familiar?

You widened your eyes, not even trying to hide your expression of fear and shock. “How do you know my name?” You asked, taking a step back, ready to run away.

His gaze softened, understanding he must’ve really looked like a stalker. “Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you, I work with Kim in Intelligence. She mentioned you a couple of times and I assumed it was you since you’re the only one of her friends I’ve never met.”

Then you realized why his name was familiar to you. Kim—when talking about her job—had sometimes mentioned a ‘Jay’ and it was nice to finally be able to associate the face with that name, especially if the face was that one.

God he’s so hot.

“Listen,” he continued, raising his hands in surrender, a drink in the left one, “I’m not a stalker I swear—I came off in the wrong way. I just saw you from afar while you were talking to Carl, and you seemed to be in trouble so I thought I’d help. Let’s start over, shall we?”

You tried not to chuckle at the way he got Caleb’s name wrong and stared at him for a moment. He maintained eye contact, his irises locked on yours with no sign of changing direction. You had only just noticed how green his eyes were and you didn’t know why, but something inside you made you no longer want to run away.

You nodded and he smiled triumphantly and, God, he had one of the most beautiful smiles you had ever seen. He held out a hand to you again. “I’m Jay, nice to meet you.”

You tried to suppress a smile of your own and you clasped his hand. “It’s Y/n, the pleasure is mine.”

That handshake sent a spark up your entire arm, not in the cliché kind of way, but in the way that made you feel your body suddenly enveloped in a wave of heat.

He didn’t let go of your hand right away, but you didn’t care. You liked it, you liked the way his grip was strong, firm, confident, but his touch soft at the same time. You liked how his palm felt rough against yours but his skin was warm, a stark contrast to yours.

His thumb skimmed against the back of your hand before he pulled it away, bringing the glass to his lips with his other hand and taking a sip of his drink. All without him ever breaking eye contact with you.

This single innocent gesture left you breathless.

Did I mention he’s so damn hot and sexy?

He looked at you with curiosity, as if he had already decided that from now on his attention would be solely on you.

“This is the part where I have to thank you for saving me from an embarrassing date, isn’t it?”

His eyes flickered for a second on your lips as you spoke and he subtly took a deep breath, taking another sip of his drink. You pretended it didn’t affect you in the slightest even though your stomach had just flipped.

“You not filing a complaint against me is a great thank you,” Jay replied making you laugh, “and besides, I should be the one thanking Kim.”

You tilted your head slightly to the side, looking at him with a questioning expression. “Kim? Why?”

“For setting you up with the wrong guy, might’ve missed my shot otherwise.”

You burst out laughing again and rolled your eyes. “C’mon Jay, is that the best you can do?”

“Ouch,” he put his hand to his chest as if he was in pain. “That really hurt, I may be rusty but I’m not that bad c’mon.”

You smirked. “You’ll survive officer.”

“Nuh, uh. It’s detective, please.”

“My bad, I apologize Detective,” it was your turn to raise your hands in surrender. “But seriously, thank you for saving me from whatever that was.”

He smiled softly at you. “It was a pleasure. You were a couple seconds away from pulling the fire alarm to escape, I couldn’t just stay there and do nothing.”

“Oh, so you make a habit of being a knight and saving damsels in distress?”

“Nah, only the ones that are worth saving,” he replied, and you laughed, feeling that anxious and nervous feeling fade away as you continued to converse—for real this time—with Jay.

“I could’ve gotten away with it, you know,” you crossed your arms and Jay’s eyes flickered, for a millisecond, to your chest, specifically the neckline of your dress.

“Please,” he raised an eyebrow, “if he had kept talking any longer you would’ve ripped your hair out.”

“Stop you’re so dramatic, that’s not true at all,” you rolled your eyes—even though it was the truest thing you had ever heard—making him chuckle. “What’s your poison?” You nodded to his drink as he brought it to his lips and took a sip.

A teasing smile caressed his lips and then it was your turn flicking your gaze to his mouth. You had tried to resist but damn it was so hard. “Bourbon, neat. Effective right?”

You raised an eyebrow, mirroring his playful energy. “Is efficient a new fancy way of saying banal and predictable?”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound so low and warm it made your insides squirm. “Probably,” he countered, “but it’s still a classic.” He slightly tilted his head to the side as his green eyes roamed along your body, lingering for a moment on your dress before meeting your gaze again. You felt every inch of your skin catch fire under his eyes and you couldn’t help but compare Jay’s gaze to Caleb’s, which only made your skin crawl instead. “But it’s not for you. I think you’re more of a champagne kind of woman.”

At that same moment, by pure coincidence, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses passed not far from you. Jay stopped him and took it, before offering it to you. You blushed, before taking it, your fingers brushing against him. “Thank you.”

You lifted your glass towards him, a quiet smile playing on your lips. “To Kim and Adam,” you said.

“To Kim and Adam,” he repeated voice low and smooth. He raised his glass to meet you, the soft clink echoing between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke—his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. It was just a toast, simple and harmless, but the way he was looking at you? Nothing about it felt simple.

“So, you’re a champagne type of woman,” he smirked.

“Guilty,” you shrugged your shoulders. “But what can I say? I like little sparkle in my life.”

You took another sip of champagne and that time it was your gaze that roamed along his body, perfectly wrapped in the tux he was wearing—over the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his dress shirt stretched just right across his chest.

Man, he looked so good it had to be illegal.

When your eyes returned to his you noticed the way he clenched his jaw and the slightest twitch of his lips as he looked at you, as if he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t mind a bit.

His fingers flexed around his glass and a sexy smirk appeared on his lips, his eyes shining like the moon in the night. He slightly tilted his head to the side, his index finger brushing along the rim of his glass in a slow, absent-minded motion—like he was thinking about something he probably shouldn’t say out loud. “A little spark huh? And here I thought I was bringing the spark.”

You giggled. Yep, actually giggled. “Oh yeah? So that’s what you’re doing?”

“If you’re asking me then I’m not doing a good job,” he retorted, with a fake sad expression acting like he just wiped a tear, “you’re hurting me so much tonight.”

“Oh, you poor thing, I’d hate to bruise that big ego of yours.” You placed a hand on his bicep and caressed it in mock comfort and, fuck, you had to use every fiber of your body to not squeeze and feel up his muscles.

He tensed under your touch, his breath hitching in his throat feeling of your hand on him.

His lips curved into a slow, lazy smile—the kind that sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drew, his voice dropping just a notch lower. “I can take a hit. Besides…” His gaze swept over you again, slower this time—unapologetic. “Something tells me it’s worth it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop the smile threatening to break free, but to no avail. He was too good at this—too smooth, too charming, but damn if it wasn’t working.

“Careful Detective Halstead someone might think you’re flirting with me,” you smirked, taking another sip of your champagne.

He shortened the distance between you, subtly and not too noticeably, but you felt his presence, his scent enveloping you fully, more than it had done so far. “Luckily I don’t care about anyone but the person I’m talking to right now,” he replied, “and they’d be right because that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

The air between you grew heavier—not uncomfortable but charged with something unspoken. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the noise of the wedding reception fading into a distant hum. You should’ve looked away, said something to break the tension, but you didn’t want to.

You’ve never felt anything like this, being so damn attracted to a man you were dying to kiss him, to touch him.

“So confident,” you murmured. You tried to keep your eyes on his, but you couldn’t, not when his mouth was not too far from yours. “And here I thought you were just being nice.”

He chuckled, his voice low and deep. “Trust me sweetheart, there’s nothing nice about what I’m thinking right now.”

You took another sip, hoping to steady the warmth curling low in your stomach. Why were your legs suddenly turning to jelly?

“So…” you started, arching a brow in an attempt to shift the focus back on him, “do you flirt like this with every girl you save, or am I just special?”

Jay’s smile widened and he took a slow sip of his bourbon before answering. “You tell me,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Do you feel special?”

Damn him.

You laughed softly, shaking your head and taking a deep breath at the same time. “You’re trouble, Halstead.”

He didn’t deny it. “And yet, you’re still talking to me,” he pointed out, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What does that say about you?”

“That I make questionable decisions?”

Jay let out another quiet laugh, but this one felt different—lower, warmer. “Or maybe,” he murmured, leaning in a bit towards you, “you’re exactly where you want to be.”

And the truth? You weren’t sure you could argue with that because he was right, you were where you wanted to be.

You finished the rest of your glass in a single sip because there were two possibilities, this or jump on him and you couldn’t already do that considering you had just met him.

