#believe me I have already addressed this with an eye doctor

[carolinanadeau]

god I'm so sick of practically every game I play making my eyes strained... what am I supposed to do :(

[pucksandpower]

Pride and Prejudice and Bullets

mafia boss!Max Verstappen x professor!Reader

Summary: your life is predictable — revolving around teaching about Jane Austen novels and grading term papers — and you like it that way … until an old classmate makes a sudden appearance that turns everything upside down

Warnings: minor character death

The sharp rap at the door jolts you from your late-night reading. You glance at the clock — 2:37 AM. Who could it possibly be at this ungodly hour?

Cautiously, you approach the door, peering through the peephole. Your heart skips a beat. Is that ... no, it couldn’t be. But as you swing the door open, there he stands — the boy who vanished from your high school without a trace nearly a decade ago.

“Max?” You breathe, scarcely believing your eyes.

He doesn’t respond, just pushes past you into the apartment, one hand pressed firmly against his side. As he moves, you catch a glimpse of crimson seeping through his fingers, staining what looks like an absurdly expensive shirt.

“Jesus, Max, what happened to you?” You gasp, instinctively reaching out.

He flinches away from your touch, his eyes wild. “I hear you’re a doctor now. Do your doctor stuff,” Max barks the order at you, his voice rough with pain.

You blink, momentarily stunned. “I’m a doctor of British Literature! What are you even doing here? How do you know my address? Why are you here?”

“Needed a doctor, you’re a doctor,” he grunts, stumbling toward your couch.

The reality of the situation starts to sink in. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I need to call an ambulance.”

“No,” Max snaps, his tone brooking no argument. “Don’t. Are you stupid? I’m here because I can’t go to a hospital.”

Your mind races, torn between concern and confusion. “Yes, right, fuck, I should call the cops. Why do you know my address?”

“Wound. Fix it,” he growls through gritted teeth.

“Yes! Wound. Uhhhh, take off your shirt?” You stammer, fumbling for your phone. “I need to Google this- oh my god that’s disgusting, oh fuck, is the bullet still in there?”

Max’s eyes narrow. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Of course I don’t!” You exclaim, your voice rising in pitch. “I write papers on Jane Austen, not ... whatever this is!”

He groans, both from pain and exasperation. “Fine. First aid kit. You have one?”

You nod frantically, dashing to the bathroom. When you return, Max has managed to unbutton his shirt, revealing a nasty wound just below his ribs.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steadier now. “Antiseptic. Clean the wound.”

With shaking hands, you do as he instructs, trying not to gag at the sight of so much blood. “Max, please, what’s going on? How did this happen?”

He ignores your questions. “Tweezers. The bullet’s still in there. You need to get it out.”

“What? No! I can’t — I’ll hurt you!”

A humorless laugh escapes him. “Trust me, it already hurts. Just do it.”

Swallowing hard, you position the tweezers. Max’s hand shoots out, gripping your wrist. “Wait,” he says, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. He produces a flask, takes a long swig, then nods. “Okay. Go.”

You take a deep breath and plunge in. Max’s entire body goes rigid, a string of curses flowing from his lips that would make a sailor blush. After what feels like an eternity, you feel the tweezers catch on something.

“I think I’ve got it,” you whisper.

“Then pull it out,” Max hisses.

With a sickening squelch, you extract the bullet. Max lets out a strangled groan, then goes limp.

“Max?” You say, panic rising in your throat. “Max!”

His eyes flutter open. “I’m fine. Just ... give me a minute.”

As you clean and dress the wound, a tense silence falls between you. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you speak. “Max, please. What’s going on? I haven’t seen you in years, and now you show up at my door in the middle of the night with a bullet wound?”

He sighs, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “It’s ... complicated.”

“No shit,” you retort. “Start talking. Now.”

Max runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the movement. “After I left school, I got mixed up in some ... stuff. Bad stuff. It was supposed to be temporary, just a way to make some quick cash. But things ... escalated.”

“Escalated how?” You press.

He meets your gaze, his eyes hard. “You really want to know?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I run the Dutch Crime Syndicate now,” he says flatly.

You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s a high, slightly hysterical sound. “The Dutch Crime Syndicate? Are you serious? That sounds like something out of a bad movie.”

“Does this look like a joke to you?” Max gestures to his wound.

The laughter dies in your throat. “Oh god. You’re serious.”

He nods grimly. “Dead serious. And now you know why I couldn’t go to a hospital. Too many questions.”

“But ... why me?” You ask, still struggling to process this information. “We were barely even friends in school.”

Max shifts uncomfortably. “I ... kept tabs on people from back then. When I heard you’d become a doctor-”

“A doctor of literature,” you interject.

He rolls his eyes. “When I heard you had become a ‘doctor,’ I made a note of it. Just in case. Never thought I’d actually need to use that information, but ... here we are.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. “This is insane. You’re insane. I should be calling the police right now.”

“But you won’t,” Max says quietly.

“And why’s that?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time since he arrived. “Because you’re curious. Because part of you, whether you want to admit it or not, is excited by this. By me showing up and shaking up your nice, safe, predictable life.”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. He’s not entirely wrong.

“So what happens now?” You ask instead.

Max shrugs, then immediately regrets it, judging by his wince. “Now, I rest for a bit, then I leave. And you go back to your life of Jane Austen and tea cozies.”

“That’s it?” You can’t keep the disappointment out of your voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “What were you expecting? That I’d sweep you off your feet and into a life of crime?”

“No, of course not,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well, well. Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye, Y/N.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Shut up. You’re delirious from blood loss.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “Or maybe I’m seeing clearly for the first time in years.”

There’s a charged moment of silence between you. Then Max groans, breaking the spell. “God, I sound like a bad romance novel. Must be the whiskey talking.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Well, you did show up bleeding on my doorstep in the middle of the night. It’s all very dramatic.”

“What can I say? I aim to please,” Max quips, then turns serious. “Look, Y/N ... thank you. For helping me. For not calling the cops. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you probably don’t,” you agree. “But ... I’m glad you came. As crazy as this all is, it’s ... nice to see you again.”

Max’s expression softens. “Yeah. It’s nice to see you too.”

Another silence falls, but this one is comfortable, almost companionable. Finally, Max speaks again. “I should go. I’ve already put you in enough danger.”

“Wait,” you say, surprising yourself. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere. At least stay until morning.”

He hesitates, clearly torn. “I shouldn’t ...”

“Please,” you insist. “For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Max searches your face, then nods slowly. “Okay. But just until morning.”

As you help him settle more comfortably on the couch, you can’t shake the feeling that your life has just irrevocably changed. For better or worse remains to be seen, but one thing’s for certain — it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

***

The early morning sunlight filters through your curtains, rousing you from a fitful sleep. For a blissful moment, you forget the events of last night. Then reality comes crashing back, and you bolt upright in bed.

Max. The wound. The Dutch Crime Syndicate.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. What were you thinking? In the harsh light of day, the whole situation seems utterly insane.

Steeling yourself, you pad out to the living room. Max is still there, sprawled on your couch, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looks younger in sleep, almost vulnerable. It’s hard to reconcile this image with the hardened criminal he claims to be.

As if sensing your presence, Max’s eyes flutter open. He winces as he tries to sit up.

“Morning,” he grunts.

“How’s the wound?” You ask, your voice carefully neutral.

Max prods at his side gingerly. “Better than it has any right to be, thanks to you.”

You nod, then take a deep breath. “Max, about last night ...”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off. “I know what you’re going to say. And you’re right. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you agree, relief washing over you. “Look, I won’t tell anyone about this. But I think it’s best if we just ... pretend this never happened. You should go, and we should forget we ever saw each other again.”

Max nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you say firmly, trying to ignore the small part of you that’s screaming in protest.

He starts to gather his things, moving stiffly. You turn away, heading to the kitchen to make coffee, needing something to do with your hands.

That’s when you hear it. The sharp crack of a gunshot, followed by the tinkling of shattered glass.

You freeze, your heart pounding. “Max?” You call out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Get down!” He shouts back. You drop to the floor just as another bullet whizzes overhead, embedding itself in your kitchen cabinets.

Max is at your side in an instant, his earlier stiffness forgotten. “We need to move. Now.”

“What’s happening?” You ask, your voice shaking.

“Rivals,” Max says grimly. “They must have followed me here. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I never meant to put you in danger.”

Before you can respond, there’s a thunderous banging at your front door. “Open up!” A gruff voice shouts. “We know you’re in there, Max Emilian!”

Max’s face hardens. “The Silver Arrows,” he mutters. “Persistent bastards.”

“What do we do?” You whisper, panic threatening to overwhelm you.

Max’s eyes dart around the room, assessing. “Is there a fire escape?”

You nod. “Through the bedroom window.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to make a run for it. Stay low, stay behind me. Got it?”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak.

“On my count,” Max says. “Three ... two ... one ... GO!”

You scramble to your feet, keeping low as Max leads the way to your bedroom. The banging on the door intensifies, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.

“They’re breaking through!” You gasp.

“Almost there,” Max says through gritted teeth. He throws open your bedroom window, then turns to you. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a split second, then clamber out onto the fire escape. The metal is cold beneath your bare feet, and you realize with a start that you’re still in your pajamas.

Max follows close behind, pulling the window shut just as you hear your front door give way.

“Down,” he hisses, guiding you towards the ladder.

You descend as quickly as you can, your hands shaking so badly you nearly lose your grip more than once. Max is right behind you, his presence oddly reassuring despite the circumstances.

As your feet hit the alley below, you hear shouts from above. “There they are!”

“Run!” Max yells, grabbing your hand and pulling you along.

You sprint down the alley, your bare feet slapping against the cold pavement. Bullets ping off the walls around you, and you let out an involuntary scream.

“Keep going,” Max urges. “There’s a car around the corner.”

“A car?” You pant. “How do you know?”

“I always have an exit strategy,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice despite the situation.

Sure enough, as you round the corner, you see a sleek black car idling at the curb. A man in a dark suit is behind the wheel, looking tense.

“Get in!” Max shouts, practically shoving you into the backseat before diving in after you.

The car peels away from the curb before Max even has the door closed. You’re thrown back against the seat as the driver weaves through traffic at breakneck speed.

“What the hell, Max?” You finally manage to say, your heart still racing. “Who were those people? Where are we going?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, looking more rattled than you’ve seen him yet. “Those were the Silver Arrows. They’ve been trying to muscle in on our territory for months. As for where we’re going ...” He exchanges a look with the driver in the rearview mirror. “Somewhere safe. For now.”

You let out a hysterical laugh. “Safe? I don’t even know what that word means anymore. My apartment just got shot up! I’m in my pajamas in the back of a strange car, running from a gang war. This is insane!”

“I know,” Max says softly. “And I’m sorry. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid by leaving last night.”

“Well, bang-up job on that one,” you snap.

The driver clears his throat. “Boss, we’ve got a tail. Two cars, about three blocks back.”

Max curses under his breath. “Can you lose them, Daniel?”

The driver — Daniel, apparently — nods grimly. “I can try. Hang on.”

The car suddenly swerves, cutting across three lanes of traffic. Horns blare as Daniel takes a sharp right turn, tires squealing.

You’re thrown against Max, who instinctively wraps an arm around you to keep you steady. Despite everything, you can’t help but notice how solid he feels, how good he smells ...

No. Focus. You shake your head, trying to clear it.

“Max,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I need you to be straight with me. What exactly is going on here?”

He sighs, his arm still around you. “It’s complicated.”

“Un-complicate it,” you demand.

Max is quiet for a moment, seemingly weighing his words. “The Dutch Crime Syndicate ... we’re not just petty criminals. We’re big. International. And lately, we’ve been expanding our reach. The Silver Arrows don’t like that. They think we’re encroaching on their territory.”

“And are you?” You ask.

A ghost of a smile flits across Max’s face. “Maybe a little. But business is business, you know?”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You’re talking about illegal activities like it’s a corporate takeover!”

“In a way, it is,” Max says. “Just with higher stakes.”

“Boss,” Daniel interrupts. “I think we’ve lost them for now, but we can’t go to any of the safe houses. They might be compromised.”

Max nods. “Good thinking. Head for the marina. We’ll take the boat.”

“Boat?” You echo. “Max, I can’t just leave. My job, my life-”

“Your life will be over if the Silver Arrows find you,” Max says bluntly. “You’re involved now, whether you like it or not. I’m sorry, but there’s no going back.”

The gravity of the situation finally hits you. This isn’t some exciting adventure that you can just walk away from. This is real, and it’s dangerous.

“What have you gotten me into, Max?” You whisper.

His arm tightens around you. “I’ll keep you safe,” he promises. “No matter what.”

You want to believe him. Despite everything, despite the insanity of the past twelve hours, you find that you do believe him.

As the car speeds towards the marina, you try to process everything that’s happened. Your quiet life of academia seems like a distant memory now. In its place is ... what? Danger? Excitement? A chance at something you never knew you wanted?

You look at Max, studying his profile. He seems different from the boy you knew in high school. Harder, certainly, but there’s something else too. A confidence, a magnetism that you can’t deny.

As if sensing your gaze, Max turns to look at you. For a moment, the facade of the hardened crime boss slips, and you see a flicker of the boy you once knew.

“I really am sorry about all this,” he says softly. “If I could go back and undo it all, I would.”

“Would you?” You ask, surprised by your own boldness.

Max looks taken aback. “Wouldn’t you want me to?”

You consider this. “I don’t know,” you admit. “This is all terrifying and insane, but ... I’ve never felt more alive.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well, well,” he says, echoing his words from last night. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Y/N.”

Before you can respond, Daniel announces, “We’re here.”

The car pulls up to a private dock where a sleek yacht is moored. Max helps you out of the car, his hand lingering on your lower back.

“Last chance to back out,” he says, his eyes searching your face. “Say the word, and I’ll have Daniel take you back. We’ll figure out a way to keep you safe.”

You look at the yacht, then back at Max. In your mind’s eye, you see your apartment, your job, your safe, predictable life. Then you see bullets flying, feel the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of the unknown.

Taking a deep breath, you make your choice.

“Let’s go,” you say, taking Max’s hand and stepping onto the gangplank.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re leaving more than just the city behind. You’re leaving your old self, your old life.

And as terrifying as that is, you can’t wait to see what comes next.

***

As the yacht cuts through the waves, you find yourself standing at the stern, watching the city skyline grow smaller by the minute. The reality of your situation is starting to sink in, bringing with it a cocktail of emotions — fear, excitement, and a nagging curiosity that won’t let you rest.

You turn to find Max leaning against the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. There’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a reminder that you’re not the only one affected by this sudden turn of events.

“Max,” you say, breaking the silence. “Why did you really pick me?”

He glances at you, a flicker of something crossing his face before his expression settles back into careful neutrality. “The doctor part, obviously ...”

You raise an eyebrow, sensing there’s more to it. Max sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“And you have no one who would miss you,” he continues, his voice softer now. “No contact with family and, as far as I’m concerned, no friends who would notice.”

Your heart sinks at his words, partly because of the stark truth in them, and partly because of the implications. “Notice ... oh fuck, you’re gonna kill me?”

Max’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in what looks like genuine offense. “No. That’s a last resort, too many questions. You’re on my boat now, aren’t you?”

You let out a shaky breath, not sure whether to feel relieved or more worried. “So what then? Am I your hostage? Your accomplice? What exactly is my role in this mess?”

Max pushes off from the railing, moving closer to you. “Right now? You’re under my protection. Beyond that ... I guess we’ll have to figure it out as we go.”

“Figure it out?” You repeat incredulously. “Max, I left everything behind. My job, my apartment, my entire life. I need more than ‘we’ll figure it out.’”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “You’re right. You deserve answers. But right now, our priority has to be getting somewhere safe.”

“And where exactly is that?” You press.

Max glances around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning in closer. “We’re headed to Monaco.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Monaco? As in, the luxury resort town on the French Riviera?”

He nods, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “The very same. I have an ... associate there who can help us.”

“An associate,” you echo skeptically. “Another crime lord, I assume?”

Max’s smile widens. “Something like that. His name is Charles. He’s the heir to the Rosso Corsa Mafia.”

You can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally getting to you. “The Rosso Corsa Mafia? Seriously? What is this, some kind of international crime syndicate convention?”

“Hey, networking is important in any business,” Max quips, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

For a moment, you’re both laughing, the tension of the past few hours dissipating slightly. But as the laughter fades, reality sets in once more.

“Max,” you say, your voice quiet now. “What am I doing here? Really?”

He sobers, his gaze intense as he looks at you. “Honestly? I’m not entirely sure. When I came to your apartment last night, I was just looking for help. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

“But you must have had some idea,” you press. “You said you kept tabs on me. Why?”

Max is quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. Finally, he speaks. “Do you remember our last day of school together? Before I ... left?”

You furrow your brow, thinking back. “Vaguely. It was just an ordinary day, wasn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “Not for me. That was the day I decided to leave. I was in the library, trying to figure out how I was going to tell my parents I wanted to drop out. And then you came in.”

“I did?” You ask, surprised. You have no memory of this.

Max nods. “You were returning a stack of books. You looked ... happy. Excited about your future. I remember thinking how different we were. How I’d never have that kind of certainty, that sense of purpose.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. “So... what? You’ve been keeping an eye on me out of some kind of twisted nostalgia?”

He winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds creepy. I just ... I guess I wanted to know that someone from our old life made it. That it was possible to be normal and happy.”

“And now you’ve dragged me into your world,” you say, a hint of bitterness in your voice.

Max looks stricken. “I never meant for this to happen. If I could go back-”

“But you can’t,” you interrupt. “We’re here now. So what happens next?”

Before Max can answer, a crew member approaches. “Sir, we’ve just received word from Monaco. Mr. Leclerc is expecting us.”

Max nods. “Thank you, Rupert. Tell the captain to push the engines. I want to make it there before nightfall.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is insane. You know that, right? This whole situation is completely insane.”

“Welcome to my world,” Max says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “It’s not too late to back out, you know. Say the word, and I’ll have the captain turn this boat around.”

You consider it for a moment. Your old life seems so far away already, like a half-remembered dream. And despite the danger, despite the uncertainty, you can’t deny the thrill of excitement coursing through your veins.

“No,” you say finally. “I’m in this now. For better or worse.”

Max’s expression softens. “I promise you, Y/N, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

As you stand there, the salt spray on your face and the wind in your hair, you find yourself believing him. It’s crazy, it’s reckless, but you trust him.

The next few hours pass in a blur of activity. Max is constantly on his phone, speaking in hushed tones in what sounds like a mix of Dutch and French. You catch snippets about “security measures” and “clean identities,” but most of it goes over your head.

As the sun begins to set, casting the sea in shades of gold and pink, you find yourself back at the stern of the yacht. The coastline has long since disappeared, leaving nothing but endless ocean in every direction.

You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see Max approaching, two glasses of champagne in hand.

“I thought we could use a drink,” he says, offering you a glass. “To new beginnings?”

You take the glass, clinking it gently against his. “To new beginnings,” you echo, taking a sip. The champagne is exquisite, of course. You wouldn’t expect anything less from a mob boss’s yacht.

“We should be arriving in Monaco in a few hours,” Max says, leaning against the railing beside you. “Charles has arranged for a car to meet us at the marina. We’ll be staying at his family’s villa in the hills.”

You nod, trying to process this information. “And then what?”

Max shrugs. “We lie low for a while. Figure out our next move. The Silver Arrows won’t give up easily, but they’ll have a hard time touching us in Monaco. The Leclercs practically own the place.”

“And where do I fit into all this?” You ask, voicing the question that’s been nagging at you since you stepped onto this boat.

Max turns to face you fully, his expression serious. “That’s up to you, Y/N. I won’t force you into anything. If you want to walk away once we’re in Monaco, I’ll make sure you have the means to do so safely.”

