#Seven years now - I don't know what to do with seven years it feels like a hard to define number haha

[fireinmoonshot]

drawing the line | bucky barnes x fem!reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader Summary: Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts. Warnings: There are very subtle mentions to reader having some issues mentally but nothing specific is mentioned other than her being very guarded and angry. This is inspired by and takes place during a scene from the Thunderbolts movie! It has direct spoilers for the film! If you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled, don't read this one yet. Word Count: 1.9k. A/N: It has been three whole years since I wrote for Bucky Barnes. Thanks to Thunderbolts, I am so back 🥰. I had this idea for the movie when I saw it again yesterday and I plotted most of it out at work today. I'm really happy with how it turned out so I hope that you will all enjoy it. More Bucky fics coming soon – as well as more Bob and Joaquín too! 💗 Requests are always open.

Bucky realises he’s made a mistake pretty quickly.

In his defence, he isn’t very good at checking his phone – especially now that he’s a congressman and he has even less time on his hands than usual. But he’d been worried about Mel, the assistant of Valentina, and had figured that by tracking her phone like she’d asked, he might have a better chance at finally taking Valentina down.

If he had read his texts, though, he would’ve seen one from you. Valentina says I have one last mission and my contract is up. I’m on my way. Have a bad feeling about this one though. Can you track me? 

Yeah, he’s messed up.

He’s even more certain of that when he’s pulling the unconscious bodies of Ava Starr, Yelena Belova, John Walker and Alexei Shostakov out of the limo he’d blown up and he finds you with them. Thankfully, you’re not injured. 

When you come to, the first thing you see is Bucky, sitting opposite you with his eyebrows knotted in worry. For a moment, everything is fuzzy and you’re not sure how you got here – and then everything comes back to you.

You’d been trying to outrun Valentina’s men who’d been coming after you after your escape when Bucky had shown up. Everyone in the car had been more than excited and you’d felt relieved – he’d seen your text and he’d come to save you – until he’d practically blown the limo up with you inside of it.

“What the hell, Bucky?” You blink, squeezing your eyes shut briefly as you adjust to the light in the room. You look around, seeing the others all sat nearby – tied up, some of them even restrained with pieces of metal that Bucky had wrapped around them. 

It’s when you see them tied up that you realise you’re not. 

“Doll,” Bucky starts, his voice soft. “Listen, I–”

“Do not ‘doll’ me,” you shake your head. “So, blowing up our car and almost killing me is okay, but you draw the line at tying me up?” You motion to the others and then to yourself.

Bucky sighs. He knew you’d be mad, but this is another level of mad. He understands – of course he does, you’d nearly died. But regardless, he’d hoped you’d be a little more lenient. “I didn’t even know you were in the car.”

You raise your eyebrows and scoff. “I text you and say hey, this mission feels wrong and you don’t think twice? Am I talking to Bucky Barnes right now? What happened to the guy that ran seven red lights two months ago when I got into a minor car accident just to make sure I was okay?” 

He stands up and runs a hand through his hair, walking a few steps away from you. Behind him, you stand up as well, crossing your arms over your chest and staring him down – like you do very well. Bucky knows that you can be stubborn when you want to, but this is the next level to that. He loves your stubborn side. He loves this side of you as well… but he hates that it’s him that the anger is directed at.

This is not the you that he’d been tangled in the sheets with only a few nights ago. This is not the you that had kissed him goodbye before he’d headed off to work last week. This is the you that he’d seen the first time he ever met you. Strong, guarded as hell and pissed off at the world.

“You texted me?” He mutters, and then regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth. He resists the urge to pull his phone out of his pocket and check his unread messages. 

For a second, you just stare at him, and then you start laughing. “I texted you? Are you serious right now?” You exclaim, turning away from him and shaking your head. “No, why on earth would I text my boyfriend when I was going into a potentially life threatening situation set up by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine? I’ll remember that for next time and keep it to myself, since you’re apparently too busy to check.”

“Well, would you have even read my message if I had replied? Considering you were on a mission? Yeah, I don’t think so,” Bucky can’t help but bite back a little.

“No, probably not,” you admit. “Because I don’t have a phone anymore – it fell out of my pocket when I was running for my life back at the vault and then it got incinerated, like I would have if it had been even one second later!”

Your voice is raised even louder now, basically yelling at Bucky, though you hate to do it. You and Bucky never fight like this, not really. But this whole situation has gotten under your skin and you can’t help but be mad at yourself for thinking Bucky had come to save you, when in reality he was just there to kidnap the others for some unknown reason.

Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing that Bucky can say to that. He stares at you, eyes wide as the full gravity of the situation settles on his shoulders. You’d almost been incinerated. And then Bucky had almost killed you himself. Was there any coming back from this?

In the silence, you hear a cough and both of you turn to look over at the others, all of whom are now awake and sitting upright, watching the two of you. How much of your argument had they heard? You wince internally and start to walk towards them.

“You either untie them, or you tie me up with them,” you say, sitting down beside Walker.

Walker looks over at you, a confused look on his face. He obviously had no idea that you’re with Bucky, even though the two of them know each other. You try to ignore the feeling in your stomach, the one that says that maybe Bucky means more to you than you do to him, especially since Walker doesn’t even know about you two.

Bucky thinks it over for a moment before shaking his head and walking over to you again. He crouches down beside you and decides he’s going to try again – even though the eyes of every other person in the room are focused on him. He reaches up to try and tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear but you bat his hand away. 

“I’m not tied up so I can still tuck my own hair behind my ear, Barnes.” 

You turn away from him, looking over at Ava and Alexei. 

“This is your boyfriend?” Ava asks, looking between the two of you. “Girl.”

The one word says everything. You almost laugh at her.

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to make his decision. He stands up again and then beckons for you to stand up as well. “Stand up and let me tie you up, then,” he says, hoping that he sounds as nonchalant as he is intending to be. Even though not one part of him is actually intending on tying you up. It’s true – he draws the line at that.

You stand up and one second later, Bucky has picked you up and thrown you over his shoulder. You yelp, hitting his back as he walks out of the room, leaving the other four alone. “Bucky, what the hell are you doing!?” You exclaim.

He pushes the front door of the garage open with a foot and then kicks it closed behind him. Once he sets you down on the ground outside, you move to push him, but he’s quick to grab your wrists and place them gently on his chest instead. You’re mad, but he’s not going to let you hurt him, or accidentally hurt you more than he already has.

“I’m not continuing this argument inside in front of all of the others,” he says, nodding his head towards the garage and trying to focus on the feeling of your hands on his hands and the pressure of them on his chest. You’re here. You’re alive. He didn’t kill you. Nor did Valentina.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you shake your head and try to pull your hands away, but his grip is too strong. “I’ve said everything that I needed to say in there, Bucky. I asked for your help, you almost killed me yourself. It’s clear enough.”

“You said what you said, but you barely let me get a word in, doll.”

You shrug your shoulders and look away from him, focusing on the mountains in the distance and wonder how long it’ll take the others to get free so you can all get the hell out of here. Even though a small part of you, the part of you that isn’t clouded by your anger right now, wants nothing more than to wrap your arms around Bucky’s body, bury your head in his chest and feel his arms around you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see your message,” he begins, hoping you’ll let him talk. “I’ve been so bad with anything that’s not work these days and trying to bring down Valentina that I’ve put everything else to the side. I shouldn’t have put you there too.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, still unable to look at him.

“I didn’t know you were in that limo when I blew it up. I just knew that there were people in there that could help me bring down Valentina once and for all and I was going to stop that limo at all costs,” he explains. “You don’t know how terrified I was when I saw you were inside of it. I swear, I spent five minutes just checking to make sure you weren’t injured before I brought you all here. I couldn’t bring myself to tie you up after all that, doll.”

“Likely story,” you huff under your breath, as if the thought of him checking you over to make sure you were okay doesn’t make your heart beat faster and your fingers, still pressed to his chest, itch to pull him closer to you.

Bucky removes one of his hands from yours and carefully reaches down to cup your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. You try and restrain yourself for a few moments before eventually meeting his eyes. Just looking in them tells you that he’s speaking the truth. 

“I would never do anything knowingly to hurt you, doll,” he says. 

“I know,” you reply, voice soft as you try not to lean too much into his hand. 

“Then do you forgive me?”

“No,” you shake your head, but in the progress, you can’t help but relax into his grip a little. You let out a sigh, your eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his hand on your face. “I don’t forgive you yet, Bucky. I need time.”

Bucky nods and lets out a small breath of relief. “I’ll take it.”

You remove one of your hands from Bucky’s chest and place it over the hand that’s still on your jaw. “We need to talk,” you start. “Not you and me, all of us. There are things that happened down there in that vault that you need to know about before we go after Valentina, if we can even get the others to join us.”

“Okay,” Bucky agrees. “Just one more thing.” He leans down and presses his lips to your forehead before dropping his hand from your jaw and stepping back away from you, clearly wanting to give you space even though you hadn’t asked for it. The thoughtfulness makes your heart swell in your chest. “C’mon doll, let’s go.”

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Where Softness Lives

Step mom!Wanda x step daughter!reader

Word count: 3K

Summary: You grew up with an abusive mother and a cold father, mother’s day used to mean broken dishes and bruised feelings. Now, it’s different. Wanda shows you what unconditional love really looks like. Gentle hands, lullabies, and whispered affirmations when the tears come back. This year, you planned Mama & Me Day down to the glitter stickers and muffins... but when old trauma hits hard that morning, Wanda meets you with warmth instead of expectations.

Warnings: childhood abuse (emotional/verbal/neglectful), a toxic mother, and an emotionally distant father. It touches on trauma responses, including a mild panic attack, and explores internalized guilt and fear surrounding Mother’s Day. Themes of healing, reparenting, found family, comfort and emotional safety

Authors notes: I'm sorry to any others who had neglectful parents and how hard these days can be <3

You remember the sounds of dishes breaking and yelling. Of pleading as your toys got shoved into black garbage bags. 

“I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean it! Please! I'll be good! I'll be a good girl!” You plead and plead until your voice is raw, until you're curled up on just a mattress, shaking from the lack of blanket. 

You wouldn't get your stuff back for another week when you proved you were good.

You sat across from your step-mom, Wanda, your dad had remarried less than a month after your mom passed. What you did not understand was what Wanda saw in your dad. He was older; much older. In his eighties, Wanda was closer to you in age, her being thirty-five and you being twenty-seven. 

A scowl was covering your face, arms crossed. Your father is standing above Wanda, hand on her shoulder. He was almost as sharp as your mom. People used to, well probably do still think he is or was in the mob. A thick accent that never left him, 

“Mother's day is next month and I'll be away on a trip unfortunately. I know things have been rocky, but–” you dont let him finish your defenses coming up like walls, your voice carrying until it hits the walls with how loud it was. 

“SHE'S NOT MY MOM! I DON'T WANT A MOM! MOM WAS TERRIBLE AND I HATED HER AND I DON'T WANT TO CELEBRATE ANYTHING!” Your fists slammed the table. Then a slap to the face. It stung but you were used to it. Wanda gasped it wasn't the first time he'd smacked you, wouldn't be the last. 

You leave the table, holding your cheek, heading out the door with nothing. 

You came back hours later, cold, soaked to the bone because it had started to pour on your way back. As soon as you walked through the door Wanda was there. Towel wrapping around you before you could blink. Her hand gently cupping your cheek. The cheek your father hit. You felt like you weren't there. You weren't real as Wanda gently took you to the bathroom. 