He was throwing you off so much it left you speechless and it wasn’t like you. You didn’t know if you loved it or hated it.

He chuckled as he continued to look at you, as if he had just read your mind.

Your guardian angel, Kim—who you’d thank for the rest of your life from that moment on—appeared at that exact moment, interrupting the game of glances between you and Jay that was becoming too intense for your own good.

“Jay! Y/n? Where’s Caleb?” She asked, visibly excited and smiling.

“I have no idea, courtesy of my fake boyfriend here,” you nodded at Jay who chuckled sexily.

How could laughter be so sexy?

“We need to talk about your questionable taste in men Kim, what kind of rat did you want her to be paired with?” He joked one hand shoved into his pants pocket while the other held his almost empty glass.

“Hey, don’t talk to my wife like that, I’d say she made a good choice in men,” Adam suddenly intervened, wrapping his arm around Kim’s hips and pressing a kiss to her temple. The sight warmed your heart, making you smile like an idiot.

“So, you’ve already introduced yourselves,” Kim continued, alternating her gaze between you and Jay but with a sinister smirk on her lips.

You and Jay exchanged a quick knowing look. “Yeah, he saved me from the mess that was Caleb. And by the way, I’m never listening to you ever again Kim, don’t do that to me again.”

“You two look so good together,” Kim blurted out and giggled, visibly tipsy. “Don’t you think they look hot together honey?”

“Okay that’s enough, let’s get back to dancing,” Adam chimed in again, struggling to contain his laughter, before dragging his wife away.

Before she left though Kim came back to you and whispered, “I was watching you two from afar there’s so much sexual tension between you two that even I got turned on.”

Your cheeks turned on fire but before you could respond Adam finally dragged her away, leaving you alone with Jay again.

He let out a light laugh, and you turned your head towards him. “Do I want to ask you what she said?”

You shook your head, taking another sip of champagne as you still heard her words echoing in your head. “Nope.”

He looked at you for a moment, his eyebrow raised. “Kim really does have questionable matching skills, I take it this isn’t the first time with Carl,” he said, changing the subject.

“You have no idea,” you rolled your eyes, “my brain can’t comprehend how she managed to match me with these men and not one of them was normal.”

“Well, have you thought that maybe they weren’t the problem?”

You gasped in fake shock and elbowed him in the side, and he pretended to be in excruciating pain, making you laugh at the show he was putting on. “I could arrest you for assault on a police officer you know that right? You’d look really pretty in a prison uniform.”

“You think I’ll look cute in handcuffs too?”

What the fuck?! Where the hell did that come from?

Jay, who was taking his last sip of bourbon, chocked on it and started coughing after the liquor went down the wrong way and, although you were embarrassed by the stupidity of that statement, the scene was pretty hilarious.

“You good? Should I call a doctor? What happened?” You teased him, trying to hold back your laughter but failing miserably.

“You know damn well what happened,” he retorted with mock annoyance even as the smile on his lips belatedly came. “And pretty wouldn’t even come close to how good you’d look in handcuffs if you really wanted an answer, but that’s something we’ll talk about later.”

You blushed, once again, from head to toe and hated yourself for this reaction and how easily he could see it. “Later? Who says there’s gonna be a ‘later’?”

He smirked down at you, and it was so sexy it made your head spin. “Trust me there will be.”

“You’re so cocky detective.”

Jay leaned in just a fraction, enough that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you—something warm and woodsy, with a hint of spice. “Only when I’m sure about something,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less intense.

His words hung in the air, thick and heavy, and you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. You could've played it cool, thrown back a quip, but the way he was looking at you made your pulse skip in a way that was impossible to ignore.

His gaze dropped to your lips again—just for a second—but it was enough to send a fresh wave of heat curling through your body.

“C’mon,” he said suddenly, holding out a hand towards you. “You owe me a dance.”

You lifted a brow. “Do I?”

Jay shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I did save you from Carl. Seems only fair.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile that broke free as you slipped your hand into his. “Alright, Detective,” you quipped, “but only because you asked so nicely.”

His fingers curled around yours—firm, warm, just the right amount of possessive. And as he led you toward the dance floor, you realized something else: you didn’t want to let go.

The music shifted as you reached the edge of the dance floor—something slower, smoother, the kind of song that practically begged for two people to be just a little too close.

Exactly what you wanted.

Jay didn’t hesitate. His hand slid easily to your waist, fingers splayed warm and wide on the small of your back as he pulled you against him, close enough to send all your senses into a tizzy.

It had been hard until now, but this? Being so close to him that you could even count his eyelashes? It was devastating.

You couldn’t even recognize yourself, you’d never found yourself craving a man’s touch so badly, like you needed it to breathe, and in that moment you realized you’d only met the wrong people because, fuck, you were missing out.

“You good with this?” he murmured in your ear, his voice just for you. Low. Intimate. And there was something in the way he asked—like he cared, but also like he already knew your answer.

You nodded, hoping he didn’t feel the way your heart was beating against his chest. Your bodies began to sway in time to the slow music, like you’d done it a million times, like he wasn’t a stranger to you and you a stranger to him.

You didn’t know anything about the man, and he didn’t know anything about you, but you were so drawn to each other it almost drove you crazy.

As you engaged in small talk, you tried not to focus on how close he was—on how his thumb brushed against your back every time he shifted—but it was impossible. Especially when every slight movement seemed to make the space between you shrink.

He asked about you, what do you do for a job or in your free time, how old were you, how long have you known Kim, you asked about him and his life, and it was crazy how, even though you had known each other for literally a short time, you both felt comfortable talking to each other, joking and laughing when you both made terrible jokes.

“You’re really giving me a hard time,” he said, his fingers flexing on your hip.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, realizing how he was already looking at you. There wasn’t any trace of humor left, his eyes were staring at you, but they weren’t focused on yours exactly, they traveled along your face as if he was analyzing you, memorizing every feature and detail.

“Why?” You asked and his eyes flickered on your lips. He continued to caress your hip unconsciously, your bodies pressed against each other and with every slight movement you could feel the heat between you intensifying.

“Because I’m trying so hard to behave and be a gentleman but it’s getting really hard,” he answered softly, his voice raspy, his breath an inch from your lips. “And I hate not being in control.”

You stopped breathing for a second and a shiver ran down your spine. It would’ve been so easy to break that distance, it would’ve only taken a couple of inches and his mouth would’ve been on yours to finally satisfy that visceral attraction that was pulling you towards each other.

And you most likely would’ve let him do it if it hadn’t been for Kim who, with her usual perfect timing, had grabbed your arm, totally drunk and with a beaming smile.

“C’mon Y/n, we have to dance together!” she exclaimed loudly, jumping up and down with an enthusiasm you had never seen in her as she continued to pull on your arm without even leaving you room to protest.

Jay’s arm was still around your hip, though his grip wasn’t as firm as it had been before, and you hated to admit it, but you already missed that touch.

It seemed mutual because you felt him tense for a moment, his fingers reluctant to release their grip on you, as if he also hated the idea of letting you go. But eventually he did, slowly, the heat of his hand still burning through your dress and against your skin even after you’d pulled away.

“Don’t go too far,” he whispered in your ear, quiet enough to make it seem like a secret between the two of you.

And as Kim dragged you through the crowd to the beat of a more upbeat song, you turned to him and gave him one last look. Jay was still there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, his hands stuffed in his pockets, that intense gaze still fixed on you. He winked at you before you disappeared into the crowd and you almost tripped on your own feet.

Oh my fucking god.

Jay leaned against a wall, his hands still in his pockets, one foot placed in front of the other. In other moments he wouldn’t have waited to take another drink, but that night he wanted to be as sober as possible.

His gaze was fixed on the crowd of people dancing on the dance floor, but not on everyone, his eyes scanned the people only for one person in particular. He cursed those disco strobe lights because, in those dim lights, it was not easy to find you.

But when he finally did, his attention was focused only and solely on you, not on the music, not on the world around him.

You were laughing now, spinning with Kim on the dance floor, some strands of your hair coming out of your hairstyle as you moved to the music. He should’ve backed away. Hell, he’d spent years perfecting that skill, knowing when to pull back, where to avoid getting too close, perceive when there was danger. But with you? It wasn’t that easy.

It hadn’t been from the second he laid eyes on you, when he saw you enter the wedding venue with some of your friends.