You consider this. The sensible thing would be to take the out he’s offering. Go back to your life of books and lectures and quiet evenings alone. But the thought leaves you feeling ... empty.

“And if I don’t want to walk away?” You ask, surprised by your own boldness.

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Then I suppose we’ll have to find a place for you in this brave new world of ours.”

As you stand there, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear beneath the waves, you can’t help but feel like you’re on the cusp of something momentous. Your old life is behind you now, growing more distant with every passing moment. Ahead lies uncertainty, danger ... and possibility.

You take another sip of champagne, savoring the bubbles on your tongue. Whatever comes next, you realize, you’re ready for it. Ready for the adventure, the risk, the chance to reinvent yourself.

As the yacht cuts through the darkening waters, carrying you towards a future you never could have imagined, you find yourself smiling. For the first time in years, maybe for the first time ever, you feel truly, exhilaratingly alive.

***

The yacht glides smoothly into the marina, the lights of Monaco twinkling like a galaxy of stars against the night sky. You stand at the railing, taking in the sight of luxury yachts and sleek speedboats bobbing gently in their berths. It’s a world away from your modest apartment back home.

Max appears at your side, his face tense. “Remember,” he murmurs, ��stay close to me and don’t say anything unless you’re directly addressed. Charles is an ally, but he can be ... unpredictable.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The reality of your situation is sinking in again, the brief respite of the boat ride fading away.

As the crew secures the yacht, a figure emerges from the shadows of the dock. Even in the dim light, you can tell he’s striking — all lean muscles and sharp cheekbones, with piercing green eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

“Max,” he says, his accent a mix of French and something you can’t quite place. “You’ve brought trouble to my doorstep again, I see.”

Max steps forward, clasping the man’s hand. “Charles. Thank you for this. I owe you one.”

Charles’ lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Add it to your tab, my friend.” His gaze shifts to you, curiosity evident in his expression. “And who might this be?”

Before Max can answer, Charles is already moving towards you, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips in a smooth motion. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. I am Charles Leclerc.”

You stammer out your name, caught off guard by his Old World charm. Charles’ eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Adorable,” he says. “Now, shall we? It’s not wise to linger here.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the parking lot. Max gives you a gentle push, urging you to follow.

As you round the corner, your jaw drops. Sitting there, gleaming under the streetlights, is quite possibly the most ostentatious Ferrari you’ve ever seen. It’s matte black with an eye-catching racing stripe in the colors of the Monegasque flag, and sleek lines that practically scream speed and luxury.

Charles is already sliding into the driver’s seat, while Max ushers you into the back. As the engine roars to life, a thought occurs to you.

“Is this a kidnapping?” You blurt out, your nerves finally getting the better of you.

Charles catches your eye in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. “You seem very willing for one.”

Your cheeks flush. “That doesn’t calm my nerves!”

“It is like this,” Charles sighs, accelerating smoothly as he maneuvers through the narrow streets of Monaco. “Do as Max says or we dump your body.”

“What!” You exclaim, your heart rate spiking.

Max shoots Charles a glare. “Charles, do not scare her more than necessary. The poor girl is already terrified.”

Charles shrugs, not taking his eyes off the road as he takes a sharp turn that has you clutching the seat. “I merely state facts, mon ami. Our world is not for the faint of heart.”

You look to Max, seeking reassurance. He meets your gaze, his expression softening slightly. “Ignore him. You’re under my protection, remember?”

“And what exactly does that mean?” You press, emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I still don’t understand my role in all this.”

Max hesitates, glancing at Charles. The two seem to have a silent conversation before Charles speaks up.

“You, ma chèrie, are an unexpected variable,” he says, his tone lighter now. “Max has a habit of collecting strays, but you ... you’re different.”

“Different how?” You ask, not sure if you should be offended or intrigued.

Charles’ eyes meet yours in the mirror again, a glint of mischief in them. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? But I suspect you’re made of sterner stuff than you let on.”

The car falls silent as you process this. The streets of Monaco fly by outside the window, a blur of high-end boutiques and lavish casinos. It’s like stepping into another world.

Finally, the Ferrari begins to climb, winding its way up into the hills overlooking the city. The road narrows, becoming more secluded, until you’re passing through an ornate gate flanked by high walls.

The car comes to a stop in front of a sprawling villa that looks like something out of a movie. Marble columns, manicured gardens, a fountain bubbling gently in the courtyard — it’s almost too much to take in.

As you step out of the car on shaky legs, Charles is already striding towards the entrance. “Welcome to Casa Leclerc,” he calls over his shoulder. “Try not to break anything irreplaceable.”

Max appears at your side, placing a steadying hand on your lower back. “You okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Max guides you inside, where you’re immediately struck by the opulence of the interior. Priceless artwork adorns the walls, and you’re pretty sure that’s an actual Fabergé egg sitting casually on a side table.

Charles leads you to a spacious living room, gesturing for you to sit. As you sink into a plush armchair, he busies himself at a well-stocked bar.

“Drink?” He offers. “I imagine you could use one.”

You nod gratefully, and soon find yourself nursing a glass of what’s probably the most expensive cognac you’ve ever tasted.

Charles settles into a chair across from you, swirling his own drink thoughtfully. “Now then,” he says, his tone suddenly all business. “Perhaps it’s time we discussed the situation at hand.”

Max, who’s been pacing near the windows, turns to face the room. “The Silver Arrows are getting bolder. This attack ... it’s a clear escalation.”

Charles nods grimly. “They sense weakness. Your recent expansion has left you vulnerable, mon ami.”

You listen, feeling increasingly out of your depth as they discuss territories, alliances, and what sound like complex financial maneuvers. It’s like overhearing a board meeting for the world’s most dangerous corporation.

Finally, unable to contain yourself any longer, you speak up. “I’m sorry, but what exactly am I doing here? I’m not a part of ... whatever this is.”

Both men turn to look at you, as if suddenly remembering your presence. Charles raises an eyebrow at Max. “Yes, do tell. What is your plan for our unexpected guest?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you’re starting to recognize as a sign of frustration. “I didn’t have a plan. It all happened so fast, and I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“How gallant,” Charles drawls, though there’s a hint of genuine amusement in his voice. “But now we must decide what to do with her. She knows too much to simply let go.”

Your grip tightens on your glass. “I won’t say anything. I swear. Just ... let me go home.”

Max’s expression softens as he looks at you. “It’s not that simple, Y/N. The Silver Arrows saw you with me. They’ll assume you’re involved, whether you are or not.”

“So what then?” You ask, frustration bleeding into your voice. “Am I your prisoner now?”

“Non, ma chèrie,” Charles interjects smoothly. “Think of yourself as ... a valued guest. Under our protection.”

You laugh bitterly. “Some protection. I’ve been shot at, kidnapped, and threatened with bodily harm in the span of 48 hours.”

To your surprise, Charles actually looks chagrined. “Ah, yes. My apologies for that. I have a flair for the dramatic, you see.”

“What Charles is trying to say,” Max cuts in, shooting his friend a warning look, “is that you have options. We can set you up with a new identity, somewhere far from here. Or ...”

He trails off, and you find yourself leaning forward despite yourself. “Or what?”

Max and Charles exchange another of those loaded glances before Max continues. “Or you could stay. Become a part of this.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard. “Become a part of ... your crime syndicate? Are you insane?”

Charles chuckles. “Now you’re catching on, chérie. We’re all a little mad here.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. The cognac isn’t helping. “I’m not a criminal. I’m a literature professor, for god’s sake!”

“And yet,” Charles muses, leaning forward, “here you are. You could have called the police at any point. You could have refused to get on that yacht. But you didn’t. Why is that, I wonder?”

You open your mouth to protest, then close it again. He’s not wrong. Despite the fear, despite the danger, there’s a part of you that’s been thrilled by all of this. A part that’s been longing for something more than your quiet, predictable life.

Max kneels in front of you, taking your hands in his. “I know it’s a lot to take in. And I’m not asking you to decide right now. But I want you to know that if you choose to stay, we’ll teach you everything you need to know. You’ll be protected, valued. Part of something bigger than yourself.”

You look into his eyes, searching for ... you’re not sure what. Deception? Ulterior motives? But all you see is sincerity, and something else. Something that makes your heart beat a little faster.

“I ... I need time to think,” you manage to say.

Charles claps his hands together, breaking the moment. “Excellent idea. A good night’s sleep will do wonders for clarity of thought. Allow me to show you to your room.”

As you follow Charles up a sweeping staircase, your mind is whirling. Two days ago, your biggest concern was finishing grading papers on Jane Austen. Now, you’re being offered a place in an international crime syndicate.

It’s absurd.

It’s terrifying.

And yet ...

Charles stops in front of an ornate door. “Your quarters, mademoiselle. I trust you’ll find everything to your liking. We can discuss more in the morning.”

As he turns to leave, you can’t help but call out. “Charles?”

He pauses, looking back at you with those piercing eyes. “Yes?”

“Why are you doing this? Helping Max, offering me a place here? What’s in it for you?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let’s just say I have a good feeling about you, Y/N. You might be exactly what our little organizations need.”

With that cryptic statement, he’s gone, leaving you alone in a luxurious bedroom that probably costs more than your entire apartment back home.

As you sink onto the plush bed, your head spinning from more than just the alcohol, you can’t help but wonder: what would Jane Austen make of all this? Somehow, you don’t think even she could have imagined a plot twist quite like this one.

***

The morning sun filters through the luxurious curtains, rousing you from a surprisingly deep sleep. For a moment, you’re disoriented, the opulent surroundings a stark contrast to your cozy little apartment back home. Then the events of the past day come rushing back, and with them, a sudden clarity.

You sit up, your mind made up. It’s crazy, it’s reckless, but you’ve never been more certain of anything in your life. You’re staying.

After a quick shower and change into clothes that have mysteriously appeared in the wardrobe (and fit perfectly, which you decide not to question), you make your way downstairs. The villa is quiet, save for the faint clinking of dishes coming from what you assume is the kitchen.

You follow the sound, finding Max nursing a cup of coffee at a marble island. He looks up as you enter, his expression guarded.

“Morning,” he says cautiously. “Sleep well?”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’ve made a decision.”

He sets down his cup, giving you his full attention. “Oh?”

“I’m staying,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I want to be a part of this. Of your world.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise evident on his face. “Are you sure? This isn’t a decision to be made lightly, Y/N. Once you’re in, there’s no going back.”

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’m sure. My old life ... it never felt right. Like I was just going through the motions. But this? As terrifying as it is, it feels real. It feels right.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face, transforming his features. “Well then,” he says, standing up. “I guess we better start your training.”

“Training?” You echo.

Max nods, his expression turning serious. “If you’re going to survive in this world, you need to learn how to protect yourself. First lesson: shooting.”

Your eyes widen. “Shooting? As in, guns?”

“No, we’re going to teach you competitive archery,” Max deadpans. “Of course guns. Come on, Charles has a range in the basement.”

As you follow Max through the winding corridors of the villa, your heart races with a mix of excitement and trepidation. This is really happening.

The shooting range is state-of-the-art, with multiple lanes and an impressive array of weapons displayed on the walls. Max selects a handgun, checking it over with practiced ease.

“We’ll start with something simple,” he says, holding out the gun. “A Glock 19. Easy to handle, reliable.”

You take the weapon gingerly, surprised by its weight. Max positions himself behind you, adjusting your stance and grip.

“Remember,” he says, his breath warm against your ear, “breathe steadily. Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.”

You nod, trying to focus on the target at the end of the range rather than the heat of Max’s body behind you.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmurs, stepping back.

You take a deep breath, aim, and pull the trigger. The gun goes off with a deafening bang, and you can’t help but let out a surprised scream.

Max tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t do that, it will give you away.”

You turn to him, incredulous. “Like the loud noise wouldn’t? I shot a gun!”

“And missed,” Max points out, nodding towards the untouched target. “Now go again.”

Gritting your teeth, you face the target once more. This time, you’re prepared for the noise and the recoil. You squeeze the trigger, and to your surprise, the bullet hits the outer ring of the target.

“Better,” Max says, a note of approval in his voice. “Again.”

As the morning wears on, you find yourself falling into a rhythm. Aim, breathe, squeeze. The shots become more accurate, your stance more confident. Max is a patient teacher, offering guidance and correction with a gentle touch here, a murmured word there.

“You’re a natural,” he says after a particularly good round. “Must be all those Jane Austen novels. Secret badass under all that propriety.”

You laugh, lowering the gun. “I don’t think Lizzy Bennet ever handled a Glock.”

“Her loss,” Max grins. “One more round?”

You nod, raising the gun once more. As you fire off the last few shots, you’re aware of Max’s gaze on you, more intense than before. The final bullet hits dead center, and you turn to him with a triumphant smile.

“How was that?” You ask, breathless with exhilaration.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. He’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher — admiration, certainly, but something else too. Something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Max?” You prompt, suddenly very aware of how close he is.

In one fluid motion, Max closes the distance between you. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and before you can process what’s happening, his lips are on yours.

The kiss is electric, sending sparks through your entire body. You respond instinctively, your free hand fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. The gun clatters to the floor, forgotten.

Max backs you up against the wall of the shooting range, his body pressing against yours. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily.

“I’ve wanted to do that since you opened your door that night,” Max admits, his forehead resting against yours.

You laugh breathlessly. “Even with me in my ratty pajamas?”

“Especially then,” he grins. “You were adorably flustered. And then you went and patched me up without hesitation. I was a goner.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is insane, you know that? A few days ago I was grading papers on 19th-century classic literature. Now I’m making out with a crime lord in a secret shooting range.”

Max’s expression turns serious. “Is it too much? We can slow down, or-”

You cut him off with another kiss. “No,” you say firmly. “It’s not too much. It’s ... exactly right.”

A slow smile spreads across Max’s face. “Well then, doctor. Ready for your next lesson?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

Max’s grin turns wicked. “I was thinking something in the realm of close combat. Very hands-on.”

You laugh, a thrill of excitement running through you. “Lead the way.”

As Max takes your hand, leading you out of the shooting range, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. It’s dangerous, it’s completely illogical, and yet ... you’ve never felt more alive.

Whatever comes next, you’re ready for it. With a gun in your hand and Max by your side, you feel like you could take on the world. And who knows? Maybe you will.

***

As Max leads you out of the shooting range, there’s a palpable tension in the air, crackling with unspoken promises. You follow him through the winding corridors of Charles’ villa, your heart racing with anticipation.

“So,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “where exactly are we going for this close combat training?”

Max glances back at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought we’d use the gym. Plenty of space, padded floors ... you know, for safety.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Safety, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He stops abruptly, turning to face you. “Y/N, if this is moving too fast-”

You cut him off, stepping closer. “Max, I literally left my entire life behind for you. I think we’re well past too fast.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Fair point. Still, if at any point you want to stop-”

“I’ll let you know,” you assure him. “Now, are you going to show me these close combat moves or what?”

Max’s grin turns predatory. “Oh, I’ll show you alright.”

He pushes open a door, revealing a state-of-the-art gym. The space is impressive, with gleaming equipment and, as promised, a large area covered in training mats.

“Shall we?” Max asks, gesturing to the mats.

You nod, suddenly feeling a bit nervous despite your bravado. As you step onto the mat, Max begins circling you slowly.

“The key to close combat,” he says, his voice low and intense, “is to always be aware of your opponent’s movements. To anticipate their next move.”

You turn, keeping him in your sight. “And how do I do that?”

In a flash, Max is behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “By staying alert,” he murmurs in your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine at his proximity. “I thought I was doing pretty well,” you manage to say.

You can feel Max’s chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Not bad. But you’re still too tense. You need to relax, feel the flow of movement.”

His hands slide up your arms, gently adjusting your posture. You lean back into him, relishing the warmth of his body.

“Like this?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max’s grip tightens slightly. “Getting there. Now, if someone grabs you like this, what do you do?”

You consider for a moment, then make your move. You twist in his arms, using the momentum to break his hold and face him. “How’s that?”

Max looks impressed. “Not bad at all. You’re a quick learner.”

“I have a good teacher,” you reply, a bit breathless from the maneuver and his proximity.

For a moment, you stand there, faces inches apart, the air heavy with tension. Then Max moves, swift and sure, sweeping your legs out from under you. You land on the mat with a soft thud, Max following you down, pinning you beneath him.

“Rule number one,” he says, his face hovering above yours, “never let your guard down.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that so? And what’s rule number two?”

Instead of answering, Max lowers his head, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You respond eagerly, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily. “I think I like rule number two,” you say with a grin.

Max laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, we’re just getting started with the rules, doctor.”

He leans in for another kiss, but this time you’re ready. Using the moves he just taught you, you manage to flip your positions, straddling his waist triumphantly.

“How’s that for staying alert?” You ask, feeling a thrill at the surprised and appreciative look on Max’s face.

“Impressive,” he says, his hands coming to rest on your hips. “But you’ve left yourself open.”

Before you can ask what he means, Max surges upward, capturing your lips once more. As you lose yourself in the kiss, you feel him shift, and suddenly you’re on your back again, Max looming over you with a satisfied smirk.

“Distraction,” he says, “can be a powerful weapon.”

You laugh, breathless and exhilarated. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other lessons you want to teach me?”

Max’s eyes darken. “Oh, I’ve got plenty more to teach you. If you’re up for it.”

You reach up, pulling him down to you. “I’m a very dedicated student,” you murmur against his lips.

What follows is less a lesson in combat and more an exploration of each other. Clothes are discarded, hands roam freely, and the only sounds in the gym are gasps, moans, and occasional laughter.

Later, as you lie tangled together on the training mats, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. Just days ago, you were grading papers in your quiet apartment. Now, you’re in the arms of a mob boss, in a luxurious villa in Monaco, having just had the most exhilarating experience of your life.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Max asks, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin.

You turn to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Just thinking about how surreal this all is. A week ago, the most exciting thing in my life was finding a rare first edition at an antique book fair.”

Max chuckles. “And now?”

“Now?” You grin. “Now I’m learning to shoot, engaging in ‘close combat training’, and apparently joining an international crime syndicate. It’s ... a lot.”

His expression turns serious. “Is it too much? It’s too late to back out now, you know. I could have set you up somewhere safe, given you a new identity earlier, but now-”

You silence him with a kiss. “Max, I meant what I said earlier. I’m in this. All of it. With you.”

The smile that spreads across his face is radiant. “Good,” he says, pulling you closer. “Because I don’t think I could let you go now if I tried.”

You settle into his embrace, feeling safer than you have in years despite the objective danger of your situation. “So, what’s next on the criminal training agenda?” You ask, only half-joking.

Max pretends to consider. “Well, we’ve covered shooting and hand-to-hand combat. How do you feel about safecracking?”

You laugh. “Safecracking? Seriously?”

“Hey, it’s a valuable skill in our line of work,” Max defends, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Uh-huh,” you say skeptically. “And I suppose pickpocketing is next on the list?”

Max grins. “Now that you mention it ...”

You swat his chest playfully. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” he points out, capturing your hand and bringing it to his lips.

“Here I am,” you agree softly. “So, what happens now? Do we stay here in Monaco? Go back to face the Silver Arrows?”

Max’s expression turns thoughtful. “For now, we stay here. You need more training before we can risk going back. And I need to regroup, strategize.”

You nod, a mix of relief and excitement coursing through you. “So I get to play princess in a Monaco villa while learning the finer points of criminality? I think I can handle that.”

“It won’t all be fun and games,” Max warns. “The Silver Arrows are still out there, and they’re not going to give up easily. We need to be prepared for anything.”

“I know,” you say, your tone turning serious. “I understand the risks. I’m ready for whatever comes next.”

He studies your face for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of doubt. Finding none, he nods. “Alright then. Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

***

The Monaco sun beats down relentlessly as you step out of yet another luxury boutique, arms laden with shopping bags. Oscar and Lando, your assigned bodyguards, trail behind you, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.