A hot bath running as she helped you out of the clothes stuck to your body. You felt like a little doll, her doll, no maybe not a doll, a baby…hers. 

She helps you into the tub, kneeling next to it and gently washing your skin, she's using her body wash, cherry blossoms, it's grounding. You slowly look at her and she smiles gently. You try and give one back, but you can tell it's not right. 

“It's okay baby don't force it. It'll happen naturally.” Her voice is so soft and sweet. You aren't sure what to do with it. No one besides Wanda has ever treated you with this kindness. It doesn't feel real. You want to lash out again, but your energy is gone.

She helps you out, puts you in an oversized night shirt. It reminds you of being a kid, but in a good way. It makes you feel small, childlike. Your head was already a bit floaty before, but she takes you to your bed, gently brushes through the damp hair, softly sings a Sokovian lullaby, and hands you a teddy bear. 

You brush your hands over the soft fur, everything about her movements and actions help ground you back from your episode. You lean back into her. 

“I'm sorry mama…” It comes out softly and she kisses the top of your head. 

“It’s okay Milaya I understand why you did it.” You feel tears in your eyes at her words. She was always so understanding of every lash out you had. From the very beginning when you were expecting a slap or harsh words back they never came.

It had only been a few weeks since the funeral. Since the house stopped smelling like your mom’s perfume and started smelling like lavender and coffee. Wanda had started staying over not long after—your father didn't believe in waiting, and you didn't believe in him anymore.

You came home from a miserable day at work to find a gift bag sitting on your bed. Pale pink with gold tissue paper and a tag that said:

Just because. –W

You stared at it like it was a threat.

Your chest tightened as you reached inside and pulled out a soft cardigan, light gray, your favorite color. Beneath it, a little enamel pin shaped like a cat with a book in its paws. The kind of thing someone only picks out if they’ve been paying attention.

That made it worse.

You stormed out of the room and into the kitchen where Wanda stood, humming as she stirred something on the stove. She turned with a warm smile—one that melted the second she saw your face.

“What is this?” you snapped, holding the cardigan out like it was burning your hands.

She blinked. “It’s… for you. I thought it looked soft. I know you get cold in the mornings sometimes.”

You threw it on the floor. “I didn’t ask for this! I don’t need your pity presents! You’re not my mom, so stop pretending you care!”

The words came out louder than you intended. Sharper. But you didn’t stop. Your fists were clenched, your voice shaking. “Just stop trying! You don’t know anything about me! You can’t fix me with a sweater and some dumb little pin!”

And then… silence.

You stood there, braced for it—your pulse pounding in your ears. Waiting for her to yell. To slap. To throw something. Your body tensed like it knew what was supposed to happen next.

But Wanda just stepped forward.

Slowly. Carefully.

You flinched as she approached, but she only lifted her arms. Gently. She wrapped them around your trembling shoulders and pulled you into her chest.

You froze.

No one had ever hugged you after something like that.

Her fingers moved softly through your hair as she rested her chin on top of your head. Her voice came low, warm like honey. “You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. It’s okay to have big feelings.”

Your body shook as the dam inside cracked wide open.

All the anger, the grief, the guilt—it spilled out in quiet sobs against her shirt. You didn’t even notice when your hands curled into her back, holding on like you were drowning.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” you choked out, barely audible.

“I know,” she murmured, swaying you gently. “You’ve been carrying so much. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You turn in her arms, burying your head in her chest, you hear the soft chuckle as her fingers comb through your hair. “It's all okay baby Mama's here. I'm not upset or angry, not one bit. I know why you said it to him. I understand. We'll celebrate in our own way won't we, pretty girl?” She tilts your chin up to meet her soft gaze. You get lost in them for a moment. 

“Mhmm I have the day planned out!” You reach over to your notebook and flip through the pages, opening it to a beautifully designed page with times and bullet points. The title at the top of the page made Wanda smile; Mama and me day!

“Oh look at you sweetheart planning everything out for us!” She leaned down to kiss your cheek, but you turned your head, your lips met and you melted. It was unexpected, but not the first time. You reach up to cup her cheek and deepen the kiss.

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the windows had gone completely quiet. Just you and Wanda on the couch, wrapped in the soft glow of the fairy lights she’d insisted on hanging around the living room, “for ambiance,” she said. You’d rolled your eyes, but secretly… you loved them.

You’d had a hard day—one of those where everything felt too loud, where the weight of grief and history pressed on your chest like wet blankets. You hadn’t spoken much all evening, just let Wanda pull you into her side, her hand running slow and steady up and down your back.

Her touch grounded you, always. And she never asked you to explain. She never demanded your pain to be pretty or palatable.

You weren’t even sure when your head ended up on her lap, or when her fingers started gently combing through your hair. But they had, and her voice had eventually started humming something soft and unfamiliar. Sokovian, maybe.

“I wish…” you whispered into the quiet.

Wanda looked down. “What do you wish, baby?”

You looked up at her, heart in your throat. “I wish I’d had someone like you… back then. When I was little. When it all started falling apart.”

She smiled, bittersweet and full of something unspoken. “You have me now,” she said, fingers brushing a piece of hair from your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache. You sat up, blinking back tears, looking at her like you were seeing her for the first time. All of her: soft and strong and steady. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm.

“Can I…?” you started, but didn’t finish. Your voice barely above a breath.

But she understood. Of course she did.

She leaned in slowly, her hand rising to cradle your jaw. There was no rush. No urgency. Just patience and quiet tenderness.

When your lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. It was safety. It was breath. It was the kind of kiss that stitched something back together inside of you.

And when you pulled back, Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She just rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed.

Then softly, like a promise: “We go slow. As slow as you need.”

You nodded, the ghost of a smile forming as you whispered back, “Okay, Mama.”

You had it all planned.

The notebook still sat open on your desk, filled with scribbled hearts and bullet points written in your best handwriting. “Mama and Me Day!” it said in pink gel pen, with glittery stickers pressed carefully into the margins. Breakfast in bed. A walk in the park. Her favorite tea shop. A movie night with a blanket fort.

You even prepped everything the night before. Her favorite muffins were ready to bake. The card you spent three days making was tucked into the kitchen drawer. You went to sleep smiling.

But when you opened your eyes that morning, something felt wrong.

Heavy.

Like a shadow was sitting on your chest.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling. The excitement you’d felt for days was gone—replaced by a hollow ache in your stomach. The kind of ache that made you want to disappear beneath the covers and never come back out.

Your chest tightened. Tears welled up, uninvited.

You weren’t even sure why. It was supposed to be a happy day. Your day with her. Something you’d chosen—something she deserved.

But your body remembered other Mother’s Days. The ones filled with broken dishes, raised voices, the pressure to smile and say thank you when you were already in survival mode. The guilt. The confusion. The cold silence that followed if you didn’t do it perfectly.

You’d been up before the sun.

Tiptoeing around the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise, even though your small hands fumbled with the toaster and the eggs. You’d seen people do it in movies—Mother’s Day breakfast in bed. That’s what good kids did, right?

The toast was a little too brown. The eggs stuck to the pan a bit, and you’d spilled orange juice when you tried to pour it into her favorite glass.

But you were proud.

You’d even made her a card—cut out of folded construction paper, covered in glitter glue and crayon hearts. “To the best mom in the world!” it said, surrounded by crooked smiley faces and a drawing of the two of you holding hands.

And the bracelet—you’d spent all week secretly stringing beads in your room. Purple and silver, her favorite colors.

You carefully arranged everything on a tray and crept into her room, beaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” you said softly, your smile stretching wide.

She sat up groggily, eyes narrowing as she looked down at the tray. Her face changed quickly.

“What the hell is this mess?”

You blinked, smile faltering.

“The kitchen better not look like a tornado hit it,” she snapped. She picked up a piece of toast, sniffed it, and threw it back down on the tray. “It’s burnt. The eggs are rubber. Did you think this was good enough?”

You shrank back.

“I-I just wanted to surprise you…”

She scoffed and reached for the card. Her eyes scanned it for a second before she barked a laugh.

“This? You couldn’t even be bothered to write neatly. You think this is sweet? This is sloppy. You’re too old to draw like this.”

Your cheeks burned. Your heart pounded.

“And where’s my real present?” she demanded, like you owed her something grand. “Mother’s Day is my day. This is about me, not whatever crap you put together.”

You scrambled, hands fumbling in your hoodie pocket.

“I made you something,” you said quickly, pulling out the beaded bracelet and holding it out like a peace offering. “I wanted it to match your earrings—”

She took one glance, snatched it from your hand, and without a word walked over to the trash can and dropped it in.

“That’s not a real present,” she said flatly. “Jesus. You really know how to ruin a day.”

You just stood there, frozen.

And after a moment, she turned back to her bed, pulling the blankets up.

“Close the door on your way out.”

So you did.

You returned to the kitchen in silence, cleaned everything up on shaky legs, and sat at the table with your glitter-stained fingers, staring at the trash can where your bracelet disappeared.

And you promised yourself that next year… you wouldn’t try.

That it was safer not to.

A small sob caught in your throat. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to stop it before it spilled over.

Then—soft footsteps.

The door creaked open gently, and Wanda peeked in.

She was still in her robe, a sleepy smile on her face—until she saw you curled up, stiff and shaking.

“Oh, baby…” she crossed the room in an instant, crawling onto the bed beside you. Her arms wrapped around you from behind, warm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I had everything ready, I wanted today to be perfect, I swear—”

Wanda gently hushed you, one hand combing through your hair, the other rubbing slow circles into your arm.

“Hey… look at me, sweetheart.” You hesitated, but turned slowly. Her eyes were soft, full of knowing. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be perfect for me. Not today. Not ever.”

You sniffled, burying your face in her neck.

“But I wanted to make you happy,” you mumbled.

She pulled you closer. “You do. Every day. Even when you're hurting. Especially when you let me be here for you like this.”

You clung to her, shaking.

And after a while, she whispered, “How about we start the day right here, just like this? My favorite girl in my arms, where she’s safe and loved. No schedule. No pressure. Just us.”

You nodded slowly, breathing her in, letting her words settle over your skin like a blanket.

Wanda didn’t let go of you for a long time—not until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped trembling against her robe. You stayed tangled together beneath the blankets, your head tucked under her chin, her arms strong around you like armor.

Eventually, she kissed your forehead. “I’m going to go start some tea, okay?” she murmured. “You stay right here. I’ll be back in just a minute.”

You nodded wordlessly, reluctant to let go, but trusting her to return.

She always did.

When she came back, it was with a tray balanced in her hands—your favorite mug, one of her muffins warmed and sliced, a small bowl of strawberries. She set it on the nightstand and climbed back into bed beside you, pulling the blankets up again like you were in your own little world. Safe. Sealed off.

You sat up slowly and she handed you the tea, careful to wrap your fingers around the warm mug like she always did when your hands were shaky.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

“Of course I did.” She brushed her thumb gently across your knuckles. “You matter to me, baby. All of you. Even the messy mornings.”

A few moments passed, quiet but not empty.

Then you reached over, picking up the envelope you’d almost left in the drawer. You held it out with trembling fingers.

“I wrote you something,” you murmured. “A letter. I wasn’t sure if I could read it out loud, but…”

Wanda took it gently, eyes soft. “Would it be okay if I read it now?”

You nodded.

She carefully unfolded it, smoothing the page out in her lap. Her eyes moved over your handwriting, and you watched her face shift with every word—tender, proud, tearful.

When she looked back at you, there were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling.