He didn’t know what kind of witchcraft you had performed on him but he seemed to not be able to stop looking at you. His gaze tracked the curve of your smile and the movement of your lips as you sang along the song, the flush on your skin from the warmth of the room, and the way your dress hugged your figure just enough to make his thoughts stray somewhere they shouldn’t.

He told himself to get it together—to stop looking at you like a creepy stalker—but it was a losing battle, he seemed hypnotized.

And when you tipped your head back, laughing at something Kim said, Jay swore under his breath.

He was in trouble.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just the way you looked—although you were one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—it was the way you felt. Warm and soft against him when you danced, your hand fitting so easily in his. The way you leaned into his touch, like part of you wanted him closer, even when you were pretending otherwise.

It almost scared him how he found himself talking, laughing and joking so easily with a stranger he had just met.

But he wanted more of that. More of you.

And that realization hit him harder than it should’ve.

Jay exhaled slowly, willing the tension in his chest to ease. It didn’t work. Not when you turned your head as you kept dancing, scanning the room as if you were searching for something, or someone.

And when your eyes locked, his heart gave a sharp kick, one he didn’t truly expect. And the way you held his gaze? It did something to him.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile—small, almost shy—and damn if it didn’t make something twist low in his stomach. He should’ve been the one in control here, but with just one look, you had him pinned. And the worst part was that he didn’t mind.

Not even a little.

Your attention was caught again by one of your friends who pulled you towards her as you belted out the song in the background, breaking eye contact.

He tried to look away from you sometimes, focusing his attention on something else but it was as if his eyes were attracted to a magnet, you.

And maybe that was the problem.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this, wasn’t supposed to want someone he’d just met with this kind of heat and desire curling through his veins. But here he was, eyes on you, mind already running a dangerous path of wondering how you’d taste if he let himself get too close.

He was about to move—to do something, anything—but then Kim grabbed your hand again, spinning you around in a dizzy circle. Your laughter rang out, bright and carefree, while Jay just stood there against that wall.

He didn’t belong in this moment. Not really. A guy like him—weighted down by too much baggage, too many mistakes, a very dangerous job—had no business wanting you like this.

But God help him, he did.

When the song shifted to something louder and faster, you finally pulled back from Kim, breathless and glowing in a way that had no right to make his pulse pick up. Kim was already dragging Adam away, leaving you alone again, and for half a second, Jay thought this was his shot.

But then, just as quickly, you disappeared into the crowd.

And that shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. More than it had any right to.

Jay exhaled, dragging a hand through his face. He told himself to play it cool, to just let it go, but the thing was, he didn’t want to let it go. Let you go.

And if he had anything to say about it, this night wasn’t ending until he found you again.

Jay pushed himself off the wall, his pulse thudding a little harder than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t the type to chase after someone, not like this. But that night, he couldn’t seem to help himself. His eyes scanned the room, but the crowd was thicker now, people swaying to the music, bodies pressed too close.

You weren’t on the dance floor anymore. He knew that much. And the longer it took to find you, the harder it became to shake the restless feeling gnawing at the edges of his control.

Get a grip, Halstead.

He could’ve leave you alone. Should’ve, probably. But as he moved through the party he knew nothing would sit right until he saw you again.

And then, just when he started to think he’d lost you for good, he caught a sight of you through the open door leading to the balcony.

Jay hesitated, his hand curling into a fist at his side. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, all he knew was that the moment he saw you again, his mind quieted. And maybe that was reason enough.

Without giving himself time to second-guess, he stepped outside.

You were leaning against the railing, your back to him, the cool night air brushing against your bare shoulders. He let himself take in the sight of you for just a second longer—how the city lights reflected off your skin, how you tilted your head back like you were finally catching your breath.

You were breathtaking. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d get another chance to steal you away.”

You turned your head at the sound of his voice, and there it was again, that little smile. “Something tells me you love a good challenge Detective.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, nodding. “I feel like the reward will be worthy.”

He moved closer to you as he took off his jacket and placed it on your shoulders, leaving his hands there for a while as he let your scent engulf him. You then turned fully to face him and Jay didn’t miss the way your eyes roamed along his body, focusing for a moment on his chest, his arms, before looking back into his eyes.

“Oh so you really like me,” you joked, eyes still on him, slightly tilting your head but he couldn’t ignore the blush on your cheeks.

“Thought I made that pretty clear by now.”

And just like that, the tension stretched tight again, thicker this time but with the difference that nothing and no one would interrupt this time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The distant thump of music spilled through the open door, but out here? It felt like the rest of the world had faded away.

He closed the distance between you, never taking his eyes off yours. He tried to pull away, but it was as if he physically couldn’t, as if he needed it.

“And here I thought you’d even left the party.”

“You’re hurting me so much tonight, I’m not that bad at hitting on you c’mon.”

You giggled and bit your bottom lip. He found himself suppressing a groan because, damn, he had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted to bite your lip.

“Well,” you batted your lashes, “you’re definitely making it hard for me to leave now,” your eyes flicked to his lips before returning to his and he told himself to calm down but, God help him, if you did that again he’d lose every ounce of control he had left.

“I guess you found a good reason to stay then,” his tongue flicked across his bottom lip and he couldn’t miss the way your gaze landed on his lips, again. The light was dim, not very bright, but he could see so clearly how dilated your pupils were and it drove him crazy, knowing you felt the same.

“Is that so?” You murmured. He leaned closer to you and placed his hands on the railing at either side of you, trapping you in his arms but not touching you. Your breathing quickened at the closeness, your lips parted slightly as if you needed air, and that was enough to make his pulse quicken and the heat in his blood spike.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he taunted

You let out a quiet laugh, warm and soft, and something about the sound made his fingers itch to touch you again, so much so that he tightened his fingers around the cold metal of the railing.

You took his tie—which had been dangling between you—into your hands, and Jay seriously thought he was going to collapse at your feet at any moment. You hadn’t done anything too dramatic, but he felt like he was going to have an aneurysm. Just seeing your fingers caress the fabric of your tie, how you played with it while you continued to look at him, drove him crazy.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” you repeated under your breath the words he had said a few hours earlier. His hands were gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles were completely white from trying to vent the frustration he felt.

His fingers inched closer and closer to you, until the sides of his thumbs were brushing against your dress. God, how much he wanted to grab you, hold you and touch you, every inch of your body until the ground disappeared beneath you.

You didn’t pull away, if anything, you shifted closer, your warmth seeping into his skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked when he remained silent, staring at you while you continued to play with his tie.

“I think,” he murmured, his thumb sweeping slow circles against your pelvis’ side, “you’re gonna be a problem for me.”

The tension cracked, sharp and electric, and neither of you moved, like you were both waiting to see who’d break first.

“Maybe I want to be,” you admitted quietly.

That was all he needed.

Jay didn’t overthink it, he just moved, closing the last bit of space between you. His hand slid to your waist and made you stand upright, as he tilted his head down, giving you plenty of time to pull back.

But you didn’t.

You stayed right there, your breath warm against his skin as your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

“You’re making this impossible,” he said, his voice rougher now, low enough that only you could hear. His fingers flexed against your waist, dragging you closer without meaning to. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure anymore. “I’m trying so hard to be good, but—fuck.”

“But what?” you interrupted, your tone softer, breathier than before. His eyes snapped to yours, and the challenge in your gaze nearly broke him. “What happens if you stop trying?”

His breath hitched. Jesus Christ.

Jay let out a low, bitter laugh, because you weren’t making this any easier. And the worst part? You knew it. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, as his fingers trailed up, just slightly, brushing the curve of your ribs. It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Your lips parted, and for a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d call his bluff. But instead, you tilted your head, eyes fixed on his mouth like you were imagining the same damn thing he was.

“I really, really do,” you murmured. And that was it. That was the crack in the dam.

His other hand came up before he could stop himself, fingers grazing along your jaw, tilting your face toward his as his nose brushed against yours. “You have no idea how much I want you right now,” he admitted, no more games, no more teasing. Just raw, unfiltered truth. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “I don’t even know you but you’re driving me crazy. You have to stop me.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Instead, your lips curled into the faintest smile, bold, knowing, and it only fueled the fire already burning through his veins.

“The thing is, I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, leaning in just enough for your breath to brush against his lips, “I don’t want you to be good or patient.”

The words punched through his last shred of restraint like they were designed to. And for a beat, all he could do was look at you—at the flush on your skin, the way your chest rose and fell a little too fast.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he warned, though it came out rougher than he intended, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, slower than necessary.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” you shot back, quiet but sure—so sure—and, fuck, he was done for.