“I think that’s the last one,” you say, unable to keep the excitement out of your voice. “Who knew shopping could be so exhilarating?”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “I think the exhilaration comes from Max finally letting you out of the villa, not the shopping itself.”

You laugh, conceding the point. “True. I never thought I’d be so happy to see the inside of a Gucci store.”

Lando grins. “Just wait until Max sees the bill. That’ll be truly exhilarating.”

As you make your way towards the parked Ferrari, you can’t help but reflect on the past few weeks. The intensive training, the late-night strategy sessions with Max and Charles, the growing feeling that you’re part of something bigger than yourself. It’s been thrilling, but also claustrophobic at times.

“I still can’t believe Max agreed to this little excursion,” you muse as you reach the car.

Oscar shrugs, opening the trunk. “You can be very persuasive when you want to be. Those puppy eyes of yours should be classified as a weapon.”

You’re about to retort when a sudden movement catches your eye. Before you can react, the air is filled with the deafening sound of gunfire.

“Get down!” Lando shouts, pushing you behind the car as he and Oscar draw their weapons.

Your heart pounds as you crouch behind the meager cover, the sounds of a firefight erupting around you. This isn’t like the controlled environment of the shooting range. This is real, chaotic, and terrifying.

“Y/N, stay down!” Oscar yells over the din, returning fire at unseen assailants.

You nod, too shocked to speak. But as you huddle there, a horrifying realization hits you — you recognize some of the voices shouting orders.

The Silver Arrows. They’ve found you.

Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up and away from the car. You struggle instinctively, but your captor’s grip is like iron.

“Well, well,” a deep voice rumbles in your ear. “What do we have here? Max’s new pet, I presume?”

You crane your neck, looking up into a face you’ve seen before — in photographs, in briefings. Toto Wolff, leader of the Silver Arrows himself.

“Let me go,” you growl, trying to sound braver than you feel.

Toto chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my dear. You see, you’re my ticket to bringing Max to his knees.”

As he speaks, you become acutely aware of the weight on your thigh. The gun. The one Max insisted you carry, “just in case.” This, you realize with startling clarity, is that case.

Moving as subtly as you can, you reach for the holster strapped to your leg. Toto, focused on the fight around you, doesn’t notice.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, stalling for time as your fingers close around the grip of the gun. “There are other ways to resolve conflicts.”

Toto’s laugh is harsh. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t understand our world. This isn’t a negotiation, it’s war.”

You take a deep breath, Max’s training echoing in your mind. Stay calm. Aim true. Squeeze, don’t pull.

“You’re right,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t understand your world.”

In one fluid motion, you pull the gun free and twist in Toto’s grip. Before he can react, you press the muzzle against his chest and pull the trigger.

The gunshot seems impossibly loud, even amidst the chaos of the firefight. Toto’s eyes widen in shock, his grip on you loosening as he stumbles backward.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. Then, chaos erupts anew.

“Boss!” Someone shouts, and suddenly you’re being pulled away, strong arms encircling you protectively.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar’s voice says in your ear. “We’re getting out of here.”

As he hustles you towards the car, you catch glimpses of the scene around you. Silver Arrow members rushing to their fallen leader. Lando providing cover fire. And blood. So much blood.

Oscar practically throws you into the backseat of the Ferrari before jumping into the driver’s seat. Lando dives in barely a second later, and then you’re peeling away from the curb, tires screeching.

“Are you hurt?” Lando asks, twisting in his seat to look at you.

You shake your head, still too shocked to speak. The gun is still clutched in your hand, and you stare at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“You did good, Y/N,” Oscar says, his eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror. “You kept your cool. That’s not easy in a situation like that.”

“I ... I shot him,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Toto Wolff. I shot him.”

Lando and Oscar exchange a glance. “You did what you had to do,” Lando says gently. “He would have killed you without hesitation.”

As the adrenaline begins to fade, the reality of what just happened starts to sink in. You’ve just shot one of the most powerful crime lords in Europe. In broad daylight. In the middle of Monte Carlo.

“Oh god,” you groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “Max is going to kill me.”

Oscar lets out a surprised laugh. “Are you kidding? He’s going to be thrilled. You just took out his biggest rival.”

“Took out?” You repeat, a new wave of panic washing over you. “You mean he’s ...”

“We don’t know for sure,” Lando says quickly. “But a point-blank shot like that ... it doesn’t look good for Toto.”

You close your eyes, trying to process everything. Just hours ago, your biggest concern was whether to buy the Prada or the Fendi handbag. Now, you might have just assassinated a mob boss.

The rest of the drive passes in a blur. Before you know it, you’re pulling up to the villa, where Max is already waiting, his face a mask of concern and anger.

As soon as the car stops, he yanks open your door, pulling you into a fierce embrace. “Are you okay?” He demands, his hands roaming over you as if checking for injuries. “When I got the call, I thought ...”

You cling to him, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding you. “I’m okay,” you assure him. “I’m okay.”

Max pulls back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. “What happened? Oscar said there was a firefight.”

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “The Silver Arrows ambushed us. And Toto ... he grabbed me. I ... I shot him, Max. With the gun you gave me.”

For a moment, Max just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, a slow smile spreads across his face. “You shot Toto Wolff?”

You nod, still unsure of his reaction. “I think ... I think I might have killed him.”

Max’s smile widens into a full-blown grin. “Y/N, do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You’ve single-handedly changed the balance of power in our world.”

“I have?” You ask, feeling slightly dazed.

He nods, pulling you close again. “You’re incredible, you know that? I knew you were special from the moment I showed up at your door, but this ... this is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

As Max leads you into the villa, his arm protectively around your waist, you can’t help but marvel at the turn your life has taken. From literature professor to potential assassin in a matter of weeks. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and completely surreal.

“What happens now?” You ask as Max guides you to the study, where Charles is already waiting, phone in hand.

Max exchanges a look with Charles before turning back to you. “Now? Now we prepare for war. The Silver Arrows won’t take this lying down, Toto dead or alive. But with you by my side ...” He trails off, a fierce pride in his eyes.

“You can be unstoppable,” Charles finishes, raising his glass in a toast.

As you sink into a chair, the events of the day finally catching up with you, you realize that this is your life now. Gunfights and power plays, luxury shopping sprees and criminal empires. It’s a far cry from grading papers on Jane Austen, but as you look at Max, seeing the mix of pride, concern, and love in his eyes, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The war may be just beginning, but with Max by your side and a newfound confidence in your abilities, you’re ready to face whatever comes next. After all, you’ve already taken down Toto Wolff. What’s a little inter-syndicate warfare compared to that?

***

Five Years Later

The small apartment buzzes with the energy of five recent college graduates, sprawled across mismatched furniture in various states of relaxation. Empty pizza boxes and half-empty wine bottles litter the coffee table, evidence of their Friday night catch-up session.

“Alright, alright,” Emily says, reaching for her phone. “What should we put on for background noise? Music? TV?”

Jake, lounging on the worn leather armchair, perks up. “Oh! What about that true crime podcast I was telling you guys about? The one about modern mobs?”

Zoe, curled up on the couch, raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Isn’t that a bit heavy for a chill hangout?”

“No, no, it’s fascinating!” Jake insists. “It’s not just gruesome stuff. It’s all about the economics and politics of modern organized crime. Super interesting.”

Lisa, sitting cross-legged on the floor, shrugs. “I’m game. Could be fun to learn something while we drink.”

“Seconded,” chimes in Alex from his spot by the window. “Hit play, Em.”

Emily fiddles with her phone, connecting it to the bluetooth speaker. “Alright, here we go. ‘The Mob in the Modern Age: Episode 7 — The Dutch Syndicate’s Rise to Power.’”

As the podcast’s intro music fades, a smooth, professional voice fills the room:

“In the world of organized crime, power shifts can happen in the blink of an eye. But few have been as sudden or as dramatic as the meteoric rise of the Dutch Crime Syndicate over the past five years. Once a minor player on the European stage, the Dutch Syndicate now controls vast swathes of territory and influences everything from high finance to international politics. But how did this happen? The answer, dear listeners, lies in an unlikely source: a literature professor turned criminal mastermind.”

The friends exchange amused glances. “A literature professor?” Zoe snorts. “Now that’s a career change.”

“Shh,” Jake hushes her, leaning forward intently.

The podcast continues: “It all began with a chance encounter. The Syndicate’s boss, known only as Max Emilian, was injured in a firefight with rival gang members. Desperate for medical attention but unable to go to a hospital, he turned up on the doorstep of a young literature professor in the middle of the night.”

Emily pauses the podcast. “Okay, this sounds like the plot of a bad romance novel.”

“I know, right?” Lisa laughs. “What are the odds?”

Alex shakes his head, grinning. “Maybe our old prof is secretly living it up as a mob wife somewhere.”

The group erupts into laughter at the absurd image.

“Can you imagine?” Zoe gasps between giggles. “Professor Y/L/N in a shootout?”

Jake wipes tears from his eyes. “God, remember how she used to get flustered just operating the projector?”

As the laughter dies down, Emily resumes the podcast.

“What happened next is the stuff of legend in criminal circles. The professor, whose name we now know to be Y/N Y/L/N, not only patched up the crime boss but ended up joining his organization. Within weeks, she had become his right-hand woman and romantic partner.”

The room falls silent, the friends exchanging wide-eyed looks.

“No way,” Alex breathes.

“It can’t be,” Lisa shakes her head. “It’s got to be a coincidence.”

Jake holds up a hand, shushing them as the podcast continues.

“But Y/N’s true moment of infamy came just a month into her new life of crime. During what should have been a routine shopping trip in Monte Carlo, she and her bodyguards were ambushed by members of the rival Silver Arrows gang. In the ensuing chaos, Y/N found herself face to face with none other than Toto Wolff, the notorious leader of the Silver Arrows.”

“Oh my god,” Zoe whispers, her face pale.

“What happened next would change the landscape of European organized crime forever. Y/N, using a gun given to her by Max for protection, shot Toto Wolff at point-blank range. Wolff did not survive the encounter, his death throwing the Silver Arrows into disarray.”

Emily pauses the podcast again, her hand shaking slightly. “Guys ... this can’t actually be our Professor Y/L/N, right? I mean, it’s impossible.”

The room is silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought.

“Remember how she just ... disappeared?” Alex says slowly. “In the middle of the semester? The department said it was a family emergency, but no one ever heard from her again.”

Jake nods, his brow furrowed. “And it was right around the time this podcast is talking about. Five years ago, give or take.”

Lisa shakes her head vehemently. “No. No way. Our Y/N? The one who cried when we threw her a surprise party for finishing her PhD? There’s no way she shot someone.”

“But think about it,” Zoe says, warming to the idea. “She was always talking about how literature reflects real life, how the best stories come from unexpected places. What if ... what if she decided to live a story instead of just teaching about them?”

The group falls silent again, each of them trying to reconcile the image of their soft-spoken, cardigan-wearing professor with the gun-toting criminal mastermind described in the podcast.

Emily takes a deep breath. “Should we ... should we listen to the rest?”

After a moment of hesitation, they all nod. She presses play:

“In the years since that fateful day in Monte Carlo, Y/N has become a force to be reckoned with in her own right. Known in criminal circles as ‘The Professor,’ she’s rumored to be the strategic mind behind the Dutch Syndicate’s most daring and successful operations. Her background in literature and analysis has proven unexpectedly valuable in the world of organized crime, allowing her to see patterns and opportunities that others miss.”

Jake lets out a low whistle. “Okay, that part I can actually see. Remember how she could break down a text? Find connections no one else saw?”

The others nod, still looking shell-shocked.

The podcast continues: “Last year, Y/N and Max officially tied the knot in what insiders describe as the criminal event of the decade. The guest list reportedly included high-ranking members of various international syndicates, as well as several politicians and business moguls whose connections to the underworld had previously been only rumored.”

“A mob wedding,” Alex says faintly. “Our professor had a mob wedding.”

Zoe suddenly sits up straight. “Wait a second. Guys, remember that weird email we all got about a year ago? The one that looked like spam but had our names in it?”

The others nod slowly, realization dawning.

“It said something about a ‘special event’ and how the sender wished we could be there,” Lisa recalls. “We all thought it was just a weird phishing attempt.”

“Holy shit,” Jake breathes. “She invited us to her mob wedding.”

The podcast wraps up: “Today, the Dutch Crime Syndicate stands at the pinnacle of European organized crime, with Y/N and Max as its power couple. Their story serves as a reminder that in the modern criminal underworld, brains can be just as valuable as brawn. And sometimes, the most dangerous person in the room might just be the one with a literature degree.”

As the outro music plays, the friends sit in stunned silence.

Finally, Emily speaks up. “So ... do we think it’s really her?”

They look at each other, years of shared memories and inside jokes about their favorite professor flashing through their minds.

“I mean, what are the odds of two literature professors named Y/N Y/L/N getting mixed up with the mob in the same year?” Alex points out.

Jake nods slowly. “And it would explain why she just vanished. Why the department was so weird about it.”

“But ... but it’s Y/N,” Lisa protests weakly. “She used to bring us cookies during finals week. She cried when we analyzed sad poems.”

Zoe reaches for her phone. “Only one way to find out for sure. I’m googling her.”

The others crowd around as Zoe types in their former professor’s name. The search results load, and they collectively gasp.

There, staring back at them from countless news articles and blurry paparazzi shots, is an unmistakable face. It’s older, harder somehow, but undeniably the woman who once taught them about Jane Austen and Shakespeare.

“Well,” Emily says faintly, “I guess this explains why she always said Pride and Prejudice needed more action scenes.”

The room erupts into hysterical laughter, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting them full force.

As they catch their breath, Jake raises his wine glass. “To Professor Y/L/N,” he says solemnly. “May her gun be as mighty as her pen.”

The others join in the toast, clinking their glasses together.

“You know,” Alex muses, “I always thought her lectures on Crime and Punishment were a little too detailed.”

Another round of laughter fills the apartment as the friends settle in to re-listen to the podcast, this time with a whole new perspective on their former professor turned criminal mastermind.

As the night wears on, they share memories of their college days, now tinged with the surreal knowledge of where life has taken their beloved professor. And though none of them would admit it out loud, there’s a small part of each of them that can’t help but admire the sheer audacity of it all.

After all, how many people can say their literature professor went on to conquer the criminal underworld?

[aliesbienish]

buddie x reader where they’re a couple, but they both meet reader separately, for example she’s an ER nurse or something and they both gain feelings for her and feel guilty and tell each other until they realise they both like the same person and decide to go for it together??

The doctor is just what they ordered

Established Buddie x Reader

Eddie met you first. You were exhausted, nearing the end of a busy 12 hour shift, with your hair spilling out from what was once carefully constructed braid and remnants of god knows what on your scrubs. He’d handed over a driver involved in a nasty collision and was sitting waiting for Hen so they could head back to the station.

Eddie had grabbed a seat across from the nurses station and had a perfect view of you taking a sip out of a coffee mug only to grimace at the taste.

Simultaneously as you thrust it back onto the desk in disgust a paper coffee cup appeared before your eyes.

“I think you could use this,” Eddie smiled, gently nudging your hand with the, blissfully, still warm coffee as you stared at him in confusion.

“I guess I now know why my ex didn’t believe me when I swore up and down I liked his cooking,” you quipped, gratefully grabbing the drink.

“If it helps the fact that the mug had been sitting untouched since I sat down nearly twenty minutes ago also indicated whatever was in that cup wasn’t going to go down well,”

“Hmm I’ll except that explanation, solely because I’d like to stay blissfully unaware if my face is an open book or not.” You took a sip of the coffee, the heat almost making up for it being from a shitty hospital drink machine before coming to a realisation.

“Hang on, does that mean I just stole your coffee?”

“Stole is an interesting choice of words when I literally handed it to you. But no, you technically stole my colleagues.”

“Even better, get me in the bad books of someone I don’t even know.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll only tell her that you claimed it while my back was turned and proceeded to call her all sorts of bad names,”

“Wonderful, I’m assuming she’s a firefighter too?” You asked having caught sight of the man’s LA Fire uniforme. He nodded in affirmation. “Great, it’s not like I’ll ever see her again,” you noted sarcastically.

“Im not sure you will, since I for one have never seen you before,”

“That’s because I’ve just moved here. Regrettably I don’t know the good hiding spots yet so I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,”

“Well I for one look forward to it, I have plenty of other colleagues I can turn against you,”

“Great,” you laughed, barely managing to stop sitting out the coffee.

“Well there she is now,” He pointed at a women across the room waving at him to get a move on. “Nice to meet you Dr…. Sorry I didn’t get your name,”

You laughed, introducing yourself and shaking his hand.

“Right well I’m Eddie,” he said, giving you a nod as he turned away,”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Buck’s first meeting with you was a bloody mess, literally. It was only a few weeks after Eddie had first saw you, and in true Buck fashion it was chaos.

Los Angeles had been hit with a Tsunami, the worst in the US since 1964, and the hospital was overwhelmed with patients. Luckily Cedars-Sinai was far enough inland that the hospital hadn’t been damaged, but others had. Meaning that they couldn’t take on emergencies but they also had to transfer critical patients who were already there.

The hours since the Tsunami were a blur as you moved through emergency patients addressing their injuries enough to keep them stabilised, before moving them off to specialised wards.

You were currently in the bay waiting on an incoming ambulance, with a critical but awake patient onboard. From what you could gather the poor guy had been at the pier when the tsunami hit, spent the day rescuing others despite being already injured, before collapsing at the makeshift VA hospital. They’d sent him across as he needed to be imaged to make sure their wasn’t internal damage, and with the VA running on generators they weren’t able to do it there.

The ambulance pulled up abruptly, knocking you out of your thoughts, and the paramedics open the door to a man who was smiling despite the downright awful day you had. You followed the paramedics into the ER, listening as they rattled out Evans, Buck as he apparently preferred, injuries and symptoms.

“Hi Buck,” you introduced yourself, “sound like you had a rough day,”

“Wasn’t my favourite. Although I’m sure yours hasn’t been a walk in the park either,”

“More like a marathon dash if I’m honest. However between the two of us I think I’ve had it easier, I got to stay dry after all,”

“Not a fan of swimming?” Buck laughed.

“Love swimming, just never liked waves. Silver lining to all this is that I get to call up my mum and tell her how wrong she was calling my fear ‘irrational’,” Buck started laughing again, but quickly grimaced and held the left side of his upper abdomen.

“Alright, time to pause my one woman show and get you check out. You lie back and relax okay,”

“Thanks Doc,”

You quickly went through the motions of your head to toe assessment. Buck had clearly suffered rib bruising and had cuts that had been hastily patched but needed better dressings, otherwise externally he was in surprisingly good nick. It was the leg you were worried about, ordering a CT to make sure it was all okay. You placed Buck back into a quite corner of the ER to get his bandages redressed and wait out the results while you dived back into the fray. After a few hours you got to give him the good news.

“Hiya Buck,” you greeted pushing through the curtains. “Your looking a bit more spritely,”

“It must be the food they serve here, ever since I got my hands on a sandwich I’ve been feeling a million bucks,” he winked.

“Oh ha ha. I also don’t believe you, I’ve tried the food here and I don’t think anyone’s had a higher reaction than ‘meh’. Should I call for a psych consult?”

“Threatening a sick man. That’s low,”

“Well the good news is I wouldn’t call you sick, just slightly bruised and battered. You’ll have to promise to rest up but I don’t see why you can’t go home straight away,”

“That’s great news! Thanks for everything today, this hospital stay has been one of the more pleasant ones due to you,”

“Bet you say that to all your doctors. Now is someone available to pick you up or do you need me to give anyone a call?”

“My partners just outside making a call, I’m all good to go! Thanks again,”

“Bye Buck,” you smiled closing the curtain behind you.