“I’m going to keep this forever,” she said, voice thick. “I’m going to keep it somewhere safe, so that any time I doubt myself, I’ll remember that I’ve been the kind of Mama you deserve.”

That cracked something open in you.

You launched forward, wrapping your arms around her middle. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” you choked. “Even when I didn’t know how to say it. Even when I was mean. You never stopped being soft.”

She held you tightly. “Because you deserved softness, even when you couldn’t ask for it.”

You stayed like that for hours.

The rest of the day wasn’t about plans or gifts or outings.

It was spent in the warmth of the blanket fort Wanda built on the couch, watching old cartoons, sharing quiet laughs, her hand stroking your back whenever your body tensed. You dozed in and out on her chest, a teddy bear cradled to your side and her heartbeat in your ear.

Mother’s Day didn’t need to be perfect.

It just needed to be yours.

[russellbee]

MEETCUTESNYC LESTAPPEN VER. (MV1, CL16)

charles leclerc x driver!childhood friend!reader x max verstappen (no team or gender specified) summary. you, max, and charles are approached by the meetcutesnyc instagram account, and this is how it goes. (1k) warnings. should be none!! andi's note!! obviously this is not the oscar fic i was working on but i keep seeing these reels on ig and i got inspired :) — if you don't know what i'm talking about the account is meetcutesnyc & they go up to couples and ask them how they met, etc.

nav+masterlist

meetcutesnyc Sports Rivals

["Excuse me." You, Max, and Charles all look up at the sound of his voice. Max has a blank look on his face, expecting a fan interaction, while you and Charles both look a little spooked. "Are you two a couple?" The person behind the camera gestures to you and Charles.

Max snorts, "All three of us, actually." You roll your eyes as Charles nods. "That's awesome. Would you guys mind telling me the story of how you all met?" Charles visibly lightens up, and he nods eagerly.

"I will tell the story."

The camera cuts, and now you're all standing along the edge of the sidewalk with Charles in the middle. "I met them both in karting when I was seven, but they met when they were younger. They hated each other, and at first, I played the mediator, for a while, actually. But then, Max really started to get on my nerves." Charles laughs a bit, his cheeks turning rosy. "So we," He gestures to you and him, "Became his number one hate group. He was our enemy." Max rolls his eyes at 'enemy' before interjecting.

"I was their enemy because I was better, of course." You and Charles both begin speaking over each other, arguing about your skills. Max just laughs as you both go on. Eventually, Charles calms down enough to continue. "Then, it was 20, uh, 2015. They come up to me and say that they went out on a date with Max-- him of all people! I was outraged. First, he got an F1 seat, then he got my crush, too? Oh, it was horrible. It destroyed me."

You shake your head, an amused smile on your face, "He's being dramatic, he literally asked me out the next day." Charles gasps. "I am telling the story, let me continue."

"So, I learn of this and then I go to Max and tell him about my feelings for them. Then Max just goes 'oh I like you too if you're cool with that'. I was shocked! Who wouldn't be? So, the next day I go up to them and I ask them if they want to go out on a date with me and Max. Obviously, they said yes. And now we are here, many years later."

"What's the secret to ten years together?" Max's face scrunches up in response and he turns toward the two of you. "Has it really been ten years?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Before they can start bickering, you answer the the original question. "We work together so it's really easy to see each other, but when we don't that's a little hard, obviously. But, I think our rivalry keeps things going, even during the off-season, we're arguing or joking about something that happened 13 years ago."

"Racing against each other definitely makes it very interesting. Adds some fun to everything, I think." Max teases, his eyebrows raised. "It's also just nice in the summer; we go on vacation and don't do anything. We just enjoy our time together," Charles adds.

"And what are your names?"

"Charles." "Max." "Y/n."

"Thank you." You wave toward the camera, and the video ends.]

view comments

user charles and y/n being the original max haters...yeah i could've guessed that lol

user the funniest part is they're like his biggest defenders now 😭😭 user the verstappen hater to max defender pipeline is in fact very real, no one can resist his charm ↳ user loser cat dad charm ↳ user user duh ofc user gax rivalry at the end of 2024...where he mentioned how y/n and charles would do anything to defend max...uh huh, yeah cool

user charles being so excited to tell their story 😖 he just knows everyone will eat it up

user and i did. i've watched this video 30 times now and it just keeps getting cuter

user "adds some fun to everything" oh yeah i'm sure it does max 😼

user never forget las vegas 2023...i have those pictures saved to a special pinterest board that i look at every day ↳ user and las vegas 2024...i can't wait for november, las vegas has become their number one race for being insanely hot in public user max always needs to add an innuendo if he's in an interview with either of them 💀

user i was today years old when i learned they've been dating for ten years...i thought this was a recent thing

user you and max apparently 😭 user it's been recent publically, but everyone kinda assumed they've been dating for a while just bc of the way they act

user playing the y/n champagne pour edit on my tv while i watch lestappen interviews on my phone

user #1 y/n edit, good choice user every time i see anything related to any of them, i'm opening my camera roll to watch the edits i've saved

user max looked so offended when the guy didn't realize all three of them were dating 💀 how obvious does he think their relationship is

user literally everyone knew before they announced it lmao ↳ user how do you think they look to an outsider tho? not everyone's an f1 fan ↳ user never forget ted kravitz interviewing y/n pre-silverstone 2022 where they jokingly said they were gonna crash into charles for 'leaking their relationship' and then having to do damage control later when they actually (accidentally) crashed ↳ user user watching those interviews seasons later actually had me crying 😭 literally no one would believe them

user watching this makes me wonder how the grid deals with third-wheeling them all the time, it must get tiring at a certain point

user they seem so fun to be around tho, they're always bickering 🥲 user please tell me you've seen those compilations on yt of clips of the grid being annoyed/rolling their eyes at them whenever they're around 🙏🙏 ↳ user OMG??? i'm about to run to youtube i need to see this

[bunnipuffs]

Not smut but could you write reader who has a learning disability and is really struggling in school with nerdy Abby who takes her time and helps reader in a way she can understand?

awww omg of course !!!! i love this idea ( ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ ) nerdy abby holds such a special place in my heart she’s my baby !!! i loved writing this soooo much  ૢ(❛◡❛✿)  ૢ thank u sm for this anon !! i really hope u enjoy ^_^

i hope i've written this properly and respectfully ! if i have written something incorrectly/made an offensive comment , please let me know ! <3 i did as much research as i could to do justice for this prompt but i definitely know it will not be perfect . tysm !!!! <3<3<3

꒰ cw. mentions of learning disabilities, dyslexia in particular! ꒱

⋆˙⟡ abby anderson helps you out!

♡*.✧ you noticed something was a little off when you were growing up. words were difficult to make out, sounding out funky pairs of letters and how the words were even supposed to be said out loud. when your teacher brought up reading time, it was very difficult. you were always confused as to how your friends were reading so quickly, finishing the ten-paged picture book in minutes. it took you way too long to even get through the text next to the colorful images. the letters seemed to dance around within the word, and given the context, what you were reading didn't match the picture you saw. you did your best, and somehow, it still wasn't enough.

♡*.✧ you were seven when you were diagnosed. dyslexia. it sounded way too fancy for you, the word was... hard to read or process at the time. your parents had to break it down for you in easier steps so that you could understand, but at that age, you just described it as simple as you could in your head. school life was easier, though. you received more time during tests and reading exercises, and you were enrolled in one-on-one classes with a reading specialist. it helped, sure, things were easier to manage now that you had a chance—but your academics weren't drastically improving. your grades weren't great and it demotivated you further, your classmates always had an easier time and you had to put in more effort to get to their level. it wasn't fair at all.

♡*.✧ you managed to get by your younger years just fine and you got into college. you couldn’t lie to yourself and say you weren’t super anxious about it, it would be another section of your life where you felt like you were potentially falling behind. you knew you were smart, creative, you loved drawing and being able to place meanings behind your art. you were great at math, having only a little trouble with word problems, but nonetheless you were good at it. it was just those pesky english assignments that caught up to you, and even then you were managing to land better marks than some of your peers. you just hated the fact that college seemed so "adult," you had bigger responsibilities since you lived alone and had to manage yourself on your own schedule.

♡*.✧ you’re sitting in your 2nd lecture. your professor is introducing the text you’d be analyzing for majority of the semester and you’re having a little trouble with some of the sentences. you’re stuck on the same page for a while before the person next to you taps your shoulder, and you glance at the girl next to you with her braided blonde hair. she’s wearing a warm smile, “did you need any help with that?” you’re giving her a small nod and she’s shifting her creaky chair closer to yours. “what part were you having trouble with?” you’re a little hesitant to tell her at first—what if she judges you for something that seems so easy? but she’s looking at you with genuineness in her eyes and you suddenly feel at ease. “uh.. like, what exactly does this mean? and i don't get the other stuff here.” she reads it out for you, sounding it out, and explains the definitions after. in the past, you never really understood things at first—but the way abby thoroughly walked you through everything, you got it immediately. you both end up going through the chapters together and she helps you with anything you struggled with.

♡*.✧ the lecture ends and the girl introduces herself as “abby,” you exchange your own name and your number. “just text me if you need anything, i don’t mind studying with someone else.” you’re giving her a smile and heading your separate ways, walking to your dorm with a warm heart. no one else had ever really insisted on helping you out like that, never getting frustrated or tired of your questions. even though you had known her for such a short amount of time, she made you feel relaxed. you always felt anxious when you were meeting new people—especially since others hadn’t been so understanding in the past. you didn't feel the need to tell abby about your dyslexia, you felt no reason to. she wasn't judging you because of your struggles and you didn't need to provide an excuse for your academic abilities. it felt like a breath of fresh air and cookie dough ice cream in the summer. she was so good.

♡*.✧ a few weeks go by and you find yourself texting abby on a regular basis. not just for college assignments, but little things like "the barista messed up my coffee!" or abby's texts like "my mom sent me this really cute picture of my dog, look :)" college had been insanely nerve-wracking at first, but with abby's presence, it had been easier than you anticipated. you both took time after lectures to catch up on how your day went, going through readings together, or just taking a walk around campus. abby was kind and smart, and so pretty. but every time you’ve thought about the latter, you felt butterflies erupt in your stomach. you couldn’t stare at her for too long unless you wanted to feel your heart violently thumping against your chest.

♡*.✧ before you knew it, midterm season was approaching. you have a stack of assignments and exams piled up and you’ve been crying under your sheets for hours now. you had been attempting to start your many essays, study for your various exams, be a regular college student—but it didn’t go as planned. you didn’t expect college to be this demanding. you never had a million assignments or tests due at the same time in high school, and this was completely new. the stress of everything had also made it impossible to read through anything properly. you usually give yourself time to read, you know your situation, and you’ve never felt this overwhelmed from trying to read. the letters are jumbled together and you can’t tell if a word says that or this. your pillows are completely stained with tears, knees to your chest. you felt miserable.