He wanted to win that little silent race, to see you snap but the truth was that he had lost from the start, he had no chance of winning.

So, when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t an attempt.

It was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, in case it was the last time. The faintest hint of champagne lingered on your lips, but beneath it was something that made his heart slam harder against his ribs.

You kissed him back like you wanted this just as much as he did, your hands sliding up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, making his jacket fall on the floor.

And Jay? He let himself fall into it. Into you.

Jay’s lips moved against yours, slow and thorough, but nothing about the way he touched you felt careful. His hands slid along your waist, fingers pressing into the curve of your hip, squeezing you like he was memorizing the shape of you. Every brush of his skin against yours sent sparks racing through your body, and the heat pooling low in your stomach only grew stronger with each passing second.

His palms flattened against your lower back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies, until you could feel how much he really wanted you. He was warm, solid—everywhere—and the way he held you made your breath hitch.

You tugged lightly on the back of his neck. The muscles beneath your fingers were tense, and a shudder ran through him as your nails scraped gently against his skin. His breath hitched in response, and something about knowing you could unravel him like this made the heat in your blood burn hotter.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. His lips brushed over yours again, lingering like he was savoring the taste of you. But his hands, God, his hands, were anything but patient.

His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up your spine, skimming beneath the hem of your dress as he went. The warmth of his touch against your bare skin felt a sharp, delicious shiver curling through you, and when his hand settled at the small of your back again, his grip tightened, so possessive like he wanted to keep you exactly where you were.

And you wanted to stay there.

You wanted more.

Your body arched instinctively into his, and Jay swore softly under his breath, his hold on you turning rougher, like he was losing the battle to keep himself in check. His fingers flexed at your hip, sliding lower, almost touching your ass before skimming back up, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

And when your hand drifted from his neck to the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric, you felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm. His heart was racing and the realization felt another jolt of heat spiraling through you.

“Jay,” you breathed against his mouth, in such an intense and desperate tone, as if you needed him and his distance hurt you, and his response was immediate. His lips crashed back onto yours with a hunger that stole your breath, and the slow, careful rhythm shattered beneath the weight of all that tension.

He kissed you harder now, deeper. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and when you opened up for him, he groaned softly, a low, desperate sound that made your knees go weak.

His hand slid higher, dragging up your side, fingers brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ribs. He didn’t stop there. He traced the outline of your body desperately, knuckles grazing the side of your breast before his palm flattened against your ribcage, holding you firmly against him.

“Is this okay?” He whispered against your lips.

“Yes, god, yes please Jay,” you whispered back and damn, if your breathy voice hadn’t completely destroyed him. He loved seeing you as desperate for him as he was for you.

He kissed you again. “You’re driving me insane,” he murmured against your lips, and there was no teasing left in his voice. Just raw need. “I can’t—If you want me to stop say it because I fucking can’t.”

The response to those words of his was the way you grabbed his face and crashed your lips onto his again. “I don't want you to stop.”

Whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to snapped completely.

Jay’s hands tightened on your waist as he backed you against the wall, pressing you there like he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

His lips left yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. He didn’t stop when he reached your neck. Instead, he tilted your head gently to the side, giving himself more access as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat and making you sigh in pleasure.

And when his teeth graced that sensitive spot just below your ear, you couldn’t hold back the soft sound that escaped your lips.

Jay froze at the sound—just for a second to control himself before he’d come in his pants. He groaned low in his throat, his mouth returning to yours in a kiss that was rougher now, messier, hungrier. Like hearing you fall apart pushed him over the edge.

One arm was around your waist as he held you so tightly it was almost impossible to move, while the other hand slid down, fingers spreading wide across your thigh. His thumb brushed slow circles against the sensitive skin there, inching higher with every pass. “Tell me to stop, and I will, okay?” he repeated.

But the way he touched you, the way his mouth lingered on yours, made it painfully clear he didn’t want to stop.

And neither did you.

“If you stop now, I might actually lose my mind.”

He chuckled before kissing you again as you pulled him closer, tilting your head to deepen the kiss even further. Your hands cupped his face, his beard tickling your palms as he took your breath away completely.

He slid his hand up your thigh again, taking advantage of the slit of your dress to touch your skin, to squeeze it, to feel it, to press his fingers so deeply into it until they left their mark. He grabbed your leg and wrapped it around his waist, making his pelvis grind with yours and making you both moan into the kiss.

His lips trailed back down to your neck, licking and sucking every inch of skin he had access to. “I want you so fucking bad.” His breath was hot against your skin, and when he spoke again, his voice was nothing but a rough, desperate whisper.

“Oh my fucking god Jay,” you gasped, trying to keep your voice low as his hand slid on your ass, squeezing it until you almost moaned again. “I want you so much too… Please…”

His lips found yours again, a desperate, greedy kiss that only deepened the ache between you two. There was no hesitation, no slowing down. Every touch, every movement, felt like a need that couldn’t be contained. You could feel the heat rising between you, consuming both of you in a way that made everything else fade.

His hard dick pressed into you, and the pressure made your breath hitch, another moan escaping as you started to grind into him again. His mouth left yours only long enough to whisper your name, low, rough, like a command.

“God, I need to feel you,” he muttered against your skin, like he was about to break. His teeth grazed your ear before his lips closed around the sensitive spot just below it, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped again. It only turned him on even more, his hands moving and exploring every inch of you, as though he couldn’t get enough.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his back, his chest, pulling him even closer, matching the urgency of his movements. You wanted to rip that shirt off of him, you wanted to feel his skin under your fingers, touch him everywhere.

His lips trailed down to the curve of your shoulder, sucking gently as the strap of your dress slid down. The sensation made you pulse race beyond imagination, and you found yourself tugging at his shirt, eager to feel more of him.

“Jay, fuck,” you breathed again, voice trembling, and you pulled his face back to yours, crashing your lips together with the kind of hunger that mirrored his own. The kiss was messy, full of heat and need, and you lost yourself in it. You bit his lower lip, sucking it and making him groan. And, fucking hell, the sound was so sexy you felt it directly in your lower regions.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck Y/n,” he muttered desperately. His fingers brushing over the lace of your underwear before slipping inside, feeling how wet you were. The contact was electric, and the sharp moan you let out almost made him come in his pants. “Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips.

“Yes, shit… Oh… Oh god Jay you feel so good please don’t stop,” you moaned, your body moving on instinct, a desperate need for more, and the words only seemed to unravel him further.

There was no turning back now, and for once in your life, it felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

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bullmotif · 7 months ago

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nothing is stronger than the bond between a girl and that one critically acclaimed but probably not suited for kids manga she read as mentally ill middle schooler

#this is about steel ball run.every other year I reread the whole thing and it's never boring :')#but also evangelion.akira.nana.i read them all in 6th grade because my local library had them and I was never the same #ohhh and death note obviously (the anime) my personality fully revolved around that of L for months at a time...simpler years #steel ball run #jjba #neon genesis evangelion #need #nanak #akira #death note

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after-witch · 1 year ago

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Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.

Word count: 1787

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order

“Who is the smiling man?”

The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words.

But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took you away from this place. Away from Mahito.

Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting.

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again.

“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”

Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all.

The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes.

It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances.

It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.

Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly.

“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”

Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him.

“You write about him a lot.”

Oh.

Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug.

“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you.

You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book.

Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach.

“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”

You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter.

Bitter? But why?

He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.

“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.”

He takes a breath. Then--

“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”

Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.

All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own.

Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant.

And you… you actually glare up at him.

Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.

How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it.

“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.

And then--

Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.

But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.

That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.

“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”

This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.

Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”

Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.

He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”

But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.

It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.

“Why do you like him so much?”

How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.

Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.

“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”

Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face.

“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?

Mahito frowns.

“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.

“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.”

Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.

“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”

“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away.

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.

His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his.

“You won’t write about him anymore.”

You don’t take a moment to answer this time.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t read those books anymore.”

“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”

Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.

And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.

“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact.

You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.

Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.