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Eddie was exceptionally grateful tonight that both of his boys were safe and relatively uninjured under his roof.

Chris had taken some coaxing to get to sleep but he’d eventually drifted off. Buck, after Eddie had told him to stop being a idiot and thinking he was in any way to blame for the events of the day, was in a surprisingly good mood.

So good he was in fact humming under his breath a rather upbeat tune as they lay in bed.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie whispered, turning Bucks head gently towards him so they were lying facing each other. “Are you sure your okay? Not that I want to doubt you but you’re taking today exceptionally well,”

“Ed’s don’t worry, I am now. I wasn’t to be honest initially but the doctor at the hospital was great and she calmed me down, and got me laughing,”

“That sounds like excellent beside manner,”

“The excellent-est. I would like to request her for any future, likely inevitable, injuries I sustain.”

“Shut up Buck, I don’t want to see you hurt again if I can help it.” Eddie groaned, placing a kiss on his forehead. “Which doctor was it?”

Buck relayed your name smiling, and Eddies face dropped. “Oh.”

“Oh? What’s oh mean Eddie?” Buck questioned sitting up and turning his body to Eddie.

“I’ve met her that’s all, and she’s young and pretty. Funny too.”

“Was that oh jealousy?” Buck asked exasperated, “you silly man,”

“Its just she would be perfect for you, and I imagine a lot less baggage.”

“Sweetheart, while I admit she’s appealing, I love you. Your what I want, and I happen to love Chris,”

“I know, I’m sorry. I can’t helped being worried.”

Buck pulled him into a kiss. “Don’t be,” he whispered against his lips before pulling away.

“Wait hang on!” He paused as Eddie tried to chase his lips. “You noticed all those things about her too, yes?”

“Maybe…”

“So does that mean you are also attracted to her?”

“Buck I would never do anything to jeopardise…”

“Ed’s I know that,” Buck cut him off, “I think this is a good thing”

“How so?”

“Well we both like her. So why don’t we both date her?”

“Im sorry what?”

“You. Me. Her,” Buck punctuated. “Doesn’t that sound good,”

“I don’t think it’s that simple Buck,”

“Why not? If she wants this too than what’s the issue? And don’t you dare say it’s not accepted, because you and I both know that caring what people think only hurts.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay Buck. If she’s also interested then let’s do it”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The last few weeks had been filled with thinking about Eddie and Buck. You managed to meet two lovely men, who talking with seemed as natural as breathing, so you could help day dream about them both individually and rather embarrassingly together.

So when the two men walked into the ER together you were almost sure you were daydreaming again. They’d approached one of the nurses who mortifingly pointed straight at you, ensuring the boys caught you staring. You gave an embarrassed wave as they came towards you.

“Hi Doctor,” Buck winked.

“Hi Buck, Eddie. Nice to see you both…together,”

“Ah yes, literally actually. We’re boyfriends” Eddie acknowledged, his face flushing red.

“Oh that’s great,” although the disappointing feeling washing over seemed to disagree, “I don’t doubt you’re amazing together,” you said genuinely. At the very least it gave you hope that two of the most genuine people you had met were together. “Here for a follow up?”

“No actually, I hope this isn’t too upfront but we we’re hoping you’d like to join us for dinner sometime soon?” Eddie asked, Buck nodding beside him in encouragement.

“Oh, as a thank you? You absolutely don’t need to do that,”

“No, although I definitely want to thank you,” Buck replied, “as a date,”

“A date?” You squeaked.

“We know it’s unorthodox but we both couldn’t stop thinking about you and once we realised we were thinking about the same person we had to try,”

“You do realise we’re going to be a scheduling nightmare right? I mean doctors and firefighters aren’t know for their set hours”

“Worse comes to worse there is the hospital cafeteria, they have some of the best sandwiches” Buck jokes.

“And coffee,” Eddie added.

“Delusional the both of you. It’s like you want this to fail”

“Is that a yes?”

“I get off in 15, meet you in the cafeteria?”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Well that escalated. Thank you lovely Anon for your request.Hope you all enjoyed. Any medical knowledge (or lack there of) is brought to you by 24 hrs in A&E.

X Ali

[jessamine-rose]

⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessional until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡ 

More Church AU here!! Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*��︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

[apollo-likes-writing]

LAPIS LAZULI - 1. Reality

Character(s): Kakavasha/Aventurine

Tags: Long fic, no other tags apply tbf

Word Count: 2651 words

Summary: University seminars, philosophical discussions, and over-the-top ornate letters. What could go wrong?

Author’s note: I’d like to state for the record that I am currently not in university so have no idea how it works, so excuse any inaccuracies you may find here. Also, I had to dig around the Archives in game to make sure the lore is right lmao. Once again this is inspired by the ever wonderful @havanillas and their role swap!au. Check it out!

Account Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Prologue

8.45am - Wednesday

“Doctor? I have a letter addressed to you. Would you like me to leave it on your desk?”

“Yes please, Cassandra. I’ll have a look at it after today’s seminar. Thank you.”

”No problem, Doctor. It will be there when you arrive.”

Kakavasha takes his finger off the call button and leans back in his spinny chair, fingers interlocked on his stomach as he stares at the ceiling of his classroom. One hand reaches for a bottle of water on an oaken desk and he takes a swig, the liquid wonderfully tasteless as it slides down his throat. His students were to arrive within the next five minutes or so, so he makes himself busy by writing up a few diagrams on the whiteboard adjacent to his desk. To his annoyance, the marker pen runs out of ink halfway through, so goes on a hunt through his drawers to find another.

He roots through them for a few minutes, grumbling to himself and making a mental note to buy more with the university budget when he has free time. He finds another and grabs it triumphantly, lifting it to eye level with a grin before promptly realising two of his students have entered the classroom and sat down; now staring at him with poorly withheld amusement. At the sight of one of them giving him a cheeky wave and a “Good morning, Professor-“, he clears his throat and pivots on his heel before continuing his task. Next time he hears the chatter of the entering students before the door opens. The sound of backpacks being chucked under tables and laptops being opened fills the air as the majority enter and Kakavasha can’t prevent his quiet pleased sigh. These kids are here to learn and there is a strange form of pride that wells within him at the idea. With a few brief strokes of the marker, he finishes what he was doing and turns to the few dozen pupils in front of him.

”Morning folks,” he begins, twizzling the pen between his fingers artistically. “Today we’ll be continuing from where we left off on Monday’s lecture. Did anyone have the forethought to read through those notes before today?” A surprising majority of the room murmur their affirmative. He nods. “Good. What do you remember?” he asks, pointing the marker in the direction of redhead two rows from the front.

“We were learning about the different Aeons and the effect they have on THEIR Pathstriders and Emanators, Professor,” he replies meekly. Kakavasha gives a small smile.

”Correct, yes. Monday was about Lan the Hunt and THEIR endorsement of the Xianshou Alliance, as well as the Galaxy Rangers,” he states, now pointing at a shoddily drawn picture of a three-headed being on the whiteboard. “Today we’ll be talking about Xipe the Harmony. What do you already know about THEM and the people who follow THEIR path?”

A few students lift their hands. Kakavasha points to another to answer. A silver-haired foxian. “Xipe is a plural Aeon from lots of worlds. THEY wish for the strong to help the weak.” At the professor’s silent smile, she stutters, “Uh- I think.”

”You’re right. Glad to see you’ve done your research. Xipe is the embodiment of philosophies concerning equal rights and singularity. From what THEIR followers have preached, Xipe the Harmony believes that-“ Kakavasha takes the cap off his marker and begins to ascribe a quote on the whiteboard, “-‘Intellient life forms must discard their cowardly selfishness and the differences between individuals, fusing into one singular melody.’ In simpler terms, THEY believe that no-one is above anyone else, and everyone deserves the same chances in life.” The clicking of several keyboards follow as he circles the finished quote.

”Seems to be too far-fetched a dream, if you ask me,” a student near the back grouches in response. He is slouched back in his chair with his arms crossed, looking poignantly at Kakavasha.

”Why do you say that?” the Sigonian questions, curious.

”The universe does not treat people equally,” the student replies simply.

Ain't that the truth.

”Elaborate.”

The student pushes himself upright with his hands. “I’m all for equal rights, Professor, don’t get me wrong, but the reality of life is that not everyone is born equal. Nepotism is a big reason, but also because there are a lot of shitty people in the universe who don't hesitate to stomp on the backs of others in order to get a step up for themselves.” That is clearly directed at someone specific (or rather a specific organisation), but Kakavasha doesn’t voice that. That organisation is probably funding this pupil’s degree.

”Go on,” he urges, face some kind of welcoming. The student fiddles with the edges of his open laptop for a few moments, unsure, but eventually decides to say what is on his mind.

”There is a level of social and economical class a person needs to have if they want to be taken seriously in this life. I completely agree with the Harmony’s path, but it just isn’t realistic. I mean, what rights does a slave have next to their master?”

And isn’t that the million-credit question? There’s a clear taken aback look on Kakavasha’s face that is concealed as quickly as it appears. His chest tightens slightly and a small lump settles in his throat. It’s a figure of speech, Kakavasha. A figure of speech used to help elaborate a very valid and interesting point of view. He’s sure the kid isn’t aware of the connotations of saying such a thing. He fights the urge to lift his hand to his neck and rub the branding so forcibly put there all those years ago. The habit itches at him, making his fingers twitch.

”Professor?”

Right, he has a class to teach.

He clears his throat and swallows. “You’re very right. Equality is non-existent at this point in time. People less fortunate are facing more and more hardships each day, while those born being fed from silver spoons have it easier. I don't disagree with you. One thing you need to realise, however, is that Aeons’ beliefs are based on ideals, not rules.” The student looks at him with a raised brow, not quite understanding. Kakavasha continues. “Aeons are the embodiment of philosophical concepts. That is all they are: concepts. It's all well and good preaching them but the reality is, like you said, unlikely to take place. Xipe the Harmony has influence all over the cosmos in thousands of worlds but that doesn't mean they are omnipresent. Some Aeons have more influence than others. Qlipoth the Preservation, for example, practically dominates the universe with the IPC. Compare that to Nous the Erudition and THEIR 84 members of the Genius Society and few dozen thousand members of the Intelligentsia Guild and you can see the quantifiable difference.”

Kakavasha needs another sip of his water. The students are hastily writing down notes on computers and notebooks. The original student who started the discussion nods slowly before doing the same. The professor withholds a tired sigh.

This is going to be a long seminar.

10:17am - Wednesday

When the scholar arrives in his office an hour later, he practically collapses into his chair. He drags a hand down his face with a groan and uses the other to take his hair out of its ponytail. The sigh of relief he lets out after the tension is released is audible and warm. His eyes closed, he recalls his lecture timetable and is quietly grateful that the rest of his day is free. Regardless, he keeps his door unlocked in case any of his students need assistance with their work.

He likes what he does at Veritas Prime. It gives him a well-needed break from the tireless nights in this very office spent researching. It also allows him to witness the growth of bright minds. He has a direct effect on the future of these kids (he says “kids” despite the fact that they are all in their twenties and only a few years younger than him) and he is not about to throw their future down the drain. So he tries. He genuinely tries, and the work he puts in makes a difference. If he can give someone with an upbringing as similar as his the chance to grow, then he will take every opportunity he can to do so. No one should be uneducated purely because of where and how they were raised. The ignorant should choose to be ignorant, not be forced into it because they happened to be born into less fortunate circumstances. Kakavasha knows what that's like and he refuses to let others suffer as he did.

Wow. Look at him being all motivational. He should write a speech. The IPC would eat that up. Not that they’d listen to a word he would actually say: they look at the sole survivor of a dead race and they see money bags, not a human being. The thought reminds him of another Intelligentsia Guild scholar. Or rather, a former Intelligentsia Guild member. Veritas Ratio: the man idolised by all. Everyone in the Guild compares Kakavasha to him. They see a young scholar with “promise and potential” and it’s an immediate link. He can’t blame them - the esteemed Doctor Ratio is a legend after all. He feels honoured. Really, he does! He’s simply irked by the fact that he’s compared to such a genius and has yet to meet him. If the Guild’s hapless musings are true, then the potential prospects of their work together would be boundless.

He knows that’s not possible now. Anyone with half a brain cell and access to the Internet knows of the exploits of the former doctor (Well, he’s still a doctor. He still has all eight of those pHDs). A quick search shows a smiling face and his new pseudonym: Lapis Lazuli. Kakavasha doesn’t know him well enough to feel pride for the man, but he does understand the feeling of patriotism at the idea of a former member of the Guild reaching so high that he became one of the Ten Stonehearts. Most people who have worked tirelessly in the IPC all their lives don’t come anywhere close to that level, yet Lapis Lazuli did it in less than half a decade. How did he do it? Status? Money? Luck? Kakavasha inwardly recoils at that last one.

Luck. Most see it as a blessing. For Kakavasha, it’s nothing but a curse. It is his rediculous luck that made him the one that survived the genocide of his people. He was the one who managed to escape that hellhole of a planet (which then resulted in him being thrown into the slave trade, just his luck). It was then just his luck that he was sold, again, to that detestable man in the Guild who found it in himself to strip away Kakavasha’s autonomy (not that he had any at that point anyway) to test on him in hopes of accessing, manipulating, and stealing the only thing that had kept him alive: his luck. Luck bestowed upon him by a god that clearly has a sick sense of humour. Luckily for him, that man couldn’t keep a secret, so he was promptly found and thrown in prison for his unethical practices for a very, very long time.

Now that he's thinking about it, Kakavasha supposes he's doing the same thing. Sort of. Technically the opposite if you squint? He wishes to rid himself of this unbridled luck, yes, but not to manipulate it. He just wants it gone. At least now, in the Intelligentsia Guild, he has the ability and the resources to research such a thing.

Maybe a legend like Veritas Ratio could give a little of his wisdom for his cause.

Yeah, right. Funny joke.

The Sigonian leans forwards and rests his elbows on his desk, head in his hands. He sulks. That's right. A grown man sulks. He stares at the mahogany wood and slips of paper below him and unfocuses his eyes, staying like that for a good twenty minutes or so before noticing a particularly eye-catching envelope addressed directly to him with an elaborate IPC-esque seal on the front. Ah right, the letter. This must have been what Cassandra was talking about earlier. He sits up straight and sorts out his posture. Opening his desk drawer, he hunts around for a bit until he finds the blade of a letter opener. He uses it to open the envelope and fishes out the letter within. It's written in printed cursive on crisp and pure white paper with an ornate golden border around the edge. Gold leaves creep up the sides and dance around the corners, making Kakavasha feel as if it’s addressed to the wrong person at first. His name plastered on the back of the envelope and the top of the paper says otherwise.

It's an invitation.

To the wise and honourable Doctor Kakavasha,

The Interastral Peace Corporation invites you and several other esteemed members of the Intelligentsia Guild to a business party at 8pm on Friday the [xx] of [xxxx] at Pier Point. This is a black-tie event, so please dress applicably. Transport will be provided for you, so please RSVP as soon as possible if you wish to attend. This is a party hosted in hopes of forging positive relations between the IPC and its allied organisations, as well as fostering camaraderie and healthy business. We look forward to hearing from you.

Kind regards,

D, P47

Kakavasha rereads the letter several times, frown deepening more and more as his comprehension of it improves. His immediate thought is to rip it up and throw the remains in his paper bin. Kakavasha hates parties. He has done for years. They're always full of demeaning pricks trying to get into either his research papers or his pants. The Avgin has always refused both.

A business party connecting the Intelligentsia Guild and the IPC. The two organisations already have connections with each other, the latter funding a lot of the projects within the former, so what gives? Why have this party? Granted, it states several reasons within the letter, but the IPC is nothing without their ulterior motives. It could be as simple as the rich and powerful wanting to rub elbows with the other rich and powerful (knowing this universe, this is probably the case), but there is always the possibility of more menacing reasons.

Kakavasha is a scholar at heart. Scholars have always been beings of curiosity. He reads the letter again and sees another thing that catches his eye.

D: an initial that implies that this is an invite by Diamond, founder of the Ten Stonehearts. Will this Diamond, rumoured Emanator of Qlipoth the Preservation, actually be present during this party? Absolutely not. He's far too important for that. Will other Stonehearts be present, though? Almost definitely. Kakavasha's mind flicks back to the rabbit hole he fell down in the wee hours of the morning one night, surfing the Internet and scrounging the web for information on a certain grape-haired executive he's so closely compared to.

Veritas Ratio. Lapis Lazuli. Maybe he will be there. Maybe they can have a discussion about how to cure his dastardly luck.

Kakavasha picks up his phone and dials for his secretary. She answers almost immediately.

“Yes, Doctor?” she begins.

“Hiya, Cassandra. Please may you contact the IPC with a RSVP? I've been asked to attend a party of theirs.”

“Doctor Kakavasha? At a party? Willingly? I must be going mad,” she jokes.

“You and I both,” he chuckles in response. “Thanks Cassandra.”

“Of course.”

Kakavasha puts the phone down and leans back in his chair, calculating in his mind quietly at what in Gaiathra’s great name he’s doing.

He's going to need a suit.

-

Hope you enjoyed! Reblogs appreciated Next Chapter

[deliciousangelfestival]

Nothing Has Changed - 16

Summary: Returning home for peace, you're faced with your tormentor, Bucky Barnes, who is now involved in your family's business.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Warning: Angst, Tragedy.

Nothing Has Changed - Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 💖💖💖

The moment you heard the words, it felt like a bolt of lightning striking your chest.

“What happened?” Your voice was sharp with urgency.

The gallery owner sighed. “He was in a car accident. Wrong time, wrong place. He was crossing the street when a car—stolen by a thief trying to escape the police—came speeding through.”

Your stomach twisted. “Is he okay?”

“To an outsider, he looks fine. But for an artist?” He shook his head grimly. “It’s a career suicide.”

Dread pooled in your gut. “His hands?”

He gave a small nod, confirming your worst fear. “We love his work—it’s been bringing in so many new visitors.” His expression darkened. “But sadly, we had to terminate his contract.”

Your brows furrowed. “There was another contract?” This was the first time you’d heard of it. You only knew that Steve had been accepted as a resident artist for the gallery.

“Yeah. The response to his work was incredible, and we were grateful you introduced him to us. That’s why we signed a long-term contract with him. The gallery was going to act as his agency—promoting his work worldwide. In return, he was supposed to produce new pieces regularly.”

Your heart clenched. “Can’t you give him another chance?”

“We did.” He exhaled heavily. “But then the doctor told us it would take at least six months for him to recover. Meanwhile, the contract had already started, and he was expected to create at least three new pieces each month.”

Your mind raced. Four months. That was too long in their eyes—but to Steve, it was everything.

“I have to go. Which hospital is he in?”

Once you had the address, you wasted no time.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and sterilized air, a suffocating mix. As you stepped into the room, your breath caught in your throat.

Steve lay on the hospital bed, looking pale and exhausted. His once-strong hands, the hands that had brought so much beauty into the world, now rested limply on the blanket. His eyes flickered open, widening slightly when he saw you standing there.

A weak, surprised chuckle escaped him. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m so sorry.”

His brows knitted together. “Why are you apologizing? None of this is your fault.” He let out a short laugh, then winced, the pain cutting it short.

Your chest ached at the sight of him like this. This wasn’t just an injury—it was a slow death for someone like him. Not being able to paint was killing him.

Steeling yourself, you stepped closer. “Don’t worry. I know a doctor who can help you.”

His expression darkened. “Don’t bother.” He turned his gaze to the ceiling, his voice hollow. “I believe this is my karma. Like the others. It’s my turn now.”

His words sent a chill down your spine.

His turn for what?

“Karma? No. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Steve let out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “No, Y/N. This is my karma. This is why I was always afraid to leave town. I was afraid something would happen to me… just like it happened to the others.”