♡*.✧ your phone is suddenly buzzing next to you, multiple dings at a time. it’s abby.

abby <3: wanna study?

abby <3: i have lots to do

abby <3: you there?

you blink away tears, thumbs slowly moving to reply.

you: not feeling it rn, sorry

abby <3: are you okay?

you think carefully about your next reply. should you just tell her you’re struggling? she would understand. it’s abby.

you: uh

you: i have dyslexia

you: since midterms are coming around i didn’t rlly expect for everything to be this stressful

you: i usually take my time to read but i feel rushed and because i feel rushed i’m anxious and i can’t get through anything properly, the text is so small and i’m srsly gonna go insane

you put your phone down when you see the text bubbles pop up, heart clenching. even though a part of you knew that abby anderson would never judge you for something like that, another part of you felt afraid. that she would just be like the others. you've come this far with her, and you really didn't want her to think of you any differently—

abby <3: give me some time, i'm coming over

♡*.✧ you're wiping off your tear stained face when you hear a knock at your door, opening it up to see abby standing there. she has a folder covered in a pattern of different ocean animals and a package of papers inside. you're raising a brow before abby shoots you a smile, "can i come in?" you respond with a nod, abby moving past you to sit on your small rug next to your bed. you sit right in front of her wearing a confused expression. "what do you have there?" abby doesn't reply, only opening up the folder to reveal the contents inside. she takes out the papers and hands it over to you. "i know our exam is coming up and i was doing some research," you're flipping over the stapled pages and smiling. it's the book for your class, but the font is printed huge, spaced out, easier to read and the letters aren't mixing together anymore. "i don't know if it'll help, but i heard it might make it easier for you to read." your heart swells, stomach filled with a comforting warmth. "you did this for me?" abby nods. "i don't like seeing you like this and i know you can do it, you just need a different method."

♡*.✧ you end up passing everything with flying colors, the studying had completely paid off and you started printing assignments and your work in bigger prints. it took a while getting used to, but it was easier and you were doing well. abby invites you out to dinner after midterm season, your favorite place, and you haven't stopped smiling since you both sat down. "thank you abby, seriously, i don't think i could've done it without you." she's shaking her head, a big smile on her face. "you did it. not me, you're the smartest girl i know."

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Everyone can blame my discord friends for encouraging my royal AU brainrot, Prince Mariano is like seven years old here

TWs: break-ins/intruders in a child's room, a terrified child, talk of assassinations, like the child is okay physically but they ARE very very scared

Mama and Daddy said that there were never any monsters under the bed. They checked, of course, but the answer was always the same. After helping him put his hair up in a bun they'd kiss Mariano's forehead and lift him up onto his blankets. They'd tuck him in, and check one more time, and promise that there weren't any monsters to be found in his room.

The stars, dotted and crossed in magical paint on the ceiling, would keep watch. Daddy had painted them himself, he said. They had love pressed into every brush stroke. That was enough to keep any monster away.

Now, Mariano lay in his bed, eyes wide in the new-moon darkness as he was pinned under his blankets. A leather-wrapped hand he didn't know pressed his whimpers and shudders back down into his mouth. A figure he'd never seen before loomed, cloaked in darkness. Two golden rings bore down at him, the same color as the stars on his ceiling.

"Oh." The man said. "You're just a little thing, aren't you?"

Mariano tried to speak, only to be muffled by the glove. Fat tears started to roll down his face, the pat-pat-pat of them hitting his pillowcase deafening in the quiet. He struggled to take a breath in, head starting to spin.

"Shhh. It's okay." He said, an awful mimicry of how Uncle Luis would shush him whenever he dreamed about Daddy getting attacked again. "Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His weight was inescapable over Mariano. "But if you scream or shout, I will."

Carefully, like Mariano were a dog that might bolt away, he lifted his hand. He gasped, air flooding his chest and making him dizzier. "Are you gonna afassinate me?" He whispered. The one who hurt Daddy didn't do any of this, but Uncle Luis said that everyone did everything differently. Killing people probably fell under the umbrella of everything.

The man laughed, soft and low. He didn't unpin Mariano, the hand on his quilt feeling inescapable. The two rings disappeared for a moment before moving back and forth.

"No." He said. "They didn't say how old you were. I'm not a monster."

"What are you going to do?" Mariano whispered.

"I'm going to go make sure there's one less monster in the world." He spoke gently, kindly. He spoke like the rock-seller did during the last winter solstice festival, when Mariano had gotten separated from his parents in the crowd. The rock-seller's hands hadn't felt so scary, though. This man wouldn't hoist Mariano up onto his shoulders so he could try to spot his parents.

Mariano didn't know what this man would do.

The man reached into his pocket with his free hand, and placed a little scroll into Mariano's trembling hands. "I want you to close your eyes and count to one-hundred. Can you count that high?" Mariano nodded. "Good girl. Then after you count that high I want you to go to Mommy and Daddy and give them that."

He curled Mariano's fingers around the scroll and patted them. "Close your eyes, now." He said. "I'll be gone by the time you get to one-hundred."

Mariano did, more tears falling faster. He shuddered into a sob as the weight disappeared from his chest. "One, two," He stammered out.

He didn't hear any footsteps. He didn't hear his window close. By the time he got to the end, he still didn't dare to open his eyes. Blindly, he slid out of bed, still clutching the parchment. He wanted to scream, he wanted to sob, but he didn't want the man to hurt him.

"Your Highness?" The voice of one of the night guards made Mariano jump, a shuddering squeak escaping.

Mariano's eyes flew open, the blurry shape of one of the red-haired elves startling him out of his focus. Tears rolled down his face anew, and when he tried to speak he needed to try a few times to make his voice work. "Dame Annie," He finally managed, holding out the scroll. It was sealed with red wax, pressed with a seal that was different than what his parents used. "There was--there was a monster--there was a man in my room. I need to give this to Mama and Daddy."

"Oh." Dame Annie said, emotions flashing over her face faster than Mariano could understand. "Oh, Princess--" She hurried forward, armor clanking, and delicately scooped Mariano up into her arms. "I have you now, I have you. Let's get you to your parents, you're safe now."

Mariano clung to her, shivering like a leaf. He buried his face in her neck, letting her wrap him up in her cloak. He managing to stay quiet up until Dame Annie burst through the door of his parents chambers. He was good, he obeyed the man, right up until Mama lifted him from her arms.

The moment he smelled Mama's perfume and felt Daddy hug him tight, he burst into loud, cracking sobs. This was safe. No monsters could touch him here. Not ever.

The stars might keep him safe most nights, but no monster could ever hold a candle to Mama or Daddy.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper

@bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @whumpbees @painful-pooch

[vargaslovinghours]

And never let you go ♥

Bonus without the overspill lighting:

[caterpillarinacave]

nothing like a corporate american retail job to crush your soul like a grape

[seventh-district]

tfw you're trying to write a Genshin fic but ur memory is shit so u have to leave urself [REMINDERS] to come back and correct your spelling/figure out NPC names/scour the wiki to double-check character and story lore, because if u even so much as glance away from the google doc in the moment you'll lose all of your writing momentum

coughs [link to some other (better) excerpts from the fic since the post didn't make it into the tags and i'm too lazy to remake it]

[katya-goncharov]

honestly so fed up of my mum constantly laying into me and giving me a hard time over everything i do

[loverboybrightsideghost]

there's a commercial on the local radio station for like at&t or something but it's in collaboration with the wicked movie, so it's a dad basically being like "my whole family is obsessed with wicked, our wifi can barely handle it!" idk it's just. i'm not entirely sure what it is i feel but i just remember how i was obsessed with so many musicals (including wicked) when i was in middle school and it was considered REALLY uncool. like i was a little weirdo for it, and i was always singing and always people were like "ugh shut up already." one time i tried to show my friend "for good" when i graduated eighth grade and her boyfriend (my former friend turned fucking bully asshole) told me "no, don't corrupt her with that!" by showing it to her. which is its own thing but. i don't know it feels weird to hear on the radio someone proudly say their family is obsessed with a musical, even if it is a fake family. it's like ha. in my time i got fucking bullied for that. there is also something strange i feel regarding that specifically as it is an advertisement, which means 1) the point is to advertise the movie (and the wifi) and 2) it's socially acceptable to some level to be obsessed with something that is being hyped up like some big cultural moment.

[esyra]

After the hospital bombing, I finally heard back from my grandmother and confirmed that several of my relatives were murdered by Israeli bombing. Seven of them, to be precise. Three are still going, including her. We've been talking constantly ever since.

Asked if it was possible to head south, and was told they did but were also bombed there. So they decided to go back home, in Zeitoun. Their home was bombed and they were pulled out of the rumble, then driven by ambulances to the al-Ahli Arab Hospital. There were people in every corner. Gazans sheltering, sleeping on the floor. Gazans dying on the floor, waiting for beds.

Four were declared dead on arrival, three were in need of surgery and other three were just bandaged. Then, a bomb was dropped in the parking lot that made parts of the ceiling collapse, like Dr. Ghassan Abu Sittah reported in that horrific conference/interview. Those in need of surgery died.

By the way, just in case you didn't know: the Church of Saint Porphyrius, the third oldest in history, bombed by Israel a few days back, was located near the hospital.

When looking for new shelter, they saw schools with signs hanging outside, "We can't take any more families." They met families, sympathetic but already sheltering too many people. They're now staying in an apartment building they found empty. Sleeping in the corner of the living room. If the family comes back, they'll apologize and leave.

Told me she was saving her phone battery for when the bombing stopped, and she had to ask for help to rebuilt the neighborhood. But she doesn't think it's gonna stop anymore. The ones still with her are mute most of the time, like they're saving energy, but she feels lonely and wanted to talk. There's no internet and to connect to WhatsApp, people are buying "a card from the supermarket, there's a password and username." Not sure what she meant. Still, the internet is inconsistent and won't load neither videos or images nor pages, so she doesn't know what's happening on the outside world.

Told her there were a lot of people protesting to stop the genocide, she replied, "The bombings are getting worse by the day." The bombing yesterday was the worst she ever witnessed. The entire neighborhood is infested with the smell of death, of decomposing bodies. Bodies are piling up in the streets and she's not sure if it's because they ran out of places to store them, but most of them are in bags. The smoke of the bombings hide the blue sky—she hasn't seen the clouds for a while.

Asked if I could share their pictures, names and dreams with people and was told, of which I partly agree, "they're not entertainment." If anyone genuinely cared, they would be alive—I'd argue there are people who do care, but I'm not gonna lecture her pain. And they don't deserve to be used to fulfill someone's sick fantasy. Told me to remember what some Israelis do with pictures of dead Palestinians. And I do.

For those of you who are not familiar, many times before settlers got together to celebrate the murder of Palestinians. For one, in 2015, Israeli settlers set a house in Duma, West Bank on fire. An 18-month old baby, Ali Dawbsheh, was burnt alive. Both parents later died of wounds and only a 5-year-old, Ahmad, survived, although severely injured.

Two celebrations of their murder are widely known, one at a wedding and others outside the court in which two were indicted for the terrorist attack. In the wedding, guests stabbed a photo of the toddler, Ali, while others waved guns, knives and Molotov cocktails. Israel's Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, was present.

That's what happens in an apartheid. Palestinians are so abused by authorities that their "innocent civilians" come to accept the brutality as necessary or are desensitized by our suffering. After all, it's been 75 years—get used to it!

So I won't risk the image of my loved ones, in fear they are used in these kinds of depravity. I will say, though, the world lost a young footballer. Lost a female writer and an aspiring ballerina. Lost a kind father, who was also a great cook, and a loving mother that enjoyed sewing and other types of handicraft art. Lost a math teacher and a child that wanted to become one.

People think Israel is testing new weapons on them. There's civilians arriving at the hospital with severe burns, which they thought was from white phosphorus, but apparently the pattern is different from the one caused by white phosphorus. It's widely believed Israel tests weapons in Palestinians.

Jeff Halper, author of War Against the People, a book on Israel's arms and surveillance technology industries, said: "Israel has kept the occupation because it's a laboratory for weapons."