“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

#yandere mahito #yandere jjk #mahito x reader #smiling man #look two obsessions in one!#afterwitch writes

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nishayuro · 8 months ago

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How do you feel a little angst but fluff with both Stanely and Xeno. Both them and reader have been friends since childhood, before the petrification reader got really hurt or terminally ill. They don't revive them till after the truces with Senku, he tells them about the healing property of the revival fluid. They went to go find them who they place in a secure place, hoping to see the one other person they cared about. I'm a sucker of both of them, either loving them as a romantic parther (all three) or just love for a very close friend/family. :D

Dr Stone Being StanXeno’s Terminally Ill lover

A/N: I am a sucker for this trope omg thank you for this. I reread the whole america arc to the end again just to remember the detailsss

Genre: Angst, Fluff

GN! Reader, Poly!Stanley x Xeno x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of cancer

(Dr.Stone manga spoilers ahead, but y’all have probably read it by now if y’all know who stanxeno are)

Date posted: 07/09/2024

Pre-Petrification:

You met Stanley and Xeno in your elementary school, you three got along well and started being inseparable.

You three grew up together, always being with each other and being present in each other’s achievements.

Whenever Xeno competed in contests, you and Stanley were there to support him. Whenever Stanley had a game, you and Xeno would be there to cheer on him. Whenever you had any performances, contests, or whatever you did, Stanley and Xeno would be there to support and cheer on you.

Fast forward to your teenage years when you realised that you fell in love with not just one, but both of your best friends.

Having the two just balanced each other out, it was impossible to not fall for them both.

Stanley and Xeno realised their feelings for you and each other after you attempted to date another person in order to get over them.

That relationship made the two jealous, feeling as though your new partner stole you from them. They had more time alone together and fell for each other as well, but you were still the missing one in the equation.

When your partner ended up being a douchebag, they finally decided to confess their love for you at the same time, also confessing to each other.

You three became a throuple since then.

You three all reached your dream careers together, with Stanley becoming a Marine commander, Xeno a NASA Scientist, you a Biologist.

You and Xeno would comfort each other whenever Stanley gets deployed on dangerous missions.

You and Stanley would often plan dates for the three of you whenever Xeno got too busy in his projects.

One day, you noticed a few symptoms, but decided to ignore them because you thought it was nothing serious.

It wasn’t until you passed out and Xeno checked on you to realise that something was wrong.

They went with you to the doctor, and when you found out that you had cancer, it was as if your whole world crashed.

Stanley and Xeno were no better, Stanley asked to be exempted from deployment for a while. Xeno then began doing extensive research to help you.

It got to the point where you were confined and basically lived in the hospital.

Stanley and Xeno were always there with you, giving you words of security.

You knew how much this hurts for the both of them, seeing you losing your life to your illness.

The day of the DARPA expo, both of them were called into work, leaving you alone at the hospital.

You noticed a green light from your window, and the next thing you realised was you couldn't move. You thought you died then and there, mentally saying sorry and goodbye to the two loves of your life before your consciousness faded.

Meanwhile at the expo, when Stanley saw the green light, he immediately ordered everyone to get low and to not let their minds fade.

During the 3,700 years, the two men thought about you a lot, how you were, where you are, or if they’ll ever see you and the other ever again.

“Xeno…Y/N, I hope you both are alright…” Stanley thought as he busied his mind to not fade. He doesn’t know how long it's been, nor how long until he will be free again. Ever since the green light, he’s been thinking of ways to potentially get freed from his paralysis. His mind would sometimes wander to you, his last memory of you was when he and Xeno visited a day before the expo. You were getting weaker, he didn’t know how long you had left. If only he knew that that day could potentially be the last time he saw you, he would have stayed for longer.

“7, 8, 9, 10. Y/N, Stan… I’ll find a way to get out of here and save you both. Y/N, even if it’s been over centuries, if there’s a chance of you still being alive, I’ll do all I can to cure you.” Xeno thought as he counted the seconds. That’s all he did, count to keep track of time and think of how he could survive in what will be a new era when he gets out. He’s recalling every piece of information he’s even known, forcing himself to never forget any. With all of the research wiped out, the knowledge will only live in his mind until he can write them down again. He’s keen on remembering the research for your cure, that could be his last hope.

Post-Petrification:

When Xeno woke up from his petrification, he immediately did things to ensure his survival as he waited for the other people to get freed.

When Stanley and the others woke up, they immediately built a base and gathered all the resources to survive, slowly building up the American colony.

It took years for them to go from the stone tools to the upgrades that would help them live more comfortably.

Each hunt for food and resources, Stanley would scour the statues, hoping to maybe find yours.

One night, Stanley asked Xeno how they’ll go about finding your statue, or if your statue is even intact.

That was one of the few times Stanley got vulnerable, the last time was when your cancer got worse.

Xeno then pulled out a map of all the possible locations, taking into consideration where you were, how many years it's been, how the topography changed, and all of that.

It was at times like this when Stanley was glad to have Xeno’s scary intelligence.

When they successfully made vehicles and aircrafts, they sent out the squad to go look for you which was led by Stanley, they took a few weeks to retrieve you.

“Alright, this is location no.10. Let’s go.” Stanley commanded, each of his people looked at each statue closely, looking for you. Stanley himself meticulously looked around for you, it was hard to remain calm when he was so desperate to find you. He was anxious, didn’t know what state he’d find you in, or if you could be revived. “Commander! Take a look!” one of them shouted, alerting him. He rushed towards her and looked down at the hole. His eyes widened when he realised it really was you. “Y/N… we finally found you.” He spoke.

He dug the dirt more to reveal that your statue was in pieces. His heart sank at the realisation that you can’t wake up on your own, that you were gone for good. He still decided to gather all pieces of you, in case Xeno would be able to magically heal you. He was silent the whole ride back to the base, his crew has never seen him this depressed. They knew him as a resilient commander who was afraid of almost nothing. When he got back, he brought your statue directly to Xeno.

“I’m back, I found Y/N.” Stanley stated, entering the lab. “Welcome back, how are they-” Xeno stopped as he saw the way Stanley looked, it was a negative look. “Their statue is in pieces… I… how will they revive…” Stanley sat, emotions pooling, tears threatening to leave his eyes. “I…” for once, Xeno was at a loss for words. His mind couldn’t think straight. He expected this outcome, but a part of him hoped that a miracle could have happened and kept your stone body safe. Xeno went to hug Stanley as they sobbed together for the loss of their lover. They decided to keep your statue somewhere safe, arranged and put you back into your form. This was their last way of having something to remember you by. When days get tough, they’d visit your statue and just talk as if you were really still there.

When Senku and the Kingdom of Science fought against the American colony and kidnapped Xeno, Stanley was furious. He already lost you, he couldn’t afford to lose Xeno as well.

The whole chase happened, and in order to defeat Stanley, they had to petrify the whole globe again.

After the 7 years of Petrification, Suika was able to revive Senku who in turn revived the others and Xeno, forming a truce with him.

When Senku told Xeno about the healing properties of the revival fluid, as well as how they revived a lot of the statues that Tsukasa smashed, Xeno was amazed.

He realised that you had another chance at life.

“Hello, sorry for the intrusion. Yuzuriha, correct?” Xeno walked into Yuzuriha’s tent where she was making cloth. “Oh, Xeno. Can I help you with anything?” Yuzuriha answered. “Yes, actually. Senku told me that you were able to piece back together smashed statues and were able to revive them, is that correct?” Xeno asked, eyeing the woman. “Oh, yes. I spent a lot of time glueing pieces back together before. Why is that?” She asked, curious as to where this is going. “I have a job for you, if you wouldn’t mind. Follow me.” Xeno said, leading the way with Yuzuriha following after.

He brought her to where you were kept. He was glad to find out that nothing much changed in the 7 years that passed. “Oh, a broken statue?” Yuzuriha asked, kneeling down to inspect the pieces. They weren't as bad as the ones broken by Tsukasa, yours was much easier. “Yes, they were someone very special to both Stan and I.” Xeno answered, looking at your stone face.

Yuzuriha looked back at Xeno and saw the soft gaze he held. “So, you want me to put them back together and get Senku to revive them?” She asked. “Just put back together for now. I think Stanley would like to be here when they get revived.” Xeno answered. “Ok, you can count on me, Xeno!” Yuzuriha cheered, running to get her supplies. It took her no less than 2 hours to get you all pieced back together.

Xeno felt alone, despite having everyone around him, the two people he cherished were still in stone. He could revive you, but he’d want Stanley to witness it as well, he knew how much pain Stanley kept when he thought you were unrevivable. So he waited for an opportunity, maybe in the soon future, to negotiate Stanley’s revival and then yours.

When the astronaut selection happened, they decided to revive Stanley. Bringing the idea to Xeno, his eyes widened and he turned around, not wanting the others to see his emotional state. “If we’re reviving Stanley, may I ask for another one to get revived?” Xeno asked after the agreement, to which Senku agreed after learning that it wasn’t someone harmful and it was someone who could be useful.