A chill ran down your spine. “The others? What do you mean?”

Steve fell silent, his jaw tightening. His fingers twitched against the hospital sheets as if he were peeling back an old wound, one he had buried deep. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

“We were terrible to you back then.”

Your chest tightened at the words. Yes. They were. But what did that have to do with this?

“Yes, you guys were,” you admitted, your voice steady. “But what does that have to do with any of this?”

His eyes darkened. “Punishment. That’s what I’d call it. We got punished for what we did to you.”

Your stomach churned. “We? Punished?”

He nodded. “We—Natasha, Thor, and now me. It was only a matter of time before my turn came.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you.

“Natasha… After graduation, she got a modeling contract. Big agencies, photoshoots, runway shows—she even walked at NYFW. She was on the rise. A new star from our town.” He paused, his expression tightening. “Until her name got dragged into a scandal. A photographer she worked with was exposed for predatory behavior. She got labeled a ‘yacht girl.’”

Your brows furrowed.

“Nobody wanted to work with a model tied to a criminal. And with the whole ‘Me Too’ movement gaining momentum, she was blacklisted overnight.”

You swallowed hard, processing his words.

“And Thor?” you asked.

Steve scoffed. “That guy thought he had it all. He got into NASCAR, won a few races. But then? He crashed. Messed up his legs. Ended his career before it even really started.”

Your chest tightened again, but not out of sympathy. You knew what he was saying—what he believed. And you didn’t believe a word of it.

“And now it’s my turn,” Steve muttered, trying to push himself up in bed. His hands trembled from the effort. “Just like Natasha and Thor… in the end, I ended up back here.”

“Steve,” you murmured, your heart twisting at the look on his face.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Seems like Bucky got the best out of all of us. He’s rich. He helped your dad. Life worked out for him.”

You clenched your fists.

“Steve, that’s ridiculous,” you said firmly. “If this is karma, then does that mean I was ‘punished’ when the FBI raided me? No. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He didn’t answer.

“And as for Natasha and Thor?” You exhaled sharply. “They got what they deserved. But you? No, Steve. You don’t deserve this.”

Your chest ached as you looked at him—really looked at him. He had finally made it out, just like you. And deep down, you had been rooting for him all along.

You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. “Gather your things. We’re moving you to a better hospital. I know a doctor who can actually help.”

Steve blinked up at you in surprise. “Y/N, you’ve already helped me so much—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, crossing your arms. “Steve, listen to me. I have a bad feeling about this. And I’m going to find out the truth.”

He stared at you for a long moment before sighing. “Oookayy…”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

You wasted no time bringing Steve to see Tim—the famous orthopedic doctor, well-known among A-list celebrities.

As soon as you stepped into his office, Tim’s lips curled into an easy smile. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite fund manager.” His tone was warm, teasing. Then his gaze shifted to Steve. “And you must be the patient.”

Steve shifted awkwardly, clearly overwhelmed. He had never expected you to go this far to find him a top doctor.

You wasted no time. “Tim, here’s the case.” You handed him the medical records. “The doctors at the previous hospital took forever to give Steve a proper diagnosis. And this is all they gave us.”

Tim hummed as he flipped through the files, scanning the information with a sharp, discerning gaze. Then, he turned to Steve, his expression unreadable. Gently, he reached out and pressed against Steve’s injured hand.

Steve winced but didn’t pull away.

“That’s strange,” Tim muttered. “According to this report, you won’t be able to use your hand for at least six months. But looking at it closely…” He rotated Steve’s wrist slightly, testing the movement. “You just need about a month.”

“HUH?!” Steve’s head snapped up, eyes wide in disbelief.

Tim barely reacted to Steve’s shock. Instead, he frowned slightly, tapping the file with his fingers. “The doctor who examined you… Hmm.” His curiosity was piqued.

A bad feeling stirred in your gut. “Do you know who he is?” you asked.

Tim let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “This guy? He nearly had his medical license revoked. He’s notorious for fabricating patient records.”

A chilling silence filled the room. It was as if someone had dumped ice-cold water over you and Steve.

Steve let out a deep breath, tension leaving his shoulders. “So I’m not as bad off as I thought.” Relief washed over him.

You, however, felt something else entirely. A slow, burning anger settled in your chest. This was just like your father’s case. Lies. Manipulation. Someone using their position to control people’s lives.

You swallowed back the fury, forcing yourself to focus. “I’m glad I brought him here.” Your voice was firm as you looked at Tim. “Please, do whatever you can to heal my friend.”

Tim gave a reassuring nod. “Of course.”

Steve turned to you, his eyes filled with something unspoken—gratitude, maybe even something deeper. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “You keep helping me again and again.”

You managed a small smile. “Get better, Steve.” Then, your expression hardened. “And there’s one thing I need you to do.”

“Just tell me.”

Your next words came without hesitation. “Don’t ever go back home. Ever.”

Steve froze.

“I mean it,” you pressed. “I have a bad feeling about this. And I won’t let my father go back either.”

Before Steve could respond, your phone vibrated in your pocket. You glanced at the screen—Allan.

You stepped aside, answering quickly. “Yes, Allan?”

There was a pause before his voice came through. “I have the results.”

Your breath hitched. You had been waiting for this. The test results for your father.

“How is it?” you asked, bracing yourself.

Allan hesitated. “He doesn’t have cancer.”

For a moment, your mind went blank. He doesn’t have cancer. The weight pressing against your chest lifted slightly—only for it to come crashing down again with Allan’s next words.

“But he’s dying.”

The room felt like it was closing in on you. “…What?”

“The medication he was given—it destroyed his kidneys. He needs surgery as soon as possible.”

Your grip on the phone tightened. Your knuckles turned white.

Tony. That damn liar.

Your father was never sick. He was never dying from cancer. He had been fooled—poisoned, even. And you were too late to stop it.

Your voice came out low and cold. “Do whatever you have to do, Doc. I trust you.”

“I will.”

The call ended.

You stood there, gripping the phone so tightly your hands shook. Anger simmered beneath your skin, boiling over into something uncontrollable. You were furious—furious at yourself for not figuring it out sooner. Furious at that bastard doctor who had fed your father poison disguised as medicine. Furious that your father had suffered for nothing.

That small town has brought nothing but misery to you and your dad.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, the screen flashing with an incoming call. Ransom.

You answered quickly. "Hey…" His voice came through the line, slightly muffled by background noise. “Guess where I’m going?”

Something about his tone put you on edge. “Where are you?” you asked, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine.

“To your hometown.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Why?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, laced with panic.

“There’s a proposed hospital project there. They want to build a road alongside it, and the mayor called us. He’s interested in taking out a loan from us.” Ransom’s voice was casual, like this was just another business deal.

But to you, it was anything but.

“Ransom!”

“Yeah?” He sounded amused. “Why are you screaming?”

Your grip on the phone tightened. “Don’t go there.”

Ransom chuckled, oblivious to the sheer dread seeping into your voice. “Too late for that. The mayor already sent his people to pick me up. Even sent a helicopter.”

Your stomach twisted. “Who did he send?”

There was a pause. Then, Ransom’s voice dropped slightly, as if he was taking a closer look. “His name is James Barnes.”

Your heart stopped.

Ransom glanced over at the man already seated inside the helicopter, his presence commanding even from a distance. Bucky Barnes.

The moment the call ended, fear crashed over you like a tidal wave.

Real, bone-deep fear.

You didn’t just not want Ransom to go.

You needed him not to go.

But it was too late.

And that terrified you.

@winterslove1917

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[ironstrange1991]

Careful What You Wish For

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: The reader and Stephen are students at Kamar Taj and when she needs his help with her exams, Stephen makes her an indecent offer.

Word Count: 6,5k

Warnings: SMUT: Dubcon, hate sex (at least in the beggining), handjob, oral sex with male receiving, forced (?) deep throat, umprotected p n v, lost of virginity, mentions of pain and blood, forced (?) creampie.

A/N: It took me a while to finish this fic, but I'm very happy with the result. Hope you like it.

You had been a student at Kamar Taj for no more than a few months when the new guy arrived. You were in the hall and even served him tea at the time, then you left letting the Ancient One and Master Mordo speak to him. However, of course you were peeking behind the curtains listening to the entire conversation. You saw the disrespectful and absurd way in which he addressed the Ancient One and you also saw how she, with all her power and somewhat sadistic humor, put him in his place.

You spent that day studying the old books that Wong had recommended for you and as you did so you heard the incessant knocking on the door and the shouts of "Let me in" or "I have nowhere to go." The situation was funny at first because like the Ancient One, you also had a certain sadistic side, but after hours of that incessant whining you started to feel sorry for the man. He was kinda cute.

When he was allowed to join you and become a student of the mystic arts you decided that you would not make his life easy. Whenever you could, you teased him for being the new guy, for being the guy whose hands could barely conjure mere sparks. During training in the courtyard, The Ancient One always had the two of you train together and you didn't take it easy on him. You might be small, but you were agile. He on the other hand was tall, had a well defined body, not too thin, very muscular, but was extremely slow. Apparently all the years of being an arrogant rich guy had made him soft and you liked seeing him lying on the floor whenever you got the chance.

"Y/n, no messing around. Grab your relics and get into fighting stance." Master Mordo instructed in one of the training afternoons and you chose one of the relics, but when the new guy went to get his, you slapped his hand making him look at you with a mixture of surprise and irritation. He was very handsome when he was angry, his blue eyes darkening with the fury he tried to contain. Wounded pride showing in every line of his furrowed brow.

"You don't deserve a relic yet, old man."

He ran his tongue across the corner of his cheek, clearly annoyed, but decided to play along. "I already told you my name is Stephen Strange."

You shrugged, getting into a fighting stance. "And I already said I don't care. Now be less miserable and conjure a weapon, so I'll feel less bad when I hit you."

He chuckled nervously, making a valiant effort to conjure something that could barely be described as a weapon, but it would have to do because you quickly went in for a blow that he reasonably defended himself from.

You smiled mischievously "You're getting better. I've always believed it's possible to learn through pain."

He clearly didn't like your comment, because he struck a blow at you that you barely have time to defend yourself by creating a shield.

"You don't know anything about my pain." He spat out the words.

Apparently you had hit a nerve. Excellent.

Your relationship with Strange didn't changed much beyond that for a long time, but you liked to think that somehow you were growing inside him, because he was always close even when you didn't necessarily need to be together. Like in the library.

It was as if he always knew the exact time you were in the library and would go there and steal books that were clearly not allowed for someone of his level. Not even at your level.

"You're going to end up with your head in a bucket over this." You said one of those nights while reading under the light of a single candle at the farthest desk in the library.

"Only if you tell on me." He responded, bringing the book under his arm and coming towards you. He threw the heavy book on the table and smiled arrogantly at you. When you looked at the book your eyes widened in complete amazement.

"This book belongs to the Ancient One's collection, are you crazy?"

He pulled out a chair and sat at the desk with you. "Wong said no knowledge is prohibited at Kamar Taj."

You rolled your eyes "Yes, I know that speech, it was exactly that that led Kaecilius to perdition."

Strange stared at you and then at the book. "So this is the book that was stolen."

"If it's in your hand, it's obvious that it wasn't stolen. Only a spell was removed from it. An evil spell that neither you nor I have the slightest idea of ​​what it does."

But it was useless, every word of warning seemed to instigate the man even more. You had been around Strange long enough to know that he was hard-headed and when he put something in his head no one could take it away.

You closed the book you were reading and levitated it to the shelf by moving little more than your fingertips.

"Show off." He scolded as he flipped through the forbidden book.

"If you allow me, I will leave before you do something that’ll get us killed, or worse, expelled."

With that he smiled widely, that must have been the first time you saw him smiling, at least for you.

"Did you just quote Harry Potter? How old are you, twelve?"

You shrugged. "I'm 21 in two weeks, I'll take a gift." You said walking down the hall.

As days went by, it became increasingly clear to you that all that provocation had a much deeper meaning than you wanted to admit. You've never been with a man, in fact you've never even been interested in a man. Your life has always been studying and after you were orphaned after a car accident that killed your parents and almost killed you, you felt lost in the world and found out about Kamar Taj and dedicated yourself one hundred percent to it. That's what you always do, you find a source of interest, become completely obsessed and devote yourself to it until you learn everything you can from it and then move on to another obsession. At that point you were already recognizing the pattern and wondering how far you could go with that obsession with Strange when teasing or pestering him during training seemed to not be enough anymore.

You started teasing him in other ways, wearing robes that were tighter than necessary, shorts and tank tops that were smaller and shorter than allowed, all so he could get a good look at what he was missing. That is, of course, if he had any interest in you in the same way that you had in him. To be honest, you had no idea what you were doing. Provoking him was easy, but seducing wasn't exactly an area you had mastered.

The day before your birthday you were in the kitchen stealing what was left of your cake frosting when Strange caught you in the act. You were only wearing skimpy pajama shorts and a top that barely covered your breasts and bent over as you were, half of your body inside the fridge, you could imagine the image Stephen had of your ass.

"You should be embarrassed." His baritone voice came from behind you and in shock you hit your head on the top of the fridge which made him laugh. That laugh was something new and the way it made your stomach flutter was new too.

You took the pot out of the fridge, but left the door open, illuminating the dark kitchen with a beam of yellow light.

"It's my cake, my birthday, I have the right." You responded by sticking your index finger into the bowl and scooping out a little more of the icing and sticking it in your mouth teasingly taking it out with a loud pop.

You could see him swallowing thickly, his eyes getting darker with what you didn't quite know what it was.

"I'm referring to walking around the Kamar Taj dressed like that."

You shrugged "It's hot in Kathmandu." You made sure to smile mischievously at him. "After all, what are you doing walking around the Kamar Taj at this hour, Strange?" You questioned as if you had any right to it.

He pulled out a chair and sat down. "I can't sleep. My hands are hurting more than usual."

You looked at him for a second, still leaning against the sink with the glass bowl in your hand, trying to think of what to say to him, but ended up opting for the easiest answer.

"You don't expect me to take pity on you and offer to massage your hands or something, right?" You tried to sound sarcastic, but since there was some truth in your suggestion, your voice sounded softer than you would have liked.

"I don't want pity, but a massage would be nice."

“Fuck off” You replied, turning around to put the bowl in the sink and wash your hands, but mostly to hide how red your cheeks had gotten.

He sighed, getting up and mumbling a good night and leaving the kitchen and you stood there wondering if he was really serious or not. In any case, that was absurd, you both didn't have that kind of intimacy.

You ended up as usual in the library, finishing the last chapters of the book that you needed to finish for the end of the year exams. When you joined Kamar Taj, you didn't realize how much theory you would have to learn, you always thought it would be more practice than books and exams, but things weren't exactly as you imagined and you weren't as good at theory as you were in practice. Your memory wasn't like Strange's. The bastard could memorize an entire book in that deranged brain of his, you could barely memorize your own notes. Clearly there was a bargaining chip there, you thought ironically. I massage his hands and he help me study.

You chuckled to yourself thinking how absurd the idea was, but as you read the endless pages of the book that confused you more than clarified the subject, the more tempted you became to actually make the offer to Strange. The best you could get for an answer was no, right?

Finally, you gave up on your studies and put the books back on the shelves and left the library towards the dorms, you were still deciding between going straight to your dorm or knocking on Strange's door when you heard a sound coming from his room. You stopped in front of the door, your hand on the doorknob waiting and then you heard it again, a groan. He must have really been in a lot of pain to be groaning like that. You even felt bad about the way you spoke to him in the kitchen earlier.

You gave up knocking and simply turned the handle and to your surprise the door opened. It was dark inside, but the little light coming from the window made it clear as day what he was actually doing or trying to do and before he noticed your presence another groan escaped his lips followed by a curse "Damn hands. "

You swallowed heavily and closed the door behind you and only then did he notice your presence.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He asked completely defensively, adjusting himself in the small chair at the desk that could barely contain his entire size in it. At the same time he removed his hand from inside his boxers, but there was an erection there so obvious that the white fabric did little to hide.

"I came to make you an offer, but since you're busy I can come back another time." You answered turning around to leave.

He groaned and in that sound you could feel a little frustration, a little irritation and also some curiosity. “Wait.”

He snapped his fingers and some light bulbs came on. "If you tell anyone what you saw here, I swear I'll kill you." He threatened.

You smirked, "Threatening to kill me isn't the best thing you can do to keep my mouth shut. It's actually the worst thing, since we both know you're no match for me in combat."

He raised an eyebrow challenging you. "I've evolved a lot since I got here, Y/n, don't underestimate me."

You shrugged. "I'm not here to fight, Strange. I came to ask for help with my studies. You know my exams are coming up and I'm not as good in theory as I am in practice. If I do poorly in the exams, The Ancient One won't let me participate in the advanced spell training and I'm really excited to get started...”

"Let me get this straight. You're asking for my help? Is that right?"

You walked over to him and sat on the bed, crossing your arms dramatically. "Unfortunately it's my only option."

He shifted again in his chair and you couldn't help but notice that thing between his legs.

 "So... what do you say?"

"I could help you. The question is whether I want to or not. Let's think about it for a minute. Since I got here you have dedicated yourself to make my life really hard. You are an insufferable brat, you are rude... "

"Okay, I understand. Where are you going with this? Are you going to help me or not?"

Strange smiled mischievously as if suddenly some brilliant idea had crossed his mind. "It will depend on what you’ll give me in return."

Something about that smile made the heat rise to your cheeks again and you swallowed thickly.

"You mentioned early in the kitchen that your hands were hurting. I thought… maybe you wanted a massage or something." Your voice became lower and lower and by the end of the sentence it was almost a whisper.

He hummed, "Something like that." He replied and then sighed heavily.

"Do you know what the big problem with my hands is? I can't jerk off"

You looked at him, completely shocked that he was saying that to you, but you supposed that after teasing him for all that time, he didn't exactly have much respect for you, especially because he must have already noticed that you maintained a certain interest in him.

"And tonight, after you were showing off that ass of yours for me in the kitchen I really needed to jerk off."

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"You tease me and tease me, but you don't offer anything in return. You keep wearing these indecent clothes and I know it's not because of the heat, but because you want me to look at you. You call me an old man, but I know you love how old I am. So spare me that innocent face of yours because I know you're not innocent."

Actually, you were, but you didn't tell him that. You had never been with a man. Some heated kisses, yes, some touching and teasing, but nothing more than that. The problem was that you played your role too well.

"Are you going to help me or not?" You mumbled.

"Come here." He asked and you hesitated for a moment, but then you gave in and slowly walked towards him, stopping in front of him, waiting for what he would say next.

"I don't want a massage. I need your hands to jerk off. In other words, I want a handjob. A really good handjob and depending on how good it is I might be good and help you pass those exams."

You chewed on your lip. There was a part of you that liked the idea of ​​being intimate with him like that, but another much more conscious part knew how wrong it was. You weren't comfortable with that situation.

"And how exactly is a really good handjob? I need to know my chances here if I'm going to do this."

He smirked. "Let me see your hands. Palms up."

You obeyed.

"They're small, which means you'll have to use both at the same time because, as you can see..." He brought his hands to the sides of his boxers and in a quick movement they were on his knee, freeing his huge dick. "It's very big."

"You're an arrogant idiot, you know that?" You mumbled, unable to hold your tongue in your mouth.

He grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his cock and instinctively you wrapped it around him and it felt so warm and so hard, you didn't imagine it was that hard.

"Come on, you know what to do!" He said, closing his eyes and sighing heavily.

You knelt down to his height and moved your hand up and down, but clearly something was wrong. "Shouldn't it be wet?" You asked innocently, to which he let out a small chuckle.

"Yeah, I don't have lube. You'll need to use your own spit."

You looked at him in surprise, but he clearly understood your reaction as disgust.