They've ran out of drinkable water and the "aid" Biden sent was only for the South of Gaza and no fuel, for hospitals, was allowed in. Many shelves in the supermarket are empty. She said many are convinced that if they don't die from the bombing, they'll die from starvation or dehydration, or whatever disease will develop from the dirty water they're drinking.

Told me all people do now is pray, cry and die. Told me she hopes West Bank is spared. Told her Israel bombed a mosque in West Bank and dozens of Palestinians in West Bank are being murdered by settlers, so she bided me goodbye.

[harrysfolklore]

christ-max -mv1

summary: you invite your boyfriend max to spend christmas with you for the first time, however, your family doesn't quite believe you're dating a formula 1 world champion. wc: 5.8k

folkie radio: HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF YOUUUU! i hope you're having the best day ever with your loves ones. this fic ended up being longer than i intended but i hope you like it!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

You're nestled into Max's side on his couch, wrapped in the soft throw blanket he keeps specifically for these quiet moments together. The afternoon light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Monaco apartment, casting a glow across the room. Your feet are tucked under you, and you can smell the lingering scent of the coffee you both made earlier.

The Netflix show you'd put on - some random documentary about deep-sea creatures - has become mere background noise. Max's fingers are threading through your hair in that gentle way that always makes you melt, occasionally stopping to massage your scalp. .

"I can't believe the season's actually over," you murmur, tracing lazy patterns on his arm. "Feels weird not having to plan around race weekends anymore."

Max chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rests. "Yeah, but now we have to plan around all the end-of-year events instead. Did you see how many galas and ceremonies are coming up?"

"At least those don't involve you flying halfway across the world," you tease, tilting your head to look up at him. His hair is slightly messy, free from its usual styling, and you resist the urge to reach up and run your fingers through it.

"True," he agrees, then glances at his phone on the coffee table. "Speaking of events, I can't believe it's already December. Christmas is going to be here before we know it. Guess time flies when you're busy winning championships."

Your heart skips a beat. This is the opening you've been waiting for. You've been thinking about this for weeks, planning how to bring it up. "Actually… I wanted to ask you something about Christmas," you start, sitting up slightly to face him better.

Max's blue eyes meet yours, curious. "What's on your mind?"

"Well…" you bite your lip, suddenly feeling nervous despite knowing there's no reason to be. "I was wondering if you'd want to spend Christmas with me and my family this year? I know we've kept things private, but I really want them to meet you, and-"

"Wait, really?" Max interrupts, his whole face lighting up with that boyish excitement that made you fall for him in the first place. "You want me to meet your family?"

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "Of course I do. We've been together almost a year now, and they keep asking why I'm always smiling at my phone." You playfully poke his side. "Which is your fault, by the way."

He catches your hand, intertwining your fingers. "My fault? I'm just being my naturally charming self," he grins, then his expression turns slightly more serious. "But are you sure? I mean, won't they be surprised when you show up with, well…"

"With a four-time World Champion?" you finish for him, laughing. "Actually, my dad might pass out. He's been watching F1 since before I was born. He has no idea I've been dating his favorite driver."

Max's eyebrows shoot up. "I'm his favorite driver?"

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn playfully. "But yeah, he's got your merchandise and everything. It's actually kind of embarrassing how much he talks about you during race weekends."

Max throws his head back laughing, and you can't help but join in. "Oh God, this is going to be interesting," he says, wiping at his eyes. "What about the rest of your family?"

"Well, Mom will probably try to feed you until you burst - she's like that with everyone. And my little sister Ruby, she's seven and she's going to have so many questions. She's in that phase where she wants to know everything about everything."

"I can handle questions," Max says confidently, then hesitates. "What kind of questions are we talking about?"

You pretend to think about it. "Oh, you know, probably things like 'How fast have you ever driven?' 'Have you ever crashed?' 'Do you want to marry my sister?'"

Max nearly chokes on air at the last one, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "You're joking, right?"

"About Ruby? Nope, she has absolutely no filter," you laugh, then soften your voice. "But seriously, they're going to love you. Just be yourself - the you I know, not the racing driver everyone else sees."

He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'd love to spend Christmas with your family. I can't wait to meet them." He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Should I wear my race suit when I meet your dad?"

You swat his arm, laughing. "Don't you dare! He'll actually faint." You settle back against his chest, feeling warm and content. "Thank you for saying yes. It means a lot to me."

"Thank you for asking me," he murmurs into your hair. "I love you."

"I love you too," you respond, smiling as his arms tighten around you. The documentary continues playing, forgotten again as you both start planning for Christmas, trading ideas and jokes about how to break the news to your family.

You're sitting cross-legged on Max's bed while he's in the shower, your phone propped up against a pillow as you FaceTime your family. Your mom's face fills most of the screen, with your dad peering over her shoulder and little Ruby bouncing around trying to get a better view.

"Honey, we can barely see you. The lighting is terrible," your mom critiques, and you adjust your position slightly.

"Better?"

"Much better! Now, what's this important thing you wanted to tell us about Christmas?" Your mom asks, while Ruby shouts "Is it presents?" in the background.

You take a deep breath, trying to contain your smile. "Well, I wanted to let you know that I'm bringing someone with me this year… my boyfriend."

There's an immediate explosion of excitement. Ruby starts jumping up and down, your mom gasps dramatically, and your dad's eyebrows shoot up with interest.

"Finally!" your mom exclaims. "We've been wondering when you'd introduce him. You've been so secretive about this boyfriend of yours."

"What's his name?" Ruby pipes up, her face suddenly taking up half the screen as she pushes closer to the camera. "Is he nice? Does he like Disney movies?"

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Yes, Rubes, he's very nice. And his name is…" you pause, knowing what's coming. "Max. Max Verstappen."

There's a moment of silence before your dad bursts out laughing. "Good one, sweetheart. Now, what's his real name?"

"I'm serious, Dad. I'm dating Max Verstappen."

Your mom is trying to hold back her laughter now too. "Honey, isn't that the racing driver you and your father are always watching? The one your dad has all those caps and shirts of?"

"Yes, and I'm actually dating him," you insist, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Ruby's face scrunches up in confusion. "The fast car man? From TV?"

"The very same one, Rubes."

Your dad wipes tears from his eyes. "Come on now, what's next? Are you going to tell us you're best friends with Lewis Hamilton too?"

"Dad!" you groan, running a hand over your face. "I'm being serious! We've been dating for almost a year. I'm literally at his place right now!"

"In Monaco?" your dad asks skeptically. "Prove it."

You swing your phone around to show the familiar view of Monaco through the windows, but your dad just shakes his head. "Could be any apartment in Monaco."

"You're impossible!" you huff. "Fine, don't believe me. You'll see at Christmas."

Ruby presses her face closer to the screen again. "Will he bring his race car?"

"No, Rubes, he can't bring the race car," you say, softening your tone for your little sister. "But I promise you'll love him."

After a few more minutes of your family teasing you about your "imaginary Formula 1 driver boyfriend," you end the call with a mix of frustration and amusement. Just as you flop back onto the bed, you hear the bathroom door open and Max walks out, his hair still damp from the shower.

"How'd it go?" he asks, noticing your expression.

You let out a laugh. "They think I'm making you up. They literally don't believe I'm dating you."

Max raises his eyebrows, looking amused as he sits next to you on the bed. "Really?"

"Really. Dad laughed so hard he nearly cried. And Ruby, my little sister, just wants to know if you're bringing your race car for Christmas."

"Sorry to disappoint Ruby," he grins, then looks thoughtful. "You know, maybe we should've waited to tell them in person. The looks on their faces would've been priceless."

"Oh, don't worry," you sit up, wrapping your arms around his neck. "They'll still be priceless. Dad's going to lose it when he realizes all those times he was rambling about you during races, he was actually talking about his daughter's boyfriend."

Max laughs, pulling you closer. "What else should I know before meeting them?"

"Well, Ruby's seven and obsessed with Frozen. She'll definitely make you watch it and probably sing along too."

"I can handle that," he says confidently.

"And recite all the lines?"

"…Maybe not that."

"And act out the scenes with her?"

Max's eyes widen slightly. "What have I gotten myself into?"

You kiss his cheek. "Too late to back out now, Verstappen. You're stuck with us."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he murmurs, pulling you in for a proper kiss. "Even if it means playing Olaf the snowman."

"Oh no, you'll definitely be playing Elsa. Ruby's very particular about casting."

The look of horror on his face makes you burst out laughing, and soon he's joining in too. As your laughter dies down, you can't help but think about how perfect this feels - being here with him, planning to spend Christmas with your family, even if they don't believe you yet. You can't wait to see their faces when you show up at their door with Max Verstappen himself.

"Hey," Max says softly, breaking into your thoughts. "What are you smiling about?"

"Just thinking about how Christmas is going to be interesting this year."

"Interesting is one way to put it," he grins. "Should I wear my race suit when we arrive?"

"Don't you dare! Dad will actually faint."

"That's kind of the point," he winks, and you grab a pillow to hit him with, both of you dissolving into laughter again.

"Let me guess, another text from 'Max Verstappen'?" your dad teases from his spot at the kitchen counter, making air quotes with his fingers. He's wearing one of his many Red Bull Racing shirts, completely oblivious to the irony.

"Actually, yes," you reply, rolling your eyes. "He'll be here soon."

Your mom chuckles while peeling potatoes. "Honey, you can just tell us who your boyfriend really is. We won't judge, even if he's not a Formula 1 champion."

"Mom, I've told you a million times-"

"LOOK!" Ruby crashes into the kitchen, pointing at the TV in the living room where they're showing highlights from the last race. "It's YN's boyfriend!" She dissolves into giggles, clearly in on what she thinks is a funny joke.

"Very funny, Rubes," you mutter, but check your phone again when it buzzes.

Max: "Just turned onto your street. Nice neighborhood 😉"

Your heart starts beating faster. "He's here," you announce, heading toward the front door.

"Oh, we're still doing this?" your dad calls after you, amused. "Should I get my Max Verstappen cap for him to sign?"

"Actually, Dad, yes, you should," you shout back, slipping on your boots.

"Sweetie," your mom starts in that gentle voice she uses when she thinks you're being ridiculous, "you don't have to-"

The sound of a car pulling up interrupts her. You open the front door and step out onto the porch, watching as Max's car comes to a stop in your driveway. Your family has crowded behind you in the doorway, probably expecting to catch you in your "lie."

Max steps out of the car, looking unfairly handsome in his dark winter coat and scarf. His face lights up when he sees you, and you don't hesitate to run down the steps toward him.

"Hi," he grins, catching you in a tight hug and lifting you slightly off your feet. "Missed you."

You hear a loud gasp behind you, followed by what sounds like your dad choking on air.

"Missed you too," you murmur against his chest before turning to face your family, keeping one arm wrapped around his waist.

The scene on your front porch is priceless. Your dad's mouth is hanging open, his face pale except for two bright red spots on his cheeks. Your mom has both hands pressed to her face in shock. Ruby is the only one moving, bouncing up and down with excitement.

"IT REALLY IS THE FAST CAR MAN!" she shrieks, breaking the silence as she barrels down the steps toward you both.

Max laughs, crouching down to her level. "Hi Ruby. Nice to finally meet you. Your sister has told me a lot about you."

"You're real!" she exclaims, poking his arm as if to make sure.

"Very real," he confirms, looking thoroughly amused.

"I… you… but…" your dad stammers, still frozen in the doorway.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. LN," Max says, standing back up and guiding you and Ruby toward the porch. "Thank you for having me for Christmas."