When Stanley got revived, his only thought was that it was an important mission, and he was assigned to pilot the manned rocket. When that was set, he and Xeno were left alone. “Stan… let’s go see Y/N’s statue.” Xeno said, to which Stanley immediately agreed to. Part of him hoped that he’d see you in the flesh, but he was also scared to hope. When they got there, Stanley was surprised to see that your statue was intact and dressed, the lines the only evidence of the shatter. “That petrification device is one of a kind, you know. Its mysterious science is quite elegant. Who knew that the reason for humanity’s collapse can also be the cure we’ve looked for.” Xeno said, looking at you.

“Wait… you mean…?” Stanley stuttered, eyes wide looking at Xeno. “See for yourself.” Xeno said, handing him a bottle which the other assumed to be revival fluid. Stanley slowly uncapped the bottle and poured the liquid over you. Soon enough, your stone cracked and revealed you, alive. “What… where am I… huh?” You spoke as you blinked, eyes getting used to the sudden light. “Y/N… you’re actually alive…” Stanley whispered, afraid that this was an illusion. “Stan…Xeno…” you muttered. Stanley immediately brought you into a hug, his emotions spilling out. He didn’t need to be stoic when it was only you three.

“The petrification from the medusa has healing properties. Senku shared to me that it was able to revive one of their comrades after you had a run in with them. It also healed the injuries from the war.” Xeno shared, “what? What’s going on…?” you asked. “That’s a story to tell for later, what I’m trying to say is that due to the petrification’s healing properties, the cancer in your body is no more.” Xeno replied, shocking both Stanley and yourself. “Really?!” you exclaimed, getting up to hug Xeno. “I do feel more energised than before. That’s amazing!” You added.

They ended up bringing you to Xeno’s place, filling you in with what you’ve missed for the years you’ve been petrified, and what they’re up to now. You learned that Stanley was revived to be the pilot of the rocket, while that scared you, you had trust in Xeno and Stanley that they will make sure that this mission is successful.

“Everyone, this is Dr. L/N, one of the renowned biologists of the old world.” Xeno introduced you to the crew. “Great! We have a biologist to help out with the agricultural cultivation! I desire all the different kinds of plants!” The guy who’s name you learned was Ryusui shouted. You helped them cultivate crops and helped with the agriculture in the Kingdom. Partnering up with Francios and making the food more nutritious and more easy to obtain.

It wasn’t a secret that Stanley, Xeno, and you had something going on, but it wasn’t announced either. The others would just see how the other two were so much more different when with you. You were the “light” of the three, making them trust the other two more. With you there, it feels as if the other two were tamer. That however was put to test when someone decided it would be a good idea to flirt with you despite your protest and obvious uncomfort. “Back off from our partner.” Stanley’s commanding voice boomed, “lest you want to become one of the testing dummies in an experiment I’m working on.” Xeno added. making the other person cower in fear, that was when they found out that you three were in fact official.

When everything was settled and humanity was slowly rising back up and with the legal rules of old age gone, the three of you decided to get married and live as how you’ve wanted to in your old lives. You thought that your life back in the old days would end easily, with you succumbing to your illness and leaving behind your two lovers, but thanks to the phenomenon, you were able to restart and live a new life with the two loves of your life.

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#dr. stone #dr.stone x reader #stanley snyder #stanley snyder x reader #stanley snyder headcanon #dr.stone headcanon #dcst #dr.stone fanfic #xeno houston wingfield #xeno x reader #stanxeno #stanxeno x reader #stanxeno poly

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ashurzs · 1 year ago

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Heya! I’m in love with your OCs and have been rereading their stories way too many times so I’d like to make a request!

I’d love to see pervert bf trying to make his wet dreams come true now that reader is back. The idea of bf taking photos of reader while fucking him dumb has me in a chokehold ngl 😋 bf seems like the type to tease reader abt it too. If you’re uncomfortable with this idea feel free to exclude it! I’m alr happy with the food you’ve given us so don’t feel obligated 🫶 love your works!

SMILE FOR ME BABY !

cws: bttm!mreader, video/picture taking, like one sentence of degradation, mostly praise tho!!

“babyy~” your boyfriend, haru, wraps his arms around your waist as he groans. he’s been like this ever since you came back two days ago.. clinging onto, following you, whining like a lost puppy. “i’ve missed you so much..” he sobs out dramatically as he clings onto you.

“you can let go of me you know.. it’s not like i’m gonna-“ “no!” “we’re on the bed?!”

you sigh, trying to pry his hands off of you. “haru!” you whine out, trying to pry his hands off of your waist while constantly trying to wiggle out of his grasp. he sighs and just hugs you tighter, deciding to put his leg over yours.

“baby.. you’re so cute when you look angry,” you see him smile and blush, biting his lower lip. his dyed pink hair, pink nail polish you painted weeks ago, his twinkling eyes and his soft cheeks.

“w..what?” you say, blushing softly. then you quickly shove his face away when he lays on top of you, looking at you as you feel something poke against your thigh. but he grabs your wrist, kissing your fingertips. “please.. pretty boy.?”

“h-haru! fuck.. wait- you’re so.. big-“ you struggle to say it properly as he continues to push himself inside of you, kissing your tears and holding your hand. honestly, he is quite sweet and is very cute, but he’s..

“can i record you baby?” “huh.?” you blink through the tears, whining and gripping his hand tighter when you feel him fully inside. “record,” he says again, waiting for your signal to finally be able to fuck your tight hole. “so when you leave again for work.. i have something to jack off to.” he says while using the hand that was on your waist to rub the skin softly, a way to calm the pain down maybe?

“you’re.. shameless for asking that without stuttering..” you say out. nodding your head, he smirks. “why should i be ashamed of my pretty baby being fucked dumb hm?” he says, unwrapping his hands from yours and using them to grip at your waist. “my precious boy.. don’t think okay? jus focus on my cock mhm?”

haru smirks as he watches you arch your back, biting your arm and muffling his name like chants while he continues to grip at your waist with his left hand and thrust into you. grabbing his phone and going to his camera, he presses record. he makes sure to get everything. from the way your cock slaps against your stomach to the way your back arches, from your muffled moans and just barely shy of your face. “feels good huh? moaning my name like it’s the only word you know..” he coos mockingly, smirking once he hears a gasped moan. “yeah? right there?”

he continues to abuse that same spot, recording the way the hand that had previously been gripping at the sheets go to his wrists. “haru haru haru~” he copies you as he giggles, whiningly cursing as he watches you cum all over your stomach, the sight of your hidden face, sweaty body mixed with your cum is enough for him to cum as well, filling you up with soft thrusts to help you calm down. “you okay?” “a-ahuh..” “great.”

“fuck- even if i came in you twice, you still clench around me like you want more like a pathetic whore.” he says, watching you hiccup and sob from the overstimulation. he wasn’t even hitting your prostate though.. “p-please.! l-last one.. no more haruu,!” you beg while he smirks. pressing record once more, he stops thrusting and focuses the camera on your messy hair and tearful expression. leaning forward, he fixes the hair out of your eyes while watching through the camera. you let him, looking at him with doe eyes and pouty lips.

he gulps. he’s done for, you’re so fucking pretty on his phone. “smile for me baby.”

he feels himself smile too, watching as you comply with his request so easily. snapping a picture, he presses record once more. “good boys who listen deserve good cock right?” the phone captures your nods and soft begs. “fuck- if only you’d be able to get pregnant huh?”

pulling out and recording one last time, he captures his cum leaking out of your hole. smiling to himself, he tosses his phone and lays next to you. “i missed you.” he says simply, pushing your hair back and away from your forehead. “fuck off..”

you listen to him talk and ramble, feeling his hand on your back while he plays with your hair. you feel comfortable, just being in his chest and hearing his heart beats while he talks. closing your eyes, you feel the hit of exhaustion that washes over you like a tidal wave.

wait, pregnant.?

hey chatt.. um.. grabs ukulele and sings apology for being dead knowing damn well im not gna post for another month or two

ALLOSOSSOOO THANK YOU FOR BIG 300 HELPP I LOVE U ALL CONSENSUALLY THANK U FOR READING MY LITTLE DRABBLES !!

oh yeah pervert bf is now haru! (tbh i took his name from my j.ai bot that i made and i realized hey they seem the same tbh but yup, i could prooobably link him but yaknow!)