He sighed dramatically, held his own cock by the base and spat on it and then moved his trembling hand spreading the saliva over the entire length. "There. It's wet now."

You grabbed him, determined to end it once and for all. From what you knew, he hadn't had sex for a long time and if you did it right he wouldn't last long.

You started to pump him up and down quickly, but contrary to your plans, he held your hand "Slow down, I want to enjoy myself for a bit."

You sighed doing what he wanted, you used both hands to stroke him slowly making sure to rotate your hands on the way down and making sure to touch his head on the way up. It was your first time doing that, but you weren't a saint, you had already watched porn and remembered some things and by the way he started to squirm, barely able to stay still in the chair, you could tell you were doing something right.

He started to moan too, at first low and then louder and soon some words began to escape his lips as if he was unable to contain them.

"Fuck Y/n, you really know what you're doing, don't you? Oh I missed this, it's been so long!"

You couldn't hide from yourself that his words seemed to move you, it was almost as if you could feel a warmth in your chest, a surge of pride at being praised by him and more than that, you felt your panties getting wet.

There was no point trying to hide that you were enjoying this. Deep down you always imagined yourself in some kind of erotic scenario with Strange. Alone in your small room, you found yourself thinking about him and he was right, you teased him to try to get some reaction from him. You just never imagined things would happen this way, but you were too involved in it to care.

You watched in delight as how much of that sticky liquid came out of his tip the more you stimulated him, and you also realized that you liked the noises that your hands jerking him made, not to mention his moans that got louder and louder. The next thing you knew, you were squeezing your thighs together and he only didn't notice because he had leaned his head back and kept his eyes closed, but when an involuntary moan escaped your lips he looked at you intently with a grin in his lips.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? You dirty little brat!"

You couldn't maintain eye contact with him, so you kept your eyes on his cock, noticing every vein, every detail of that cock that was the first one you had the chance to see up close.

You spat on his cock and continued your work without responding to his provocation, but he wasn't willing to let it go.

"Look at me."

You did what he asked somewhat reluctantly.

"I want your mouth, sweetheart."

You looked at him in surprise, not because of what he asked, but because of the way he referred to you and especially because of how it made you feel.

"I... I don't know how to do it." You replied and he smirked.

"I find that hard to believe."

You looked away feeling your face even hotter. Was it really possible that you had played your role so well that you managed to make the man you were interested in believe you were a whore? You were not. You weren't even close to that, but now it was too late to try to change his opinion about you.

"Tell me how you like it." You asked, disguising your inexperience.

"Deep in the throat. That's how I like it. But I'll take what you give me. Just use this mouth of yours for something more productive than talking shit."

You were slightly offended and bothered by the way he was treating you. Despite everything, in your fantasies he was always kind, but you tried not to let that show and opened your mouth as much as you could and he stuck his head in and instinctively reached his hand up to your head and grabbed a handful of your hair. "Use your tongue, swirl it in the head."

You did exactly as he asked and felt his hold on your hair tighten. He started to push your head down, forcing you to take him deeper and deeper until you gagged and tears ran down your face.

"That's how I like it." He took his cock out of your mouth and held your chin making you look at him. "There's nothing like a good cock to tame a brat, right sweetheart?"

You swallowed the saliva you had gathered in your mouth and nodded obediently.

"You can take a little more, can't you?"

You nodded.

"Good girl. Open your mouth really wide, I'm going to go deeper this time, okay?"

You just nodded again, apparently that was all you could do, obey his commands even if you didn't agree with them. You felt as he pushed his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth, entering your throat until you could no longer breathe. Automatically you grabbed his thighs and started pushing to try to get away from him, but he didn't let you go.

"It's okay. Just breathe through your nose" He cooed. You had never heard that tone of voice from him, at least not when he was talking to you, but a part of you liked it.

You did as he ordered, but the sensation was no less uncomfortable when you felt him going down your throat. Your gag reflex was horrible and soon you were crying profusely as streams of saliva ran down your mouth as he continued thrusting against your throat.

"Look at you, you're crying on my dick, sweetheart. Do you have any idea how beautiful this is?"

You pushed his thigh again and tried to lift your head and this time he allowed it.

He continued holding your hair though and wiped the tears from your cheeks.

"Not such a bully now, are you?"

You were feeling overwhelmed, your voice refused to come out and there was a secret part inside you that was loving the feeling of being used, even when you knew deep down that it was wrong.

He stood up and pulled you up too. "Let's make a deal. I'll touch you now and if you're dry I'll let you finish with the handjob and we'll stop here..."

You stared at him, fully aware of the mess that was between your legs.

He smirked, pleased with your reaction and continued explaining "...but if you're wet... Oh sweetheart, if you're wet, I'll fucking ruin you."

When his hand slipped into your shorts and panties your legs were shaking and could barely support you standing. You knew you should tell him the truth, that you should stop it while there was still time, but you couldn't. You were paralyzed. Physically your body was having positive reactions, you were soaking wet between your legs, you were ready to take him. But mentally you were a mess. This wasn't what you imagined for your first time. It wasn't how it should be.

"Oh I knew it! I could smell it on you. Your arousal... such a sweet smell."

You placed your hand over his hand "Strange... I don't know..."

"Shhh, it's okay.  I think you can call me Stephen now."

He moved his middle finger through your folds and circled your clit making your hips move involuntarily against his hand. He brought his face closer to yours and for a minute you thought he was going to kiss you, but instead he whispered in your ear. "You always wanted this, right? All the teasing was because you wanted me. I bet you've already touch yourself thinking about me, haven't you?"

You didn't respond, but when he took two fingers inside you, you winced feeling a sting deep inside. He didn't seem to notice.

"Tell me." He insisted.

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"I always wanted you." You whined.

He hummed "I'm here now. I'm going to give you what you've always wanted."

With that he bent you over the desk and pulled your shorts and panties down to your knees and you could hear him spitting into his hand.

"Stephen...w-wait..."

He spread his saliva at your entrance and you clung as best you could to the edges of the small wooden desk bracing yourself for what was to come.

He didn't say anything, he just buried himself inside of you with a strong, firm thrust and it was done. All the fantasies, all the expectations around it disappeared in a second, giving way to pain, a tearing sting that brought tears to your eyes, but you didn't make a sound.

He groaned in pleasure, but in confusion too and then stopped altogether. When he spoke again his voice sounded low and slightly nervous.

"Were you a fucking virgin? Really?"

You let out the breath you were holding in small puffs, "I t-tried to tell you."

He pulled out and turned you around to face him. "You didn't tell me shit. How was I supposed to know?!"

You wiped the tears from your eyes "It's no big deal okay? I should have resolved this a long time ago, I just never found..." You bit your tongue before you said too much. You had already given him too much power over you that night.

Stephen ran a hand nervously through his mouth. "We'd better stop this here." He stated, but you held his hand.

"Stephen... it's no big deal. I want this. Just... do it."

He held your face between his huge, shaking hands and stared into your eyes and you could see all the certainty in him slipping away but you had to keep going. If you stopped now it would be too humiliating.

"Stephen, please." You whispered.

 "You stupid little brat!" Stephen said with a heavy sigh and then kissed you. An angry and desperate kiss. A clash of lips, tongues and teeth mixed with the hums that escaped your throats.

In one quick movement he picked you up, bride style, eliciting a gasp from your lips.

"What are you doing?"

He walked over to his bed and laid you carefully on the pillows.

"If we're going to do this, sweetheart, let's do it right."

You watched as he got rid of his tee and found yourself analyzing every inch of his body. He was so beautiful, his defined chest and abdomen, his strong arms, his hands... you lost count of how many times you stared at his hands while your mind conjured up the dirtiest scenarios possible.

"Like what you see?" He asked arrogantly and you couldn't help but roll your eyes, it was stronger than you. "If I didn't like it I wouldn't be here."

"I thought you were here to offer me a deal." He smirked grabbing your shorts and panties that were still tangled around your knees and pulling them off. He threw them on the floor, staring at you with a damn arrogant smile on his lips. "Give up being a brat, this behavior doesn't suit virgins."

You felt the heat returning to your cheeks, but you didn't have time to think of a response because he climbed onto the bed and came on top of you, your legs parted so he could settle between them and before you could understand what he was doing, his lips were on your belly as he lifted the tank top you were wearing and continued his assault on your skin. He kissed and bit you while lifting your top exposing your breasts. He caught your nipple in his mouth, sucking it with newfound passion. A low moan escaped your lips while he did it and you moved your hips up involuntarily. He hummed pleased with your response.

"Stephen...please."

He moved his lips up to your neck, sucking a bruise on your sensitive skin. The touch of his goatee making your entire body shiver. He continued moving his mouth up, nibbling on your earlobe, breathing heavily into your ear on purpose while grinding his hard dick against your uncovered pussy.

"Tell me what you want." He whispered.

But instead of answering him, you surrendered to your fear and asked. "Will it hurt more?"

He cupped your face. "The worst part is over, but I'll take it slow now, I promise."

You shook your head. "No. Just do whatever you have to do until you make me feel good."

He grabbed your chin with more force than you would expect and used his other hand to direct his cock to your entrance and kissed you as he entered you again, going all the way in. You felt the same sting deep in your belly, but it hurt less this time, however the discomfort of having him inside you was something you still needed to get used to. He was big and even though he wasn’t moving you could feel his dick pulsing inside you. It was an strange sensation.

"Now move with me." He asked, grabbing your thigh and wrapping your leg around his waist and with that going even deeper. The movements began, he thrusted slowly but hard and you clung to him, your arms wrapped around his torso, nails biting against the skin of his back as you tried to imitate his movements.

The whole time his lips didn't leave your lips, your chin, your neck. He kissed and bit everywhere he could reach and in between his kisses he let out moans and groans and little praises.

"Oh fuck, this little virgin pussy feels so good... so tight."

You didn't imagined how much of the sexual response was much more physiological than a conscious thing. Before you even knew it your body was moving beneath his with much more desire and the pain and discomfort were replaced by a type of pleasure that was much stronger than the one you got when touching yourself in your room. Each thrust from Stephen triggered a new wave of desire and suddenly what he was giving you didn't seem to be enough, you wanted him all inside you, you wanted him to merge with you until it was no longer possible to know where one ended and the other began.

"Oh my god... it feels so good." You moaned against his lips as you wrapped both legs around his waist, crossing your feet behind his back and trapping him there.

"Yeah? My cock feels good inside you. Isn't that right, sweetie?"

“Uh hum” was all you could respond, but it was enough to inflate Stephen’s ego even more and he groaned loudly in response, gripping the headboard and you couldn’t tell how, but you knew he was close. There was something about the way his eyes were fixed on yours, his breathing became faster, his movements more irregular and in the midst of your bliss you were still able to reason "Stephen... I'm not taking anything."

But your words didn't have the effect you expected, on the contrary, he seemed to become even more determined to finish. His mouth fell open, loud moans and grunts escaping straight from his throat and his thrusts became even harder and faster.

"You're being such a good girl for me. Letting me fuck your pussy raw. I think I'll make it up to you." He rested his forehead on yours and continued. "I'm going to fill you with my cum and you're going to take all of it, won't you?"

You shook your head, but he shushed you.

"Of course you will. I'll leave you leaking my cum for days so you remember what you get for being a good girl. Who knows, maybe you'll come back for more?"

"But... we can't..."

He thrusted even harder against you and your mouth went agape with the feeling forming in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were close, but at the same time it was unlike anything you had ever felt. I was stronger and it seemed to come from much deeper inside you.

"Of course we can. Going to fuck a baby inside you, sweetheart. I know you will look beautiful carrying my baby."

 Your pussy fluttered at those words. How was it possible for you to feel that way? You knew you couldn't let him do that, but you didn't have the strength to fight him when your body was against you. The tension inside your stomach increased and you were so close, all you needed was a small push to fall and surrender to your climax.

"S-Stephen... I'm gonna cum. Oh my... shit."

He kept his pace holding on to the headboard to put more strength into his thrusts while with his other hand he grabbed your chin making you look at him.

"Look at me, Y/n. I want to see it happening. Show me how good my cook is making you feel."

"So good... cock feels so good inside me. I am so lucky." You muttered, barely aware of your own words. "I need to cum. Let me cum... Please..."

He smirked, surely satisfied with your total submission. "You can cum, sweetheart. Do it now."

The tension exploded within you with an intensity you had never experienced before. Unlike every time you came, the sensation was not concentrated in your clit, but came from the inside out, making your entire body shake and tears accumulate at your waterline.

"There you go." Stephen stopped thrusting, watching you with a victorious smile on his lips and then kissed you, a wet kiss, full of lust and desire. Fuck, he was such a good kisser. You felt yourself melting on his lips.

He groaned at your lips and, against your will, you felt him spilling inside you. You knew you should fight it, but in your state of pure bliss you couldn't find the strength within yourself to even try.

He broke the kiss only to lower his lips to your neck where he sucked a bruise too visible for you to hide with your robes. But you knew that was exactly his intention. He wanted to claim you. Showing you that from that moment on you were his and no matter how absurd it might seem, you liked the idea. In fact, that was exactly what you wanted.

He rolled to the side when he was finished, his breathing slowly returning to normal and you lay there feeling the weight of everything that had happened, disbelief and shame finally taking over you. You were suddenly terribly self conscious about lying naked on Strange's bed while his cum dripped from your violated pussy.

In the middle of your internal debate you decided to get up, but you were interrupted by Strange who held your arm and asked with some disbelief. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To my room. I... I think I need a shower."

He cupped your face smirking "Wait here. I'll clean you up."

You waited for him motionless on the bed, your heart beating so hard you could hear it pounding in your ears. You heard the sounds coming from the bathroom, he had left the door open and the room was too small so you couldn't hear him. He peed and wash himself and then came back a few minutes later with a towel in his hands and went back to bed. He cleaned you gently, the towel was wet with warm water and it felt good although the whole situation was extremely embarrassing.

"I'll help you with your studies." He said when he finished what he was doing. "You can wait for me in the library after dinner, but you can't rely on that alone to pass your exams. You need to read. That's what works for me. Hours of reading."

You sat on the bed and stared in disbelief at the small stain of blood on the white sheet. Your face blushed so hard you needed to look the other way.

"I shouldn't have done what I did, Y/n. I had no idea you were a virgin. I'm so sorry. I imagine it wasn't what you expected your first time to be."

You shook your head. "I always wanted it to be you." You confessed, staring at your hands. "You're right. I have feelings for you. That's why I tease you... so you'll notice me."

He sighed, but there was a certain tenderness in his eyes that you had never seen before.

"And do you want this to continue, or it’ll be a one-time thing?" Stephen asked and for a second you could see expectation in his eyes, as if he was waiting a long time for the answer he wanted to hear.

"I don't know, Strange. Do you want it to continue?"

He smirked looking away and then he nodded. "Yes. I want to do it again. And you can keep calling me Stephen. I think it's the most normal thing after I took your virginity."

You felt the heat running down from your cheeks to your neck.

"You look beautiful all red like that." He smiled at you. "I always thought you were beautiful, Y/n."

He came closer and cupped your face and kissed you. Soft and calm for the first time. Your lips moved in sync and somehow this kiss felt even more intimate than the others. When he broke the kiss there was a passionate smile on his lips.

He sighed getting up. "Feel free to use the bathroom. I'll change the sheets so we can sleep."

You did as he suggested, hiding in the bathroom while he disappeared with the evidence of your lost innocence. You took the opportunity to wash your face with clean water and went back to the room. He was already lying down and patted the mattress for you to join him. You picked up his tee that was on the floor and put it on and then lay down on the bed next to him. He pulled you into his arms and you both fell silent.

I need to know that you're okay, Y/n" He said.

You nodded. "I'm fine. Really." You glanced at him for a moment and then smiled. "You can call me sweetheart whenever you want. It's terribly cute." You teased.

He pinched your cheek "As you wish, sweetheart. Now let's try to sleep. We need to wake up early for training tomorrow. Promise you'll be good to me."

Your smirked “I’ll try.”

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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[sirfrogsworth]

Froglock Holmes, Internet Sleuth

I don't remember dates very well, but I believe sometime in the mid 2000s I had a friend drive me from St. Louis to Detroit. It was a very difficult journey. I have never done well as a car passenger and driving for an entire day was one of the more miserable experiences in my life.

But I got through it because I was *convinced* I was about to be cured. Back then it was the only thing I wished for and I was willing to try absolutely anything.

So we were off to see the Wizard about my wish.

During that time there were no doctors in St. Louis who knew anything about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. But I found a website for a medical company that claimed if I saw one of their approved doctors, they could guarantee a 50% improvement. And when I did my pre-interview on the phone, that lady said some patients experienced a full recovery. To which I replied, "Yes, I will take one full recovery please."

But the closest approved specialist I could find was in Detroit and she would only treat me if I did my first consultation in person. She would then continue treating me over the phone.

My friend took three days off and she borrowed her parent's SUV so I would have leg room during the 8 hour trip. We loaded up on snacks and compact discs and began our road trip to wellness. We merged onto the Yellow Brick Road (a.k.a. I-70 East) and headed toward the land of Marshall Mathers.

The more I got car sick, the more I focused on asking the Wizard to grant my wish.

A new... mitochondria?

Plus several trillion.

A new several trillion little powerhouses.

This doctor was part of a national network of facilities that claimed they could effectively treat Fibromyalgia and CFS with a groundbreaking 6 step "holistic" approach. It was super holistic. Extra super duper holistic. The website made sure you knew it was holistic.

And those 6 steps sounded very fancy.

I mean, that all seems pretty legit. They were going to enhance my cells and address coagulation deficits. That's a thing, right?

Now I know that "holistic" is a buzzword that should be met with skepticism, but back then I was really hopeful they could help me. They enthusiastically made bold promises and filled me with such assured hope that I sold my car to help pay for everything.

We arrived in Detroit the evening before the appointment. I slept maybe an hour. Morning eventually arrived and we headed to the office. They gave me a clipboard full of paperwork that took forever to fill out.

"Can I please just see the Wizard and get my wish?"

I got to the exam room and they put me in a gown with the butt showing—which I don't think my friend was prepared for. I have a condition known as Hank Hill Butt and it can take a bit of getting used to upon first glance.

My poor friend refused to make eye contact while I was wearing it.

The doctor finally arrived and this supernatural healing wizard turned out to be a very short Greek lady. She asked dozens of questions—most of which I answered on the forms already. She poked my belly, checked my reflexes, and at no point did her examination require a gown with the butt showing.

She officially diagnosed me with severe Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and told me she was going to type up a custom treatment regimen and while she was doing that, I was going to get a special IV they designed to specifically combat CFS.

They took me to a room full of comfy reclining chairs and hooked me to an IV full of orange nonsense. Once that was done I met back up with the Wizard and she had created the afore-mentioned "customized" treatment regimen full of expensive supplements and vitamins that were not covered by insurance. Many of which I had to buy directly from the facility. As I looked over the treatment worksheet, I realized they gave the same document to all of the patients.

It was at this point, 560 miles away from my home, stuck in some office in the suburbs of Detroit (which will eventually be taken over by a tooth pulp dentist), with my Hank Hill butt hanging out...

I realized this could have been an email.

I decided to put everything on three different credit cards. Combined with the money from my car, I had about $20,000 to invest in fixing my broken body. My plan was to get all better so I could get a job and pay everything back. I even told the doctor this brilliant financial stratagem and she agreed it was a good plan. No notes.

Young Froggie was being hit in the face with red flag after red flag and Old Froggie is a little embarrassed about that.

I don't remember any of the supplements, but they had names like "EnergyMax Plus" and "Ultra MitoBooster 3000." They definitely sounded like legitimate, evidenced-backed medical supplements and not knockoff energy drinks endorsed by D-list Instagram influencers.