Your mom seems to snap out of her shock first. "Oh my goodness, please come in! It's freezing out here. I… oh dear… the potatoes… I should… more food… I need to…"

"Mom, breathe," you laugh, as Max follows you inside.

Your dad hasn't moved an inch, still staring at Max like he's seeing a ghost. "You're… you're actually… the Brazil overtake…"

"Dad, no F1 talk yet!" you warn. "Let him at least get his coat off first."

"Right! Yes! Coat!" your dad says frantically. "I'll take your coat! And then maybe… could you… would you mind signing my…"

"Collection?" you finish for him, smirking. "The one you thought I was making up?"

Max raises his eyebrows at you, remembering your conversation about your dad's merchandise collection.

Ruby tugs on Max's hand. "Do you want to see my Frozen dolls? And can we watch the movie? Sissy said you've never seen it!"

"Ruby, let him settle in first," your mom calls from the kitchen, where she appears to be panic-cooking. "Oh God, is the food good enough? Do Formula 1 drivers have special diets? Should I-"

"Mom, the food will be perfect," you assure her, then turn to Max. "See? I told you they'd be cool about it."

Max tries to suppress his laugh as your dad continues to stare at him in awe, your mom stress-cooks enough food to feed an army, and Ruby continues pulling on his hand.

"Very cool," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Though I think your dad might need to sit down."

"I'm fine!" your dad squeaks, then immediately sits down heavily on the nearest chair. "Just… just give me a minute to process that my daughter is actually dating Max Verstappen and I've been accidentally talking about my future son-in-law during every race and-"

"DAD!" you exclaim, feeling your face heat up while Max chuckles beside you.

"What? I'm just saying… all those times I said 'that Verstappen boy would make someone a good husband someday' and it turns out-"

"Okay!" you interrupt loudly. "Who wants coffee? Max, come help me with coffee!"

As you drag a laughing Max toward the kitchen, you hear Ruby start explaining the entire plot of Frozen to him, your mom muttering about needing to buy more food, and your dad still talking to himself about racing statistics.

"Still think this was a good idea?" you whisper to Max.

He pulls you closer, grinning. "The best. Though you might want to tell your dad to breathe before he passes out."

"Can we build a snowman after coffee?" Ruby calls out.

"Only if Max gets to be Elsa!" you shout back, earning you a playful glare from your boyfriend.

Looking around at your slightly chaotic but loving family, and seeing how naturally Max fits into it all, you can't help but smile. This is definitely going to be a Christmas to remember.

The initial chaos has settled into a cozy scene in your living room. You're curled up on the couch next to Max, who has Ruby practically attached to his side. She hasn't stopped talking since everyone sat down, and Max, to his credit, is giving her his complete attention.

"And then Elsa makes this huge ice castle," Ruby explains, using elaborate hand gestures. "Can you drive as fast as Elsa runs up the mountain?"

"Probably faster," Max answers with a grin, making Ruby's eyes widen.

"Even in the snow?"

"Even in the snow."

Your dad, who's finally regained his ability to form complete sentences, sits in his armchair trying very hard not to bombard Max with racing questions. He keeps opening his mouth, then closing it again when you give him a warning look.

"It's okay, Dad," you laugh. "You can ask him one race question. Just one."

Your dad looks like he might cry from happiness. "The overtake in Brazil-"

"Which one?" Max asks with a playful smirk, and your dad launches into an enthusiastic discussion about racing lines and grip levels.

Your mom returns from the kitchen with a tray of hot chocolate and cookies, having finally accepted that she doesn't need to cook enough food for an entire F1 paddock. "Here we go. I hope it's okay, Max. YN mentioned you like hot chocolate."

"It's perfect, thank you," Max says warmly, accepting a mug.

Ruby immediately reaches for a cookie, then pauses. "Do race car drivers eat cookies?"

"Only the fast ones," Max whispers conspiratorially, making her giggle.

"Ruby, give Max some space to breathe," your mom says gently, noticing how your sister is practically in his lap.

"It's fine," Max assures her. "I have nephews. I'm used to it."

Ruby beams at this information. "Really? Do they like Frozen too?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure they'd love to hear your explanation of it," he says, and Ruby launches into another detailed plot summary.

You catch your mom watching the interaction with soft eyes, all her earlier panic forgotten. She meets your gaze and mouths 'He's wonderful' when Ruby isn't looking.

Your dad has moved on from Brazil to discussing tire strategies, but stops himself mid-sentence. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you. You live this stuff."

"Not at all," Max says sincerely. "It's nice talking about it with someone who understands racing. YN usually just tells me to stop being a nerd when I talk about tire compounds."

"Because you spent two hours explaining the difference between C3 and C4 compounds!" you defend yourself.

"It's fascinating stuff," your dad says eagerly, and Max nods in agreement.

"Oh no, there's two of them now," you mutter to your mom, who laughs.

Ruby tugs on Max's sleeve. "Can we watch Frozen now? Please? You promised!"

"Ruby, let Max rest a bit," your mom starts, but Max shakes his head.

"A promise is a promise," he says solemnly to Ruby. "Should we watch it now?"

Ruby squeals with delight, jumping up to get the remote. Your dad looks slightly disappointed that his racing talk is being cut short, but you can see him hiding a smile at Ruby's excitement.

"Fair warning," you whisper to Max as Ruby sets up the movie, "she knows every word. And she will sing along."

"As long as she doesn't expect me to sing," he whispers back.

"MAX!" Ruby calls, patting the spot next to her on the floor where she's arranged pillows. "You have to sit here! It's the best spot!"

Max obliges, settling down next to her while you stay on the couch, exchanging amused looks with your parents as Ruby starts the movie, already mouthing along to the opening music.

Your mom leans over to you. "I'm sorry we didn't believe you," she whispers. "He's lovely. And so good with Ruby."

"I told you," you whisper back, watching as Ruby explains to Max why Elsa has ice powers.

Your dad joins in the whispered conversation. "Think he'd sign my mug collection later?"

"Dad!"

"What? I'm just saying, Christmas cards would be sorted for the next few years…"

You're about to respond when Ruby shushes you all loudly. "This is the best part!"

Max catches your eye and winks, clearly enjoying himself despite being roped into a Disney movie viewing with a very enthusiastic seven-year-old commentator. Your heart swells watching him with your family, how naturally he fits in, how gentle he is with Ruby.

"Do you want to build a snowman?" Ruby starts singing along with the movie.

"Later, Rubes," you promise. "Let's watch the movie first."

She nods seriously, then turns to Max. "Pay attention to this part. It's very important."

"I won't miss a second," he promises, and Ruby beams at him before turning back to the screen.

Your mom reaches over and squeezes your hand, giving you a knowing look. Even your dad has stopped thinking about racing long enough to appreciate the moment – his youngest daughter sharing her favorite movie with your boyfriend, who happens to be the F1 driver he's been fan-boying over for years.

It's perfect, you think, watching your family and Max together. Different from how you imagined telling them, but perfect nonetheless.

"Shh!" Ruby whispers loudly. "Elsa is about to sing Let It Go!"

Max shoots you a slightly panicked look as Ruby starts to stand up, clearly ready to perform the whole number. You just grin and shrug. After all, you did warn him about the singing.

Later that evening, you finally manage to steal a moment alone with Max. Ruby had fallen asleep during the third replay of Frozen, and your parents took her up to bed before retreating to the kitchen to finish some Christmas preparations.

You find Max on the back porch, leaning against the railing and looking up at the stars. The winter air is crisp, and you can see his breath forming little clouds in the darkness. Quietly, you step out and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back.

"Hey," he says softly, turning in your arms to face you. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer. "Needed a little break from being Elsa?"

You laugh quietly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "You were amazing with Ruby today. I think you're officially her new favorite person."

"She's a sweet kid," he smiles, then adds with a playful glint in his eyes, "Though I didn't expect to watch Frozen two times in one day."

"Just wait until tomorrow. She'll probably want to act it out."

He groans dramatically, but you can see the fondness in his expression. "The things I do for you."

"Mmm, and I appreciate every one of them," you murmur, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly.

Max responds immediately, one hand moving to cup your face while the other pulls you even closer. The kiss is gentle and unhurried, full of unspoken emotions. When you finally pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For being so perfect with my family. For watching Frozen multiple times. For not running away when my dad started his racing commentary."

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "I like your family. Your dad's racing knowledge is impressive, your mom's trying very hard not to mother me to death, and Ruby…" he pauses, smiling. "Ruby reminds me of Victoria at that age."

You snuggle closer, seeking his warmth in the cold air. "I was so nervous about telling them, and then even more nervous when they didn't believe me. But this… this is better than I imagined."

"Even with your dad asking me to sign his entire Red Bull merchandise collection?"

"Hey, at least he waited until after dinner," you laugh. "Though I'm pretty sure he's in there right now planning which items to bring out first."

Max wraps his arms more securely around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I love you," he says quietly, and your heart skips a beat like it does every time he says those words.

"I love you too," you reply, tilting your face up for another kiss.

This one is deeper, more passionate, until you hear the back door creak and quickly step apart.

"Oh!" your mom exclaims, looking flustered. "Sorry, I just… wanted to ask about breakfast preferences… but it can wait… carry on!"

She disappears back inside, and you both burst into quiet laughter.

"We should probably go back in," you sigh, though you make no move to leave his embrace.

"Probably," he agrees, but instead of letting go, he pulls you back for one more kiss. "Five more minutes?"

You smile against his lips. "Five more minutes."

In the quiet of Christmas eve, wrapped in each other's arms, you can't help but think how perfectly he fits into your life, into your family, into your heart. Tomorrow there'll be more Frozen, more racing talk, more of Ruby's endless questions, but right now, it's just the two of you, and it's everything.

The winter sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains of your childhood bedroom, casting a soft golden glow across the room. You're wrapped in warmth, nestled against Max's chest with his arm draped around your waist. His steady breathing tells you he's awake before he even moves.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, his voice still rough with sleep. His lips brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"Morning," you whisper back, feeling his hand slowly slide beneath your sleep shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Sleep well?" he asks innocently, but his actions are anything but innocent as he presses closer, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder to your ear.

"Max," you breathe, caught between wanting to lean into his touch and knowing you should stop. "We can't… my parents…"

"Then we'll have to be very, very quiet," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. His hand travels higher under your shirt, making your breath hitch.

You turn in his arms, ready to either give in or properly protest - though the way he's looking at you, eyes dark with desire and that signature smirk playing on his lips, makes you lean heavily toward the former.

"You're trouble," you murmur, reaching up to run your fingers through his disheveled hair.

He leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss. "You love it."

Just as his hand starts to wander again, a voice pierces through the quiet morning:

"IT'S CHRISTMAAAAS!" Ruby's excited scream echoes through the entire house, followed by the thundering of small feet running down the hallway. "WAKE UP! WAKE UP! SANTA CAME!"

Max drops his forehead to your shoulder with a frustrated groan. "Your sister has impeccable timing."

"Welcome to Christmas with Ruby," you laugh, pressing a consoling kiss to his cheek. "I tried to warn you."

"YN! MAX!" Ruby's fists pound on your door. "GET UP! There are presents EVERYWHERE! And it SNOWED!"

"Five more minutes, Rubes!" you call back.

"NO MINUTES! NOW!" she insists, continuing to knock. "Mom said breakfast is ready and Dad made hot chocolate and I SAW A HUGE PRESENT WITH MY NAME ON IT!"

Max chuckles against your shoulder. "I suppose we should…"

"PLEASE!" Ruby calls again. "I promise I'll let you drink your coffee first!"