#asher's works !!#fanfic #male reader #bottom male reader #bottom reader #drabble #mxm #smut #male smut #gay #gay mlm #original character

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enbysiriusblack · 6 months ago

Text

rereading lily's letter to sirius:

starting off strong with 'dear', very formal letter writing but also kinda endearing depends how you look at it. BUT she follows with his 'padfoot' soo it's def endearing. it already shows just how close the two are from those two words.

ofc harry's favourite present was the one sirius got him (#bestdogfather)

ofc sirius gets a 1yr old a toy broom (#funnestdogfather)

i love how chill lily is about harry almost killing the cat and smashing a vase. she's so the fun mum. also petunia and lily still sending each other christmas presents, like why do i find that so sad/sweet?? idk. i love their relationship sm it's so interesting. and ik some people are gonna be thinking 'oh petunia probably regifted the ugly vase' but no. i think she went shopping specifically for lily and picked it out thinking it looked great (she's got horrible taste)

lily saying james found it funny as if she didn't also. girl please, you know you found it so fucking funny. also james already planning out harry's quidditch career. the man is obsessed. (no war au hari def would've became a professional qudditch player i fear)

btw if you're not british, "we've had a very quiet birthday tea", basically means like an afternoon tea. they're not just drinking tea, they do have tea but also some food (like lunchy food, sandwiches and cakes) and sit down at a table and chat basically. and harry will likely also be opening presents during it too

harry kinda having a doting grandma with bathilda>>>

lily prioritising the order !! she's so responsible, smart, dedicated i love her. plus she's being so real about babies. like. yeah he ain't gonna remember it anyway (also i'm guessing this means like. sirius had an order mission so couldn't come to harry's birthday? but does this mean peter and remus did too? or was only sirius invited??)

james having trouble with just staying at home constantly <33 and trying to hide it so lily doesn't worry <333 cutest husband ever.

fuck dumbledoreeeee. i don't mind him sometimes, but how dare he take james' cloak (his family heirloom) so james and lily and harry can't go on secret outing together??? they are NOT made for staying inside. james needs his runs and flying and fresh air and chats to strangers and lily needs her woods and nature and hiking and camping.

"if you could visit, it'd cheer him up so much" SHE GETS THEM.. SHE GETS THEM

lily also calling peter "wormy", they're so also her best friends and not just james', do NOT even argue.

ik people argue this bit about the mckinnons as a proof lily was never close to marlene, but it so is proof of the opposite to me!! maybe i'm coldhearted, but i would NOT be crying all fucking evening just cause a family that i kinda know and am colleagues with one or a few of them got killed.. all evening??? ALL EVENING?? yeah, they were def close friends for sure. (and she's not just gonna single out marlene because it was ALL her family, it'd be a bit weird and disrespectful to only say marlene. especially if you, as a lot of people do, hc lily and marlene as roommates and close friends all throughout school. like lily would've visited marlene's family quite a few times. she'd know them fairly well)

lily getting ALL the gossip about dumbledore from bathilda. love that for her. also her not believing dumbledore was friends with grindelwald i'm giggling. she would've lost her mind at the idea of them as exes fr (also lily building up the suspense about dumbledore being friends with grindelwald by putting the "friends with grindelwald" part on the next page so he'd have to read the next page.. she totally didn't just run out of room. that was on purpose)

"lots of love" SCREAMING. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SM. lilypad ily. lilypad ily. bestfriends fr!!!!!!!

also not related to the text itself, but severus taking the page where lily says "lots of love" and cutting lily out of the photo of harry on his broomstick like... FUCKING MAN.. that was for SIRIUS. that's lily's love for SIRIUS. don't take her love, she didn't fucking mean it for you, don't try to pretend it was you, you absolute wanker.. anyway

#lily evans #sirius black #lily's letter to sirius #marauders era #lilypad #secretly but probably not so secretly #harry potter

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wonysugar · 1 year ago

Text

close the door | hanni pham

synopsis : you had no idea what you were doing, and neither did she.

genre : fluffy smut!

pairing : non-idol!hanni x gf!femreader

tags : they’re in love your honor, lots of kissing and making out, cuddling, l-bombs, top!femreader, bottom!hanni, they’re both virgins, fingering, clit play, nipple play, neck kissing, hanni’s dogs are mentioned twice lawl, lots of comfort, lots of consent! they’re literally just lovey dovey girlfriends having sex for the first time aheheh

warnings : none :]

word count : 2.5k

a/n : if you’re rereading this and thinking “hey the synopsis changed and there wasn’t an author’s note before!!” well you’d be right I POSTED THIS IN A RUSH I’M SO SORRYYFKEJF

anyways!! this is just to say that this fic is inspired by the lovely writer that is sorry for tagging you twice ahh @facefullofsadness’s fic right over here :] sooo GO READ THAT FIRST! it’s truly lovely and i really enjoyed reading it, hence why i wrote thisskfke. thank you for readingg<33

oh how you loved your girlfriend.

you would die for your girlfriend, actually, even if you only started dating barely a few months ago. who could blame you? that’s what happens when you’ve been best friends prior to your relationship for so, so, so long. it simply started with a ‘hi! my name’s hanni! what’s yours?’ from her part at the innocent age of seven and just like that, years later, you guys were still inseparable.

so really, your life-long friendship and months-long relationship were both with the same gorgeous and outgoing girl, and the only thing distinguishing those two was the label you used to describe them.

“bro i genuinely don’t understand why he doesn’t just… run away. cause— get this, there’s obviously a murderer in his house right? and what does he decide to do about that? just stay in there. like, okay.. like i’m aware they needed plot but lord, i don’t know at least make it somewhat realistic you know what i mean—“ was what your girlfriend said, on her bed as she sat down in between your legs and leaned her back against you, her head facing forward and resting on your shoulder.

you simply nodded along to her words as you played with her hair, trying your hardest to stay focused on the piece of media before you whilst also paying your utmost attention to her, despite her constant ranting and criticizing of the entire movie. you, having originally liked the film, were now conflicted about your opinion on it. it’s not like she was wrong, her very heavy criticism had to have come from somewhere, after all, but you couldn’t help but slightly appreciate the storyline. so, you weren’t really sure what you felt about it anymore.

one thing you were certain of, however,

was that your girlfriend looked really good while passionately rambling. like, way too good. she had tied her dark hair into a high ponytail, it also looked wavy due to the rain that was pouring on you guys earlier, her messy bangs fell perfectly onto her forehead. and her smile? it always looked perfect. she always looked perfect.

and since you apparently weren’t hiding your admiration well enough, she very quickly noticed it.

she giggled teasingly. her voice sweet like honey, her australian accent more prominent than usual, she spoke up, “hello?” before full-on laughing, “were you even listening to me?”

you could only kiss her, that seemed like the only appropriate response in the heat of the moment. she, of course, kissed back just as lovingly before pulling away moments after, a curious and confused look on her face.

“no seriously, what is up with you?” she kept teasing, smiling stupidly as she kept her gaze lingering on yours for the following seconds, her eyes unconsciously drifting to your lips. “you look stupid.”

“and you look really pretty.” was what you whispered back to her, earning a shy smile and an exaggerated eye roll from her. immediately, you made your lips come into contact with hers again. it felt as if the world would stop spinning if you didn’t, like a slowly growing urge to keep touching her suddenly came over you and you needed to fill it.

“so.. so pretty.” you mumbled, so quietly that it was almost to yourself, before going back in. you allowed yourself to make the kiss deeper and slid her tongue across her soft lips as you demanded entrance. you could hear her let out slight noises, she clearly was not expecting you to do anything of the sorts, at least not right now. she was a tad bit confused, but let you in, who in their right mind would pass up the opportunity to kiss their girlfriend? immediately, your hands wrapped around her waist whilst you continued kissing her lovingly, your tongue roaming every part of her mouth.

it didn’t take long before your hands started naturally reaching under her top, caressing on her tummy and progressively going higher with each sound she let out.

you pulled away, slightly worried of going too far, “c-can.. can i continue, hanni?”

you were scared, terrified, even! despite knowing each other for years, you’d only been dating for a few months; those are two completely different things! it’s not like you see your completely platonic best friend’s naked body every tuesday. even then, despite dating, you still haven’t gotten that stage of the relationship. and on top of that,

the two of you were a proper pair of virgins. you had no idea what you were doing, and neither did she. you didn’t want to seem like an inexperienced loser to her, you wanted to take care of her and make her feel good. what if that didn’t happen? what if you made it awkward between the two of you?? it was nerve-racking.

as if barging into your mind and reading your thoughts, wanting to reassure you, she grabbed your hand in a gentle manner before nodding. then, she spoke up, “can you close the door?”