It wasn't all overpriced vitamins though. The doctor had some silly ideas that were actually covered by insurance. She said I should thin my blood so it took less energy to circulate. And I should boost my testosterone levels above the typical range to improve energy. So I had to inject myself with blood thinners and rub testosterone cream on my legs every day for months.

The blood thinners gave me tons of painful bruises at the injection sites and made me dizzy from time to time. The shots became so painful I would have to close my eyes and have my dad inject me. Otherwise I would chicken out. We kept running out of places that didn't have bruises so he would just pick the smallest bruise and stick the needle there.

And the testosterone cream had an interesting side effect that I am debating whether to talk about as I write this sentence.

Okay, I'm just going to tell you.

We are all adults here and we can handle adult conversations while remaining dignified and mature.

The testosterone cream gave me constant, spontaneous, hours-long boners.

I hadn't experienced anything like it since I was a teenager. No erotic inspiration required other than a gentle breeze. Only this time I didn't have a math book to hide behind.

None of it helped my fatigue.

In fact, the constant bonerpalooza was exhausting to deal with.

"Oh look, that actress I enjoy has a fully exposed ankle." "I bet that attractive lady has boobs under that heavy winter coat." "Hey, is it Wednesday?"

At some point it becomes a chore, ya know?

Thank god it was well before 2014, because if I had seen Chris Evans bicep curling a helicopter I probably would have needed hospitalization.

/end dignified adult conversation

After six months I had 0% of the promised 30-50% improvement 90% of the time and she kept saying I just needed to give it more time. She said it works quicker with the IVs full of orange nonsense. But they custom made those IVs and can only administer them in Detroit. She claimed the oral supplements were filled with the same nonsense, but took much longer to kick in. She told me I could be patient or drive to Detroit once a week for an IV treatment if I wanted faster results. If that were true, I feel like that should have been disclosed at the beginning. But I was assured I could get the same results without the IV treatments.

It didn't matter at that point. My credit cards were maxed out and I was out of money. I called the doctor and asked if there was any treatment she could recommend that was covered by my insurance. She got very quiet and awkwardly said she would try to figure something out. Roughly 30 minutes later I was emailed a coupon for $20 off our next phone consultation. I responded and told her I literally had no money left.

I never heard from her again.

The Wizard had no ability to grant my wish for several trillion properly functioning mitochondrias. She had no magic treatment. I finally saw her for what she truly was.

With perfect hindsight I could now see all of the red flags.

Though if I hadn't at least tried, I probably would have wondered and regretted it.

Hard to say.

I was kind of amazed how they built a country wide collection of clinics and they were able to operate for years solely on the placebo effect.

Years later I was curious what happened to this network of quackery. I found a news article saying it was all shut down due to fraud. I don't think they had a holistic approach to paying their taxes.

The reason I am telling this tale is because I have been playing detective and gathering evidence for my disability case. I started to wonder if maybe I could find my fraudulent Wizard to see if she had any kind of records or something that might help me. I knew it was a long shot, but I didn't want to leave a stone unturned.

At first all I could remember was her last name and that she was a D.O. and not an M.D. Standard Google searches were not turning up anything. I couldn't find her current practice nor any contact information. Apparently her Greek last name is a popular Arabic first name for men... so all my searches kept resulting in doctor dudes. This was not the time for a sausage fest and I was getting frustrated.

And then I finally remembered the name of the medical company.

Fibromyalgia & Fatigue Centers, Inc.

I even remembered their URL... fibroandfatigue.com

So I went to the Wayback Machine and I was able to find their now-defunct website. I suddenly remembered its cloudy banner image and "concerned_woman.png" like it was yesterday.

Why, yes... I am tired of being tired.

I also remembered their promise that over 90% of patients had at least a 30-50% improvement. Which was the claim that sent me down this rabbit hole to begin with all those years ago.

I started searching different versions of the site to see how their claims of effectiveness changed over time. At first they basically implied they made everyone completely better.

If I saw that I would definitely think I was getting a cure. But I imagine this caused some problems so they had to dial it back a bit.

I couldn't find the 90% version, but I did find the 30-50%.

This actually sounds like you have a 100% chance of a 30 to 50% improvement.

As I skipped around to the archived captures of different years, the promised percentage kept changing. I don't think they did an actual statistical analysis of their patients. I think they just picked a percentage that sounded enticing without promising too much. Just enough to be life-changing with a built-in excuse for when it all goes tits up.

Years after my experience, the site finally settled on a 65% improvement in energy levels. It was on their new page detailing how "affordable" their treatment was.

$20,000, you say? Balderdash, no one would spend that much.

If you were curious, they claim their treatment is now affordable due to a new monthly payment plan system. It did not become any cheaper.

However, under the 65% promise, they added this disclaimer with a large bold heading...

Success depends largely on your dedication and commitment. Our most successful patients are the ones who make the commitment to follow the treatment program rigorously. Patients who are aggressive and comply with the treatment process experience significantly better long-term results than those whose dedication is half-hearted and whose compliance is minimal.

In other words, "If our bullshit supplements don't work, it is YOUR fault."

Or in my case... "If you run out of money, it is YOUR fault."

Oh and there was also this...

Looking at all of the versions of the Fibro & Fatigue, Inc website was certainly fascinating, but I had to quit dicking clicking around and find my focus.

I still had detective-ing to do.

I was on the hunt for a Detroit-area Greek doctor of osteopathy.

There were ~250 captures of the site between 2004 and 2016. She wasn't listed in the newest captures, nor the oldest captures. So I kept trying to drill down to find the exact time period she worked at the company.

And then... EUREKA!

She was hiding in 2005 on their "Meet the Doctors" page.

Her first name was *drumroll* Sultana!

I can't imagine why I didn't remember that common first name.

Finally, after weeks of trying to figure this out, I now had enough information to do a proper Google search and discover what the heck she is currently up to. Probably putting people in open-butt gowns to check their tonsils or something.

*googling noises intensify*

I'm not sure I've ever come across such a literal dead end.

Should I be making puns about this?

I mean, she did help exploit me out of my entire life savings and put me in significant credit card debt with the Sex Panther-approved promise of a guaranteed 30-50% recovery 90% of the time.

And the institution she was a part of was shut down for fraud.

Still... I never wished an early death upon her.

I would have been happy with a trip to small claims court.

[mostdefinitelyafeverdream]

pairing: hannibal lecter x gn!reader

warnings: ///

author's note: not much to say other than i wrote this on a whim, lots of unresolved tension & hannibal being hannibal which is self-explanatory enough i believe. first person pov because i think the use of y/n disrupts the narrative. comments & reviews much appreciated!!

banishing the heartbreak

tell me what the cards say

give me all the tingles

moi je veux le monde

bottom line - he's looking, and he keeps looking. a shiver - painfully vulnerable reaction, extreme and warranted by such imposing presence - runs down my arms and i struggle to hold the piercing gaze; it suddenly turns into a struggle, a subtle battle for dominance. that's what he made of it and never am i allowing him the upper hand (though matching his intensity is nothing short of exhausting).

his eyes hold such starved hunger, a primal instict much alike to the hunting predator giving restless chase and for a second i scoff at its theatricality. his stance screams of a man who's always had his way and i catch a glimpse of the underlying arrogance of a much anticipated victory, which against all reason, tugs at my own grisly pride.

"can i help you?"

he smiles but doesn't show his teeth - not yet at least. his approaching steps mark a distinct rhythm that confuses itself with the pounding of my frantic heartbeats, but stubbornly holding onto my slowly crumbling resolve, i keep shuffling the cards in my hands.

he didn't expect me to address him first - in nature, prey never provokes a predator.

he sits and never breaks the stare, amused like the cat that toys with mice without even paying much mind to their squeaks.

"may i request a fortune reading?"

a pause. i look to him again and he doesn't strike me as a believer - of any kind, in any being but himself. he looks like someone whom people devote their beliefs to, instead.

"i don't read for those who don't really want a reading"

he smiles again but nothing in the poised way he sits betrays his growing interest; nothing but a glint in his eye, the sadistic inclination of the enthused scientist about to prod and probe until he gets the desired results.

"so you presume to know what i want"

it's not phrased as a question, and this is but a first test, i vexedly realise. i try not to let his soothing baritone sway my resolve to teach this arrogant, arrogant man a lesson but how can i hope to oppose him if my resistance might be nothing more than an entertaining bit on his carefully directed stage? - merely few minutes have passed and that's the power imbalance he set already.

"i'm not as presumptuous as to assume something like that. but i am presumptuous enough as to assume what you do not want."

it's my turn to smile but i'd be a fool to believe it might elicit the same reaction as his domineering presence. it's tight lipped and more hostile than i'd hoped but i'd always been easy to read: my eyes, much like his own, betray my nature.

"hannibal lecter," he doesn't extend his hand, it's not an introduction but a statement: "excuse my rudeness."

he has a gentlemanly charm, surely carefully crafted to attract all kinds of attentions - trust would be the correct term, as i'm sure he thrives off the easy accessibility of prey, whatever his ambitions may be, but i do not trust this man one bit. i give him my name nonetheless which is my second grave mistake today; the first one: subconsciously letting him make space for himself at my table, where he comfortably sits scrutinizing my every move.

"nothing to be excused. what i meant to say is, i don't read for those who think of the practice as a joke."

he merely listens and does not refute my words of thinly veiled accusation. what an overbearing man.

"are you a man of science? a doctor, maybe." i stir the pot, i know i am and this game is most definitely dangerous but nothing short of exciting. it's too late to back down anyways.

"an accurate observation. knowledge incited by your... practice, perhaps"

"what a pity, i clearly see a future as a comedian"

it shouldn't arouse such unbridled delight and violent trepidation, the way he looks more and more kin to dig his talons in, to tear and cut his way to what he knows will be the inevitable dead end. and yet the poised firm stance still stands, unwavering - he's enjoying this and in some twisted, unforseen turn of events, i'm giving in and being led by his hand.

"comedy and tragedy alike bear the omen of fate. to evoke a laugh is but to twist the odds in in your favor and rewrite a satisfying ending. do you belive in destiny?"

i'm still shuffling the cards, he's still drinking in my every movement, savoring my resentment and aversion like a long-awaited meal. he subtly leans in and i match his pace, if only to prove his intimidation does not sway me, if only to prove i will dance to his jarring waltzer just to prove a point.

a single card falls from the deck.

the fact so unexpected we both quickly divert our gazes to look down upon it. the man whose ominous presence is enough to trigger every defense mechanism i possess smiles one more time - he bares his teeth. he takes a card of his own from his pocket, a business card, and puts it right next to the fallen arcana, then leaves the table - and me - without a word.

when i look back down again, the devil stares right back.

dividers by @/enchantings

[scrubbinn]

Mimic Memoirs: Walk with me

HRT month 23

The streets of Hyper city

Picking up Erian from a halloween party

The city lights had long since dimmed. Halloween had passed hours ago, and now Dr. Theodore Hans Erian was walking back home in the empty streets well past four in the morning. His form and general mood would tell anyone that he was completely wasted on alcohol.

A small round car rolled up slowly behind the doctor. Trying to keep pace with the erratic rhythm of a man who clearly had none, even when sober.

“Theo. Buddy.” Mayday called out in a tone that would normally be perceived as irritated, “could have sworn you said you’d wait at THEMS for me to pick you up. Why didn’t you wait?”

Theo shouted back in a boozy breath, “Ms. Maymay! How wonderful to see you here! The night is young. What is on the schedule?”

“The schedule says we’re getting you home, you lousy loon. Seriously, I can’t believe you decided to bring a whole bottle of gin with you to a halloween party. IN A CARE CENTER OF ALL PLACES!!” She said, trying not to wake the whole neighborhood.

Mayday pushed open the car door in the back and dragged Erian into it. She let out a sigh as she confirmed no one was watching and mistaking this for a kidnapping. 

She scowled at him. “Fine, whatever. I am too tired for this. What was your address again? 350 something street. Ugh, forgot it’s like half an hour away. Ok, well, just make sure you’re comfortable. Don’t spill anything in my car, or I’m making you pay for a new one.”

“Well if it makes you feel any more comfortable. It was a travel sized bottle.” He spoke with the certainty that this would make Mayday happier to hear.

Erian began to mutter. “No, not the needles…”

The small round clunky car puttered out onto the empty streets. The lights of the city streamed into the car like flowing water in slow motion. The sounds of the city were barely present with only the hum of the engine to keep the two company. Soon, the street lights grew dimmer as the apartments and offices disappeared. Eventually, the number of street lights were equaled by the number of trees. It had already been 15 minutes before something caught her attention.

She called to him, “Theo? Are you asleep?” 

Erian muttered again “look out Mayday… I'll save the… snore”

An eye peered from the back of her neck. She saw his face smooshed against the car window and completely conked out. Mayday briefly thought about recording this. Her boss, drunk and asleep. Arguably one of the most important people in Hyper city, having a bad dream.

She couldn't help but smile. “Thanks for the save, I owe you one.”

“You have to go now…”

Mayday froze for a second. “I'm sorry, what did you say there boss?”

“...go now, I don't want… look at you.” Erian's mutterings grew fainter, turning into light snores.

Mayday’s grip on the wheel grew tighter. “Mood killer,” she said.

The suburbs of Hyper city were dark. Barely a single light remained on. Anyone from a world that had halloween had already snuffed out their pumpkin's flames. The only motion was the cold winds blowing winter inward. Every so often, it howled off of knot holes and windows. It was oddly calming tonight. The screaming cold winds made it too loud for Mayday to get stuck in her thoughts. It should feel moody and frightening. Instead, it was just peaceful.

��No, no, no, no!!!” Mayday screamed as she rushed out to check the damages.

Suddenly, the car's engine began to sputter. Smoke rose from the hood as the car slowly came to a stop.

He cleared his throat and spoke confidently. “Allow me, Ms. Mulberry. It may have been a long time ago, but I know a thing or two about motor vehicles.

Erian, now awake from the smell and the shouts, tried to get a bearing of his surroundings. He saw the hood pulled up and decided to follow. His assistant, fanning away smoke as she stared in horror, clearly unfamiliar enough with cars to have no idea where to start.

She looks at him with suspicion. “Look I appreciate your help, but I don't trust a drunk to fix my car.” 

“Oh, you can see the damage right here. It looks like you have a gas leak. I know a good temporary fix,” he said as he ignored her. “This will just take…”

He spent the next few minutes attempting to keep his hands steady, holding out a scrap of cloth. Eventually, Mayday had to tie it around the leaky tube herself.

“Ah, perfect. Just another nugget of wisdom for you,” he said. “Now that will hold for a day. Do you have a spare tank?”

“This isn't a minivan, I don't pack spare gas in my car. I'll have to push it to the nearest station.”

“You steer. No offense, but I think you're a little too old for this sort of manual labor,” she smirked.

“I'll help you push Ms. Mulb-waugh!” Erian was cut off as Mayday gently pushed him into the driver seat.

He fought back, “I'll have you know these gray hairs are from stress, not age.” 

Her smug aura grew even more at that comment. Retorting, “That's sad. Guess you can relax in the car seat as you steer. Have fun Dr. Drunk driver.”

“So… How was your party?” He spoke.

The car slowly trotted along the road. Erian stuck inside, keeping the vehicle moving straight ahead. After a time of awkward silence, he rolled down the window.

“After you ignored my warnings and nearly got yourself killed. I warned you about using that book. But no one listens to the trained professionals!” He shouted.

Mayday grunted out each sentence in time with a step. “Eh, it was ok. Met some friends again. We got to chat for a while. They helped clean up. Honestly though. I hate parties. I just needed to be around people. After. You know.”

Mayday made note that Erian doesn't seem to have a filter when under the influence.

“Sorry. You were right. It was a dumb idea. You get one win.” she said.

He turned to look at her with fire in his eyes. “I deserve a hundred. Do you know the effort I put into my life's work?! I'm the best doctor ever! And no bone headed patient or government official is going to take me down!”

Mayday can't help but smile at his own bone headed statements. He's allowed a little bit of pride.

“How do you do it boss?” she asked

He thought about it for a bit before responding. “Well first a witch will find you.”

She blinked. “What? No. I mean, how do you get proactive in a community? I want to know how you make such a big impact on the world. My friends, the people at the party. They're active, they make changes they want to see, they don't run in fear, and they stand and fight. They impact the whole world with a single step forward. I've only gone backwards.”

Erian let out a loud sigh and mumbled to himself, “What a time to start sobering up.”

He gently pressed down on the brake pedal and stepped out of the car. He stared at Mayday for a few seconds, thinking of the words to give her.

At last he spoke, “I'll help push, I know you can steer and push at the same time.”

He took off his lab coat and placed it on Mayday's shoulders. It barely had any effect on the frigid night, but it was a nice gesture regardless, and despite her protests, the extra muscle helped move the car along faster, even if Mayday could tell she was still putting in most of the work.

Mayday couldn’t help but stare at him in confusion. “What fortune cookie did you steal that ridiculous thing from?”

Eventually, the two made it to the gas station, and Mayday started pumping gas into the tank. Erian walked out of the store with a bag of doughnuts and other assortments. The coffee stains in his mustache showed he was fully sober at this point.

“You know what, Ms. Mulberry, I gave some thought to your question. I think you're undervaluing yourself a bit. Often, we hear about the exploits of others and think very little of our own deeds. Sometimes, a simple kind gesture is all you need. Just because you haven’t seen it, doesn’t mean your words haven’t saved others. Small kindnesses are what let your friends do big things.” He spoke with certainty as he handed Mayday a pack of heat pads.

“I’m offering you the sage advice of experience! You should be grateful!” He barked.

“Ah, there’s the Erian I know.”

The sun had started to rise as light reflected off the metal signs of the gas station. Cutting clear blue sky throughout the scenery.

Erian bit into one of his doughnuts and, after some grumbles, decided to reply, “Well if you must know. I learned that sort of thing from all of you. You don’t spend your best years helping a group like yours without having some understanding rub off on you.”

The ground was all Mayday could look at in response to his words. “I’ll… I think I’ll keep what you told me under consideration for now.

He stared longingly into the distance. “Now then, I think I can manage a walk back home from here. Give me a call if anything comes up at the clinic today. I might be asleep, though.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? You think I’m letting you just take a day off when I spent an hour searching for you to begin with? My car is busted. I deserve the day off. If I don't see you in that building in four hours, I will end you,” she spoke calmly.

Mayday looked at him with a smile across her face, now with a better understanding of her boss.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erian smiled as he walked off into the sunrise. And then proceeded to walk faster as Mayday gave chase. Confident that everything would be ok, and that he could lose her in the suburbs eventually.

Mention list: @a-shramp, @calliecwrites, @be702, @respectfulevil, @hyacinthdoll1315

@aster-is-confused, @bloodandbrandywyne, @glitchgloop, @nyxthewary, @lunadook,

@celestemysterios, @i-am-trans-gwender, @reliablegal, @bookmothic-dyke

[frozenjokes]

A Little Question About Love (It’s Not Little At All, Though Scar Is A Bit Frustrated It’s Not As Simple As It Is On TV)

“Hey, thanks again for driving me to the zoo all week, G, I really appreciate it. Still can’t believe how stiff my arm is, I mean, yeah, I expected it to hurt for a while, but I’m so sore!”

Grian chuckled in the driver’s seat, but kept his eyes on the road as he turned onto the street where the employee parking lot was located. Given how massive Scar’s zoo was, it took quite a while to navigate the surrounding area, so he needed to maintain some focus. “So sore you can’t bring your other one up to the wheel either? That sounds pretty bad, Scar, maybe I should turn this car back around and take you home. You might even need to go back to the hospital!”

“No! No no, that won’t be necessary. I just can’t drive, Grian, see, the seatbelt pushes real hard on my arm and shoulder and when I lift it like that it’s so much worse! Blame the seatbelt, blame the seatbelt.”