"That's quite the offer from her," you tell Max. "She usually doesn't allow any delays on Christmas morning."

"We're coming, Ruby!" Max calls out, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "Give us two minutes to get dressed."

"TWO MINUTES! I'm counting!"

You can hear her dramatically counting down in the hallway, making Max laugh. "She's serious about this, isn't she?"

"Oh, you have no idea."

The living room is a festival of color and chaos when you finally make it downstairs. Ruby's bouncing by the tree in her Christmas pajamas, while your parents are settled on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee.

"Finally!" Ruby exclaims. "I counted way past two minutes!"

"Sorry, princess," Max says, accepting a coffee mug from your mom. "But I'm here now."

"Max, sweetheart, you really didn't have to get us anything," your mom says, noticing the pile of presents he'd arranged under the tree last night.

"Of course I did," he replies warmly. "It's Christmas."

Ruby's practically vibrating with excitement as your dad starts distributing gifts. "Can I open mine from Max first? Please?"

At your nod, she tears into the elaborate wrapping paper, gasping when she reveals a beautiful wooden chest with golden details. "It's like a treasure chest!"

"Open it," Max encourages, smiling.

Ruby lifts the lid carefully, her eyes widening. Inside is a complete collection of princess dresses, each one a perfect replica from different Disney movies, along with matching accessories and a tiara for each one.

"The chest is magical," Max explains, kneeling beside her. "Every time you open it, there might be a new surprise inside. And look at this…" He reaches in and pulls out a small envelope.

Ruby opens it to find a letter with the Disney castle letterhead. "Dear Princess Ruby," she reads aloud, her voice getting more excited with each word. "You are cordially invited to spend a royal weekend at Disney World, where you will have a private breakfast with all the Disney princesses…"

She doesn't even finish reading before launching herself at Max, nearly knocking him over. "Thank you thank you thank you! Can I try on the Elsa dress right now?"

"After presents," your mom laughs. "Let's see what else Santa brought."

Your dad opens his gift next, finding an envelope that makes him pause. "Son," he says, voice thick with emotion as he reads the contents. "This is…"

"VIP passes to the British Grand Prix," Max confirms. "Including garage access, grid walk, everything."

Your dad has to sit down, clutching the passes like they might disappear. "This is… I can't…"

"And this," Max hands him another package, "is just a little something extra."

Inside is a vintage racing jacket from your dad's favorite driver from the 80s, signed and authenticated. Your dad actually tears up.

Your mom opens her gift next, despite protesting again that Max shouldn't have gotten them anything. She unwraps a beautiful pair of earrings.

"Oh, Max," she whispers, "This is beautiful."

Ruby, who has been surprisingly patient, tugs at Max's sleeve. "Can we do my princess breakfast now?"

"After we finish presents," you laugh. "And maybe we should have real breakfast first?"

"But I'm a princess now," she declares. "Princesses have special breakfast times."

Your mom shakes her head fondly. "How about pancakes fit for a princess?"

"With chocolate chips?" Ruby negotiates.

"With chocolate chips," your mom confirms. "Max, honey, how do you like your pancakes?"

"However they're made is perfect," he assures her, but your mom is already heading to the kitchen, muttering about making sure she has enough chocolate chips.

Your dad finally finds his voice again. "Max, this is too much…"

"It's not," Max says firmly. "You're… you're family now. Or at least, I hope…"

He glances at you meaningfully, making your heart skip a beat.

Later, after pancakes and multiple princess dress changes from Ruby, you manage to steal some time alone with Max in your favorite spot on the back porch. The morning sun has warmed the air slightly, but there's still a crisp winter chill that gives you an excuse to stay close to him.

"Your turn," Max says softly, pulling out a small wrapped box from his pocket.

Your hands tremble slightly as you unwrap it, revealing a velvet jewelry box. Inside is a delicate silver necklace with two intertwined pendants - a heart and a tiny racing helmet.

"Max," you breathe, touching the pendants gently. "It's beautiful."

"Look at the back," he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of nervousness you rarely hear.

You turn the heart over to find an engraving: "You're my biggest victory. -MV"

"I love you," you whisper, pulling him down for a kiss. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as if you're the most precious thing in his world.

When you finally part, you hand him your gift - a wrapped box that makes him raise his eyebrows at the weight.

Inside, he finds a handmade scrapbook filled with your personal moments - sneaky paddock kisses, quiet mornings at home, victory celebrations, and candid moments no one else has seen. The final page holds a photo from yesterday - Max on the floor with Ruby, both laughing during their third viewing of Frozen.

"This is…" he starts, voice thick with emotion.

"Wait," you say softly, reaching into your pocket. You pull out a key on a simple keychain. "I thought… maybe… if you wanted…"

"Move in with you?" he finishes, breaking into that brilliant smile that never fails to make your heart race. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

He pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other holds the key carefully.

"MAX!" Ruby's voice carries from inside. "I need help with my Cinderella shoes! And then we have to build a snowman! A FROZEN snowman!"

You both laugh against each other's lips.

"Duty calls, Elsa," you tease.

"Only if you'll be my Olaf," he grins, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips.

"Always," you promise, letting him lead you back inside where Ruby waits, already changed into her third princess dress of the morning.

Your dad catches your eye as you pass, "If you don't marry this boy," he whispers, "I will."

"Dad!"

"I'm just saying," he shrugs, then heads outside to join the snowman-building committee.

Your mom appears at your other side, wrapping an arm around you. "He's right, you know. He's perfect for you."

You lean your head on her shoulder, watching Max let Ruby direct him on where to place the snowman's arms. "I know," you smile. "I know."

"Best Christmas ever?" she asks softly.

Looking at your family, and Max in the middle of it all, belonging there like he's always been part of it - you smile.

"Best Christmas ever," you agree.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 1: Convalescence

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725

A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.

Healed Masterlist Masterlist

—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.

You are doing this on instinct. You must be.

"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”

You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood. 

The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected. 

"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."

You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.

You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.

You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.

Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.

"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."

—-

He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.

Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.

“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.

One, two, three, four…

A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.

One, two, three, four…

He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.

He’s alive, but barely.

He needs surgery. Now.

"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"

Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.

—-

There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.

You're out of practice and out of your league.

There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life. 

A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.

"I’ll try," you respond.

The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.

Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.

The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.

But he lasts.

Joel Miller survives.

You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.

You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.

"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.

He hugs you.

"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I'm not sure—"

"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

—-

And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours. 

It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.

The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.

The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.

He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall. 

There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.

But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.

Bruises, cuts, scabs.

Contusions, lacerations.

Stiff and swollen.

You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.

He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.

It’s lonely.

Sometimes there’s company, but not enough. 

Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”

Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables. 

“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”

You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.

—-

A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.

She asks if he’s okay.

You nod.

She asks if he can hear her.

You nod.

She asks you to leave the room.

You leave.

—-

His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.

His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."

His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.

It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.

His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.

He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"

Nothing.

It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.

—-

You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.

“Joel.”

You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.

He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.

He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.

You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to. 

If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.

You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?” 

You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed, 

“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”

You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.

When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.

You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time. 

Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.

You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.

You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.

—-

The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.

He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.

He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.

He hates the dark.

Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.

He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.

A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms. 

He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.

He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.

You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.

Always there.

"You need to wake up," you tell him. 

And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.

Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.

Another day passes.

Another.

And another.

He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.

But you don't leave him.

His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.

And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.

"Ellie?" It's the most important question.

"She's safe," you tell him.

“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.

“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.

“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”

"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.

"A while… but you survived.”

“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.

“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."

“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”

“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.

—-

Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.

It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning. 

Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.

“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.

“Repeat it,” he requests. 

You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.

—-

The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.

He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows. 

This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.

He really sees it.

You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.

He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been. 

He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.

You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.

“Joel…”

He croaks an affirmative.

You drop your knitting needles and gasp.

"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.

You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.

“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you. 

—-

Next Chapter

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[maxwellatoms]

Do you think were any kind of specific aspects of the culture, industry, economy, etc that made making cartoons in 90s / 2000s better or worse than trying to make them today?

They're literally different worlds.

As a 22 year old neurodivergent, I was able to pitch show ideas directly to executives. Part of that was because TV Animation wasn't a glamorous profession (quite yet), so the higher-ups were genuinely passionate about the medium. I earned good money for the time and was generally trusted to run my show and tend to the crew. I would periodically be handed portfolios, which I would personally review and pass on to other show runners. For the networks it was always corporate, cutthroat, and ultimately about the money, but as an artist you could still have a voice and make art while being paid a living wage.

The pay for a freelance storyboard in 2005 is almost exactly what it is today, but now you're likely to have less time and be required to do an animatic on top of it. Portfolios are online, and (beyond metrics) you'll probably never know if anyone looks at it or not.

Animation got big. Too big. The executives got "glamorous", then the talent got "glamorous". By then you probably wouldn't get a pitch meeting unless you were a celebrity or knew one willing to be connected to your project. Animation eventually got so big that it popped. And that's where we are now.

Most of the people I know from Kid's TV Animation are currently unemployed. I have been off Jellystone for over a year, and I'm starting to get genuinely worried. Like, "move away to save money" worried. Most of the employed artists I do know are on long-running legacy series, and they're concerned about their futures when/if those series end. Right now is not a fantastic time for "animation as a money-making profession". The "glamorous" part popped years ago.

That being said, there are still opportunities out there. If you're just starting out, apparently there's a planned surge in adult and pre-school animation. It's also a great time (as long as YouTube remains sane) to be crafting your own content. But I think that the time of Big Studio Patronage is over for most of the industry. It's up to the individual artist now more than ever, not only to make but to promote their own content.

Back at the height of Billy & Mandy, we mostly pulled fours and fives in the Neilsen ratings, but we occasionally got a seven. For reference, E.R. consistently got eights. It's difficult to say exactly how many people that actually was due to how those ratings work, but it was a big deal for the time. Millions. Enough people that if I had a dollar for each person that just watched that one episode, I would have been set for life. Now, nobody gets a seven. A four is huge. Back then there were maybe fifteen or twenty channels of programmed content as opposed to the streaming smorgasbord we were all just enjoying (and which now also seems to have popped). Point being, even though I wasn't paid-per-view, I was able to use those views as justification for an eventual raise. In modern times, streaming numbers are seemingly deliberately kept secret. You'll never really know how well your show was doing until it's over. Or maybe never.

In modern times, a million views on YouTube is enough to get you noticed online. It's a lower bar for entry in a way, but you've got to get there all by yourself. Once you're there (hello Hazbin) a network may indeed come and scoop you up. Even if they don't, you can probably make a decent living with numbers like that if you're savvy and willing to take the time.

I feel like I could go on all day, shaking my fist at the sky, gray-ass beard blowing in the wind. Was it better or easier making cartoons in the past? It seemed that way to me, but that was a world I knew. There was no AI to sell you out to, and the media was more of a "Wild West" than it is today. I do think that AI is going to continue to displace artists (and soon others), making it even more difficult to get anyone's eyes on anything at all.

Culturally, we lack the common touchpoints that bonded our society in the 20th Century. I suspect that the media landscape will continue to become more "bubbly" and disjointed unless some powerful force swoops in to mandate a common viewpoint. Those are two very divergent, uniquely tiring futures, each presenting a different challenge for an artist's survival.

Outside of whatever our modern world is, animation was made for a century by photographing drawings. If Émile Cohl could do it in 1908, you can do it now. It's a lot of labor, but maybe that's part of what makes it special.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 3

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You Couldn't Do It Anymore. You Don't Want This. You Don't Want This Relationship, His Love, Him. And So You Tried To End It...