“there’s.. nobody home, though?”

she giggled, “oh i know, it’s just that i don’t want the dogs to potentially walk in on this.”

you groaned dramatically, laughing and insisting that you were too lazy to get up and that her dogs wouldn’t understand the situation if they even walked in. she, in response, just tapped your knee with a cheeky smile, encouraging you to stand up.

“come on y/n, close the door. think about milly and mia; think about their innocence!” she exaggerated.

after playfully hitting her arm and laughing along with her, you got up, proceeded to close and lock the door like she asked you to and eventually walked back to her bed, sitting back on it and positioning yourself the way you originally were, her back to you again.

“happy?” you asked in a fake arrogant tone.

she hummed, radiant, “yes, very happy.” before turning her head just right and kissing you again.

eventually back to the original rhythm of the kiss, you placed your hands back on her stomach again, slowly caressing and teasing higher and higher with time. once you reached her bra, you proceeded to impatiently unhook it, immediately taking it off of her.

her breathing got heavier with each second that passed, partially due to nervousness, probably. you’d be lying if you said that wasn’t the case for you too. the more your hands carefully roamed her body, the more self-conscious you got, you truly had no idea what you were doing.

then, as if something in your mind clicked, you had an idea. what if you just did to her whatever you enjoyed doing to yourself in moments like these? that could work.. right? maybe??

you glided your hand upwards, your finger lightly grazing her nipple. in response to the sudden movement, a lewd sound accidentally escaped from her pretty lips, her breath hitching. that sound was a small moan.

a small one, barely audible, yet it was still enough for you to feel the activation of every single neuron residing in your brain.

then suddenly, it’s like the concept of making love to her wasn’t as nerve-racking as it originally was.

“s-sorry..” she apologized, seeming slightly embarrassed.

you kissed her cheek, reassuring her, “don’t apologize, i wanna hear you.”

despite it being an accident, she seemed to enjoy the sensation of your hand on her chest, so you went back to teasing her tits and gently groping them before you eventually asked, “is it okay if i go further..?”

nodding in a keen manner, she swallowed her saliva, then breathed out her response, “yes. yes keep— keep going. please.”

well shit! even if you wanted to stop, it’s not like you could, not with how good she sounded pleading for you.

not wasting any more time, you proceeded to separate one of your hands from her chest and quickly slid it downwards; to the band of her sweatpants. now, of course, your other hand was still in its original place, working its magic, but you wanted her to feel more. so much more.

you wanted to convey every surge of affection you violently felt for her into pleasure. and, if there was one thing you surely knew how to do, it was kissing her.

so, you started kissing on her neck, which she didn’t expect whatsoever, and still heavily concentrated on the hand you had on her breast. then, you pulled on the sleeve of her tee just enough to expose her shoulder and moved your mouth towards it, nipping and gently licking it.

your hand now fully slipped into her pants, you teased her entrance through the fabric of her underwear as you kept kissing her naked shoulder. you listened to her attentively and took mental notes of her reactions; so far, her breathing got heavier, her thighs slightly clenched around your hand and she was now frequently biting her lip.

plus, her panties were wet.

did all of that mean you were doing good? …perhaps it did!

and did her drenched underwear make you short circuit? perhaps it did as well!

“d-d’you feel okay?” you asked, before going back to slowly kissing her shoulder. she threw you a quick glance, chest heaving up and down.

“s-so okay.” she giggled.

her smile being contagious, you found yourself doing the exact same thing, content with the answer she gave you.

soon enough, you traced your finger up her clothed slit before eventually sliding it into the undergarment she wore, making her shudder. after what felt like an eternity, you could feel her slick coat your digits from one swipe of the finger.

it was tantalizing.

growing impatient, you quickly yet carefully settled your middle and ring finger on her swollen clit, making slow circular motions on it, looking at her in the process. full on whimpering, this time, she stared back at you, no longer embarrassed. she wanted to let you know how good you were making her feel, hence why she was getting louder with each movement you made, and it filled you with enough confidence and adrenaline to gently push her head towards you, leaning in for a kiss.

thankfully, she kissed you back, deeply at that, her eyes closed and her quiet moans muffled.

you pulled away after a few moments, “tell me if it hurts, okay?” you reminded her. she simply nodded, brain all fuzzy from arousal.

she grabbed your other hand and intertwined her fingers with yours. “g-go slowly.” she whispered.

“i will.” you affirmed.

slowly and gently, you slid your fingers into her core, making sure not to go too fast or too rough. thankfully, the wetness was making it easier for you, and probably for her as well. every time that your girlfriend’s breath hitched, that her hand gripped harder on yours or, hell, every time that her eyes closed, you stopped in your tracks and double checked to see if you were hurting her, so it took a little while for your digits to fully penetrate her.

fortunately, she assured you that you weren’t, in fact, hurting her. some moments just felt more comfortable than others, is all.

once they were fully in, you gave her time to get used to the feeling, still double checking on her state every now and then. after a few deep breaths, she nodded.

“i-i’m ready.”

you started to pump your fingers in and out of her, taking in all of her as your speed slowly increased as time went on. naturally, as more time passed, you felt the urge to make her feel good get even stronger.

that’s when you decided to increase the pace, your fingers curling on just the right spot inside her, pumping faster and faster as your thumb played with her clit.

“is this okay baby—” you asked.

“f-fuck— yes y/n that feels good—“ was what she moaned out, cutting you off. a feeling of bliss progressively and clearly overtaking her whole body.

when you tried to look at her despite only being able to see her side profile, you could’ve sworn you saw an angel. her cheeks were slightly tinted with a pinkish color and her eyebrows were upturned, her whole face contorted with pleasure, her skin glistening with sweat. her eyes hooded with lust, hanni looked down at herself and attentively watched as you played with her. your fingers swimming in her slick, navigating in her folds the way a skilled sailor would the vast ocean, it was hypnotizing, and she realized how this was probably the way you got yourself off on a regular day, and she couldn’t help but moan at both the thought and the sensation.

you made her feel good, you made her feel happy, loved. you always did.

amidst the chaos that was her messy bed, the setting somehow looked better than every piece of artwork you’d ever seen combined. the bed creaked ever so slightly, and she looked and sounded so beautiful, especially with the way the sun set directly on her parted lips at that moment.

you were certain that your heart skipped a beat at the sight.

“i love you so much, hanni.” you softly said, kissing the back of her ear whilst you kept fingering her. she couldn’t form proper words, so she simply tightened her grip on your hand more, as a way to say it back.

then, once you picked up a stable pace for a few minutes, her back arched against you, her breathing getting heavier, practically panting. her hand’s grip on yours getting tighter, you felt her hot breath hit your neck once she settled her head into the crook of it.

“y/n— baby i think i’m- i’m— mmh—“

that was the moment she reached climax, letting out a long and loud moan as she rode out her orgasm, bucking her hips against your hand before smashing her lips onto yours. quietly, she let a few i love yous slip out of her mouth between kisses, her hand resting on your head, fingers intertwined with your soft hair.

you particularly made sure to say it back to her every time.

you pulled out your fingers and took your hand out of her pants. still coming down from her high, she smiled at you with tired eyes and kissed your cheek. you smiled back, looking at her lovingly.

“d-did i do okay?”

she giggled, “..are you seriously asking me that? do you not see me right now?”

you raised your eyebrows, playful, “for all i know you were faking it.”

“yeah, actually.. i was faking it, especially with how wet i was from the whole thing. aren’t i such a good actor y/n? it’s almost like i legitimately came really hard—”

“shut up.” you elbowed her, laughing. she gave you a cheeky smile before she got up from the bed, grabbed a pair of new underwear from her drawer and opened the bedroom door, heading straight towards the living room to pet her dogs after changing.

“hey y/n?”

“hm?”

“…wanna bake brownies in a bit?”

“uhm.. yes? what kind of question is that?? let me just go wash my hands first.” you replied, getting up and walking towards the bathroom before adding on, “unless you wanna eat very unsanitary cum-buttered brownies, of course—“

you heard her contagious laugh from across the hallway, making you smile to yourself, “you’re fucking disgusting— go wash your hands, you weirdo!”

oh how you loved your girlfriend.

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