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Mark was still holding you.

Still comforting you.

Still treating you like something fragile, something breakable, something precious.

And you couldn’t stand it.

You pulled away.

Abrupt. Sharp. Cold.

The warmth of Mark’s hands slipped from your skin, and for the first time tonight, you felt cold.

The sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing yourself to keep the words from getting caught in your throat.

It was now or never.

"I want to break up."

The words came out blunt. Flat. Devoid of hesitation.

Mark froze.

Like the whole world had just stopped.

Like he couldn’t comprehend the words leaving your mouth.

"...What?"

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the wide, confused eyes. The slight tremble of his lips. The complete and utter disbelief written across his face.

And you felt nothing.

No guilt. No hesitation. No regret.

Just exhaustion.

"I don’t want to be with you anymore," you repeated, each word precise, cutting, final.

Mark let out a soft laugh—short, breathless, like he thought this was some kind of joke.

Like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

"...Y-You’re just tired," he said quickly, stepping forward, reaching for your hands. "I—I get it, tonight was a lot, and you’re overwhelmed, but—"

You yanked your hands back.

His smile faltered.

His brows furrowed. "Wait—"

You clenched your jaw.

Of course he would do this.

"You’re not listening," you muttered, shoving the sheets off you and standing up.

"Y/N—"

You ignored him.

Started dressing.

Pulled on your underwear, your pants, your shirt—quick, efficient movements, not looking at him, not saying another word.

But Mark was following you.

Hovering.

Like a lost puppy.

"Wait—wait, please just talk to me," he said, his voice rising slightly, cracking at the edges, desperation leaking in. "Tell me what’s wrong—tell me why—"

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t even spare him a glance.

You just grabbed your things and headed for the door.

But before you could reach it—

Strong arms wrapped around you.

Tight. Unyielding.

A desperate, suffocating embrace.

Mark’s face buried in your hair, his breathing uneven, shaking.

And when you opened your mouth to yell at him—

He cut you off.

A soft, broken whisper—

"Please... Please don’t go."

You froze.

Because his voice—

It was wrong.

Fragile. Trembling.

Utterly, completely wrecked.

And then you felt it.

The way his body was shaking.

The wetness against your hair.

Mark was crying.

"I love you," he whispered, voice raw. "I love you so much—I can’t—I can’t do this without you—"

Your stomach twisted.

"Please don’t leave me," he begged, pressing his face deeper into your neck, his arms tightening around you like if he let go, you would disappear. "I don’t care if you’re mad, if you hate me—just don’t go—please, I’ll do anything—"

You shut your eyes.

Felt his tears against your skin.

Felt his hands trembling as they clung to you, gripping your clothes like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

He was pathetic.

Completely and utterly pathetic.

And for the first time—

You felt sick.

Not at him.

But at yourself.

Because deep down, you had always known this would happen.

You had always known how much he loved you.

How much he needed you.

And still, you had let it go this far.

Still, you had taken everything from him.

And now, standing there, trapped in his arms, feeling his entire body shake against yours—

You didn’t know how to undo it.

Mark was seven years old when he lost his favorite comic.

And it was not just any comic.

Not just some random issue.

It was "Science Dog #1."

His prized possession. The one comic he loved more than anything. The one his dad gave him for his birthday, the one he read every night, the one he took everywhere—and now it was gone.

He sat on the curb outside the store, miserable, blinking fast to keep from crying.

He was not gonna cry.

He was not—

"Oi. The fuck’s up with you?"

A voice.

Mark looked up.

It was a girl.

She stood in front of him, arms crossed, chewing on a lollipop stick.

Her hoodie was too big for her. Her sneakers were busted. And her knees was absolutely destroyed—bruised, scraped, covered in Band-Aids like she got into a fight with a sidewalk and lost.

Mark blinked. "...What?"

She squinted.

Then—without asking—she dropped down next to him, legs sprawled out, rocking back on her hands like they’d been friends forever.

"You deaf?" she said. "I said— the fuck’s up with you?"

Mark’s brain short-circuited.

He just stared.

"...You cussed."

"Yeah?" She raised a brow. "And? Your dad gonna come outta nowhere and beat my ass?"

Mark frowned. "My dad doesn’t beat children."

"Well, mine does."

Mark had no idea what to say to that.

"Why you look like you just watched your dog get shot?"

Mark gasped. "WHAT?!"

"I’m asking why you look sad, dipshit."

After an awkward silence, he just mumbled, "I lost my comic."

She tilted her head. "Okay?"

"It was my favorite one," he muttered.

She let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Jesus Christ. You’re seriously out here looking like your whole family just got shot ‘cause you lost a comic?"

Mark flushed. "It was Science Dog #1!"

She froze.

Eyes widening.

Then—

"PFFFT—"

She started laughing.

Mark’s face burned. "It’s not funny!"

"Yes, it is!" She wiped a fake tear.

Mark grumbled, crossing his arms. "You're rude."

"And you suck!" she shot back instantly, shoving his shoulder. "Damn, you’re a whiny little bitch."

Mark’s mouth dropped open. "You can’t just say that!"

"Yeah? What are you, my mom?"

He gawked. "You smell."

"And you’re still crying over a comic book."

Mark huffed. "It was important."

"...Tch." She clicked her tongue, thinking. Then, she stood up.

"Alright, Crybaby, let’s go."

Mark blinked. "Huh?"

She shrugged. "I got money. You in or what?"

Mark lit up. "Really?!"

"Yeah, yeah, don’t nut yourself over it, Jesus." She cracked her knuckles. "Let’s go, before I change my mind."

Mark practically jumped to his feet.

He followed her across the street, into the tiny comic book store he loved so much, his heart racing with excitement.

The comic shop was small, but perfect—rows of shelves stacked with old issues, that perfect scent of paper and ink filling the air.

Mark immediately found the new Science Dog #1 reprint.

His heart soared. "I found it!"

But when he turned—

She was gone.

Mark blinked. "Uh—?"

Then—

"HEY!!! YOU LITTLE BITCH—!"

Mark jumped.

The store owner yelled from behind the counter, scrambling out of his chair.

And then—

SHE CAME SPRINTING OUT.

Laughing.

"RUN, LOSER!" she screeched, grabbing his wrist.

Mark didn’t even have time to react.

He just ran.

His legs scrambled to keep up as she dragged him down the street, the old man behind them shouting, "GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!!!"

Mark panicked. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

"I GOT YOU THE FUCKING COMIC!" she cackled.

Mark’s heart stopped. "YOU STOLE IT?!"

"YOU SAID YOU WANTED IT!"

"NOT LIKE THIS!"

But she was laughing—laughing like she’d never had more fun in her life, gripping his wrist as they ran through the alley, dodging trash cans and stray cats until—

They finally stopped.

Panting.

Gasping for breath.

Mark was wheezing.

"You—" he gasped. "You—stole it—"

"Duh." She smirked, holding up the comic. "Here ya go, loser."

Mark stared.

"Don’t say I never did anything good for ya," she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

Mark hesitated.

Then—very slowly—he reached out and took it.

Held it in his hands.

It was real.

He looked back at her. "...Thanks?"

She grinned.

Then—

He saw the other two comics.

The special edition ones.

The glass-case ones.

The ones that were not for sale.

His soul left his body.

"YOU STOLE THOSE TOO?!"

"I— didn’t want you to feel like a broke bitch," she shrugged. "Figured I’d grab the good shit while I was at it."

"WE’RE GONNA GO TO JAIL!"

"Relax, nerd, no one’s gonna catch us." She patted his cheek. "Now take ‘em before I change my mind."

Mark wanted to die.

He looked around, panicking. "We have to take them back!"

She snorted. "Yeah, no."

"WE STOLE FROM HIM!"

"I stole from him," she corrected, poking his chest. "You just stood there looking pretty."

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!"

She sighed dramatically. "Damn, you whine more than my little cousin." she shoving the comics into his hands. "Just shut up and take ‘em."

Mark stared at them.

Then back at her.

"...Why?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

Mark swallowed. "Why’d you steal them for me?"

She stared.

Then she rubbed the back of her neck. "...I dunno. You looked pathetic as shit."

Mark froze.

Before he could say anything—

She punched his chest.

Not hard. Just a light fist bump.

"Atta boy."

Then she grinned, stuffing her hands in her hoodie pockets.

"See ya around, loser."

And then—

She just walked off.

Laughing.

Mark stood there.

Holding stolen comics.

Heart pounding.

Mouth slightly open.

That was the first time he ever saw her.

And even though he was horrified—

Something in his chest...

Felt warm.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 1. Part 2.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

So I’m a minor (16 to be specific) and I frequently watch and read stuff with explicit sexual or 18+ content in it. I live in an extremely conservative Christian household and things like explicit fanfic are pretty much the only option I have for learning about sex that isn’t abstinence only. I do feel bad about it, especially when I see adults online say stuff like “oh i watched lots of inappropriate things as a teen that i really shouldn’t have” and it makes me feel like I’m ruining myself in a way that I won’t realize until I’m an adult? Right now I don’t see what the big deal is but i get the feeling that when i’m 24 or something I’ll wake up one day and be ashamed of this for some reason i’m not mature enough to know yet. Should I just stop and wait until I’m 18 to continue or what?

hi anon,

okay. I'm gonna hit you with something:

turning 18 does not actually change the way you feel about porn or sex or anything. the difference between being seventeen and 364 days and being 18 is nonexistent. there's not a magical switch that changes you as a person; that comes from lived experience. if you're 18 and your experience is still that porn and smut and what have you i something that you should feel bad about, it's still going to feel that way and a birthday won't change that.

look, the whole notion of "I saw [x] that I shouldn't have when I was young" is like. okay. so you saw something that was a little mature for you that you didn't quite get? awesome. did you die? no. most people's hangups about sexuality don't come from seeing a rogue titty when they were a teenager, they come from the culture that person was raised in that made seeing a rogue titty feel like something to be ashamed of instead of a completely natural part of life.

story time! when I teach my 4th-6th grade OWL classes (Our Whole Lives, great human development program) I always start by holding a meeting with the kids' parents. I've been doing this for seven years, and every time without fail some of the parents will recall seeing porn for the first time as a kid. these guys were kids when printed porn magazines were still a thing, so they were discovering them in all kinds of places - the bedrooms of their parents or their friends' parents, at bus stops, in the woods, once even stowed in some farm equipment. and they remember it feeling illicit and exciting, sure, and possibly making them confused or even horny for the first time in their young lives, but like... that's it. none of these people are irreparably damaged by seeing porn. in fact, they've grown up to be the kind of people who go out of their way to make sure their young kids are enrolled in a queer-friendly, body-positive, diversity-embracing sex ed class to counter stereotypes and misinformation they might receive elsewhere.

looking at things that arouse you is morally neutral. it can be a great way to help you learn about what turns you on, and even if it's not the best source of factual, realistic depictions of sex, it can still help you discover things - hell, I only figured out what the clitoris was by reading Young Justice fanfic (shout out Snaibsel).

you can't ruin yourself, at any age, with the media you like to consume. what makes you uncomfortable and anxious is the attitude you've been taught to have about that media, which is something that has to be actively unlearned, because it's certainly not going to just disappear on its own when you become a legal adult.

tl;dr obviously no one is making you watch porn and you shouldn't if it makes you uncomfortable, but if you drop it right now and come back when you're 18 don't expect to feel any different if you haven't done any more unpacking re: the conservative Christianity of it all.