“And your other arm?”

“Have you heard of phantom pain?”

“Pretty sure we already discussed that’s not how phantom pain works, but sure Scar, go on.”

“Agony, Grian, agony. Can’t lift my arms,” Scar caught Grian’s eye, throwing him a wink, “Only in the car though. A very specific problem, nothing any doctor could address without wasting hours of our time.”

“Our time?”

“Well, duh, you’re my driver!” Scar laughed, and Grian joined him, unable to help himself. Scar could never accept an injury as it was and let himself rest when he needed it. Always moving, always working; that was the Scar way. An idle Scar was a miserable one; it didn’t matter what he was doing as long as he was moving, though he always did prefer to have someone to talk to. It’s why he hated to be at home for too long, or worse, the hospital he frequented as a result of his recklessness. Grian had a theory it’s why he hated driving as well. Sure, it wasn’t quite idle, but sitting still and focusing was not Scar’s forte. Of course, Grian didn’t mind.

He was content with the small silence as he pulled into the parking lot, but Scar would never let that stand.

“I’ve been thinking about something you said recently. I'm just curious, I guess.”

Grian tensed, glancing in Scar’s direction. He looked thoughtful, but in an impossibly neutral way, difficult to read. “Scar, that could mean anything, buddy. Gonna need you to be a lot more specific.”

“Oh!” Scar looked surprised, as if he hadn’t just said something deeply terrifying, “Sorry! Just thinking. It was with Mumbo, after he got upset and bit me, y’know. When I wanted to go after him, I mean. You were really worried and it kinda made me think and stuff.”

Grian deflated, his shoulders sinking a little closer to his chest, “Scar, I really don’t want to talk about that. You know it makes me upset.”

“No- it’s not about you getting upset, I know why you were and I really am sorry. That’s another thing that’s been in my mind but not the thing,” Scar began to ramble and Grian let himself fall back against the seat, resigned to the fact that this was happening. He didn’t want to have this conversation again. He just didn’t want Scar to get himself killed; a high order apparently.

Scar continued regardless, “It was more about.. I dunno, I mean, I’d say we’re pretty close. We’re close, right?” Scar didn’t give Grian any time to answer, “And you said that I mean a lot to you, and you mean a lot to me too, but I don’t know what that means to me, and then you said that I’ve got a lot of people who love me, but it kinda sounded like you were saying you loved me, and that’s great, I also have feelings that are like that, but I also also don’t know what that means really, to love someone. And I was just thinking about it. I love you, of course I do, but what does that mean? Does it mean anything? When you told me you loved me, what did that mean to you?”

Grian gaped. What the fuck else could he do. What the fuck was even happening here???

“Scar. Are you. What are you asking here. What are you saying.”

“I love you.”

“Okay.” Grian gripped the wheel so hard he was sure his nails would leave indents. He didn’t even bother trying to park; halfway between the lines of two spots would have to do. “You love me. What does that mean.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.” Scar was infuriatingly relaxed, like this was just a normal conversation with zero implications at all.

“I can’t tell you how you feel, Scar!”

“Well you said you loved me first, so I was asking you what that meant.”

“I didn’t- I said people love you, Scar, like your friends and family! That people would be very upset if you died doing something dumb- it- it wasn’t meant to be some kind of confession?”

“Oh, I didn’t think so!” Scar threw up his hands in defense, like that was at all obvious.

“Then what did you think?”

“I thought that you loved me.”

“Of course I love you- obviously I love you. What is happening here? Why are you so stuck on this?”

“I just don’t know what it means. I don’t know how to tell the difference and I thought that if you loved me you might be able to tell me. I feel like I love everyone the same, and that’s all sorts of confusing. I mean, maybe besides family love, but that’s more complicated, there’s like- layers.”

Grian had to fight to keep himself from gaping. This was not the conversation he thought he’d be having today. “Well,” he forced his voice back into a more even tone, something a little nicer, “For me, yeah, kinda. There’s a lot that goes into love, layers, like you said. There’s the kinda unconditional respect I have for most everyone, and it builds from there? Friendship of course, elements of physical attraction can further things sometimes. Attraction in general makes a big difference, and not just physical, it’s an emotional thing too. Personality. Mannerisms. It’s a slow thing for me most of the time. That’s not always the case though, some people fall fast. For me it’s like.. a slow infatuation with the wholeness of someone. Not necessarily loving every trait, but kinda respecting it, y’know?”

“Like friends.”

“Like- no, not like friends, like being in love. Romantically.”

“That’s friends though.”

“It’s not- Scar how many of your friends do you feel all those ways about- how many of your friends are you physically attracted to?”

“A few. Close friends, Grian, obviously. And come on, like all of our shared friends are hot, physical attraction can not be the deciding factor here, that does not make any sense.”

Grian shrugged. “We do have many hot friends.”

“I know! I think you’re attractive.”

If Grian had been drinking anything he would have spit it all over the dashboard, “You- Scar!” Scar didn’t seem to notice his words had any effect though, rambling on.

“I mean, seriously, what the hell is supposed to be the difference here! Platonic, romantic, I’m half convinced everyone has just been lying to me. I keep waiting for all these rainbows and sparkles to light up in my brain and go yup! There it is! That’s romance, that’s love, and it’s like- yeah love as in my friends who I love dearly, who I’d happily spend the rest of my life with if I got the chance-“

“-Scar-“

“-Yeah, I mean obviously when I tell you I love you I mean very explicitly every single one of those things you mentioned. Every! One! I don’t hand out ‘I love yous’ for free, I mean it. That’s not the same for everyone though, and that doesn’t bother me or anything, but doesn’t it feel a little confusing sometimes? So that wasn’t what you meant when you said that, right?” Scar looked at him so genuinely, so innocently, like that was the easiest question to answer in the world.

“Uhm. Yeah, I. Love. I love you, Scar.”

“Great!” Scar preened, apparently fully, completely, entirely satisfied with what just happened here, “This is great. Glad we’re on the same page.” And then he gathered his things and just left. Opened the car door, personal items in hand, and walked away with a goddamn smile on his face before Grian could even hope to yell out the window, WE ARE NOT ON THE SAME PAGE.

Instead, he buried his head in his hands, screamed a little, punched the passenger seat, let his face hit the car horn, then drove home, feeling overall very normal about that little conversation.

read the rest of the fic here

[mickriccenergy]

Shiver

Chapter Six - You’re All I’ve Ever Known

♡ Mick Schumacher x Reader, Best friend!Danny Ricc x reader

♡ TW: Swearing, inaccurate timeline of F1/F2/F3, badly translated German using Google, blood/injuries (not graphic, but there is are mentions of it!), i forgot how many days elapsed between scenes bc i wrote this in like two days. so ya know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. INACCURATE DESCRIPTIONS OF ENGLAND???? I literally made up street names and i think a school, so don’t come for me. I’m just a girl. plus i’m american so like we already have enough on our plates. Ummm slight kidnapping vibes??? very inaccurate and probably wrong medical talk.

♡ She/Her pronouns are used, nothing descriptive about reader except that her hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail or braid, no reader insert, timeline skips. ALSO: WARNING!!!! I will barely be mentioning Michael Schumacher. I do not presume to know what he is thinking, or would say in these fictional scenarios. I am trying to be respectful of their privacy and not make any assumptions!!!!!! He will be mentioned here and there, but I do not believe any dialogue will be associated with him. If you do not like that, then do not read it. :)

♡ 6.3k words

♡A/N: Again, posting this on mobile and will format it when i get back from work! sorry it’s a day late. yesterday was very bad lol ok love u bye

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It seemed like there was never going to be an end to the poking, the prodding, and testing on your body. Everyday, there was to be a new test or a repeat of an old one to be done. On top of already having been in the hospital for more than two weeks now, your memory was still not coming back to you. Sometimes someone would say something and if it as if your brain knew the memory tied to it, but it couldn’t relay it to your voice fast enough to recollect it. You didn’t know what was worse at this point:

“No, no threes. Go fish.” Your Uncle Sebastian echoed, stopping your train of thought.

Trying to focus your eyes, you looked at the pile of cards in front of you and drew another one.

“Do you… Have any… sixes?”

The four time champion just smiled and slid over some of his cards. You neatly made a pile of your finished “sixes” cards. Moments later, there was a slight knock on the door before it slowly pushed open towards the two of you.

“Hi, Mrs. Schumacher. It’s good to you see you again.”

So here’s the thing - You had been called that many times now. Almost every nurse and doctor has called you that… And since you had no room to counter, you never corrected them. Who knows? Maybe you and Mick actually got married after high school like the two of you talked about. And as weird as it was for you to be called that… It certainly felt right and didn’t make you feel uncomfortable - which of course made things curious and curioser.

“Mrs.… Schumacher??” Sebastian Vettel put his cards down and eyed the nurse and the doctor. There was a look on their faces that you couldn’t quite place.

“So sorry, no,” The doctor began correcting his mistake. He finally addressed you by your first and last name. “I’m sorry, again. Mr. Schumacher is your medical proxy and I forget that those in fact, do not have to be spouses.”

The doctor nervously chuckled as he prepared various medicinal instruments. It would happened two times a day where they’d check your cognitive function and your response to stimuli. Sometimes you’d say things that were a memory, but moments later you forget you said that. You even had times where Mick was in the same room, and you had forgotten who he was so you called him… Pleading for him to come back and comfort you.

He was the only constant in your life.

The doctor and nurses finished their exam and let you get back to your card game. You had no memory of the man who sat across from you, even though he said he was like family to Mick and that he knew you when you were little. He’d tell you stories about his time in Formula One, and how he’s focused on sustainability now and finding new hobbies. You truly were delighted in the presence of this man, but deep down inside you wished that Mick were there.

He had some press releases to do, as his racing came to halt when you crashed out in Silverstone. He was planning on racing the last 5 races as you were getting better now. Well, physically. Your leg was almost ready to be put in a regular soft cast once the rods would be removed. Your arm was out of its cast completely, and it seemed like your ribs and spine were doing okay. It was just your dumb brain that needing fixing.

“You alright?” Soon, Sebastian’s voice pulled you out of your endless thinking. “We can stop, if you’d like. I think you are beating me, anyway.”

Silently, you put down your cards and pushed the tray that was on wheels aside. You didn’t know what was coming over you. You felt an immense sadness and regret, but you didn’t know why. You were lost. Having your memories stripped of you is such a cruel fate… You rather have just not survived.

“I’m not good enough for him.” You plainly stated.

Sebastian blinked a few times as he put down his playing cards as well. He took a deep breath and tried his best to comfort you.

“Why do you say that? He’s been here every day since you crashed.” Sebastian’s tone was cautious, but caring.

“i mean… Look at me? I have rods sticking out of my leg… And I can’t remember shit. It’s pathetic.”

The former F1 didn’t have a response. He couldn’t imagine what you were going through, let alone the both of you. He just gently reassured you with a grasp of his hand on yours. Before you knew it, even his thoughts were halted by someone entering your hospital room.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Nurse Elsie.” The brunette nurse beamed at you, and took the clipboard off of the end of the bed. “Do you remember who I am?” Her British accent was thick… You couldn’t place from where though.

You paused and did your best to remember someone named Elsie.

“You-You were there when I first woke up… And you were telling me to stay calm…”

The nurse’s expression immediately turned. Complete surprise and bliss overtook her as she grinned at you and Sebastian. She grabbed your hands ever so softly and opened her mouth to speak.

“Yes, that’s correct! I was here the day you came in, and I haven’t left since.” It truly warmed your heart to see someone that hardworking have some sense of relief. “And I am glad you’re speaking English again!”

“Was… I not before?” Your eyebrows furrowed and your focused shifted to Sebastian. He pressed his lips in a tight line, debating if he should answer for you when Mick wasn’t there.

Clearing his throat, he straightened his posture and exhaled.

“When you first woke up, you were only speaking in German. Mick had to translate for you for a while, until you felt comfortable enough to speak English again.” Vettel calmly responds, his hand scratching at the stubble on his jawline. You nodded along while he explained a few more things to you.

About twenty minutes later after another few tests were done, you were absolutely exhausted. You tucked yourself into the hospital bed with one of Mick’s blankets added to the pile for extra warmth. His scent was wearing off of the blanket as you pulled it up to your chin. Mick was familiar to you, and to your feelings - Yet, part of him remained a stranger. He was older, well you both were now.

He was not the shy little school boy anymore, but a confident young man. His muscles had grown noticeably and his hair was long, like you liked it. His jawline had formed into sharp corners where it meets his ears, as opposed to the chubby faced kid who would ride his bike alongside you and hold your hand in crowded places so you wouldn’t get lost. On the other hand and maybe the stronger one at that, you didn’t recognize him at all. Sure, he looked like Mick and sounded like him… But there was a piece missing to the dynamic between the two of you that you couldn’t quite place.

When he would be in the hospital room with you, it was almost as if he was treating you with a fragility that was completely peculiar to the way your foggy memory could recall him treating you. He was always kind and always held a special tenderness for you, that much you could remember… But be that as it may, he was handling you now with a delicate hand - so afraid of breaking you further. You couldn’t tell from where you sat if it was because of your injuries that he was being extra careful around you, or because there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Knock, Knock.” The familiar voice of another doctor entered your stumbling train of thought as they entered your room. Sebastian stood to greet her and shake her hand.

“How are you feeling today, ma’am?” You shrugged and mumbled something incoherent. “Right then! My name is Doctor Wells. I’m the Chief of Neurology, and have been following your case closely.”

You honestly were having a tough time keeping all these doctors and nurses straight in your head, that you thought adding one more to the list might make you explode. But still - you politely greeted her as you told her your name.

“You’ve been making great progress physically, it seems. Your leg will be moved to a soft cast in two days time, and then in about a month, we’ll x-ray your leg to see when we would take that cast off, but again, it’s looking good.” The doctor smiled as her green eyes scanned the clipboard in front of her.

She began to hum to yourself as she jotted down some notes. You immediately noticed it, and Sebastian immediately noticed you. It was as though you couldn’t breathe all of a sudden and you had no clue as to why. Your monitors began to beep at a rapid rate, while the voices around you were telling you things but you couldn’t hear them. All you could hear was a loud, sharp and lasting ringing in your eyes as you sobbed. Soon, you felt the calming medicine go through your IV and settle your heart rate. It took a few more minutes to gain your bearings.

“Es tut mir Leid (I’m sorry).” You breathed out as you laid back down trying to get comfortable again.

Sebastian excused himself to go make a phone call, assuring you that he’d be back in a few minutes.

“That’s quite alright. Your body has been through a lot these last few weeks.” Dr. Wells smiled at you with an overwhelming aura of reassurance. She took a beat, and pulled up her rolling stool next to your bedside. “May I ask what I did to trigger that reaction? I want to know so I won’t do it again.”

You turned your head to meet her gaze, her eyes filled with worry and sympathy. You tried your best to think about the answer to her question. She could practically hear the gears turning in your head while you attempted to pinpoint what it was that upset you.

“The humming… When you hummed… It… I don’t know - did something to me.” Dr. Wells nodded in response and promise that she wouldn’t do it again. “Can I ask you a question, Dr. Wells?”

“Anything at all.”

You moved your hospital bed up so you could sit up and see the doctor better. You had very little to go on, but what you could go off of confidently was people’s expressions and the way their faces moved when they spoke to you.

“What are my chances of getting my memory back, and if I don’t… What do I do?” In turn, your facial expression was desperate, reeking of hopelessness and despair. She could see the devastation the accident has brought you, as it seeped out of the pores of your skin and infected your surroundings.

“Well, you’re making good progress and you remember Nurse Elsie which is a great sign… And the fact that you still know who Mick is a great sign,” Dr. Wells began slowly. “But, we really won’t know the extent of the damage the crash took, especially in regard to your memory. All your brain scans have thus far been clean, with no cause for concern.”

You started to feel tears brimming in your eyes as you bit your bottom lip to try and stifle back your cries. Shakily, you let out whatever air you had left in your lungs now.

“Sometimes things like this just happen and we don’t know why… But what we do know is that memories can always be created. You may not be able to remember the ones you had previously, but you can always replace them with new ones, better ones even.”

The pair of you talked for a few minutes more about your situation and how best to help it. She gave you some flyers for support groups and some numbers for therapists that specialize in what you were going through. She checked your vitals once more before heading towards the door and exiting, smiling a courteous smile as she disappeared into the vast hospital.

On the rare occasion you were left alone in your room, you liked to write things down in a notebook Mick gave you. It was your favorite color, with a giant ‘MSC47’ sticker on it. You had asked him what that was and he told you it was his racing number. To that, you asked why he didn’t put your racing number… And in response to that, he sheepishly admitted that it slipped his mind to put your number, but he was glad you always had a reminder of him. You didn’t even notice you were reminiscing until you caught yourself stroking the sticker on the front of your notebook. Blinking a few times to clear your mind, you opened it up to the next free page only to see that someone really tried not to write in their typical chicken scratch.

Smidge,

If you are reading this, then I must be away doing some press related things. I wish I did not have to, but duty calls and I also think Toto would come to my house and drag me there himself (in a very nice way, of course). Anyway, I wanted to write you a short note and let you know that I will be back soon, and hopefully you will be coming home after that. I have rented a place out here for you and me that will be sufficient enough until you decide where you want to fully rest and recover. We can go back to your apartment in Italy or to one of my family’s cottages in Switzerland. I would even take you back to the states to find respite at my ranch in Texas, but I know you do not have fond memories of Texas. I want to do only what you are comfortable with, Schätzen.

As for my last few races, I am on the lookout for the best home care nurse I can find while I am away. Sebastian offered, but he has a family and children of his own. When you feel up to it, I would also like your opinion on how you would like your care to be handled when I am at a race. I want you to feel as safe and taken care of as possible. It kills me that I have to go away to participate in the last few races, but part of me is also excited to get back to driving alongside Lewis. We (Mostly I) will dedicate every race to you, Schätzen. Maybe if you are healed and well enough, you may be able to attend the last race of the season. That would be very fun, as I know some of the drivers are dying to see you again.

I cannot think of anything else to write that might ease your mind while I am gone for now. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to not know anybody there, but I do hope that with Sebastian being there it has calmed some of your nerves. He admires you greatly, and you have always been fond of him. I feel exactly the same way. But you can always text message me or call me, if you need me. I know you are not quite comfortable with that form of communication yet, but I just want you to know that I will always respond and pick up when I see your name pop up on my phone.

Anyway, I am excited and full of anticipation for when I get to lay eyes on the most beautiful woman I have come to know again. Your strength and perseverance through this entire ideal has been something to write in the history books about. I cannot wait to hear your laugh and feel your fingers interlaced with mine. I am looking forward to our days spent on the couch, sharing a blanket, with you tucked underneath my side - where you fit so perfectly beside me as if it were meant to be. And until we see each other again, just know I am thinking of you always and missing you every second of the day.

You hold my heart in your hands.

Ich gehöre für immer dir.

(I am yours forever.)

Love,

Mickey

There were drops of water scattered across the page as you tried to stop yourself from crying again.

You may not know him, but he knows you. And the feeling was overwhelming.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian’s quiet voice came into notice as you looked up at him with tearful eyes. He tilted his head to the side in concern.

“He… Wrote me… He wrote me… This letter… He knew I would find it… He knew this… That I would want to write things down, after the day I had… And he knew I would find his letter…” You spoke in between sobs, your chest falling up and down at a rapid rate.

“Okay, okay. Let’s take a few deep breaths and then we can talk about it, ja?” Sebastian began to initiate some deep breathing, hoping you would follow suit.

After many seconds of doing some deep breathing, you closed your eyes and did your best to relax your body.

“He loves me, doesn’t he?”

Vettel paused, taking his seat beside you.

“Yes. He does.” The German driver answered solemnly.

“And I don’t love him? Isn’t that right?” You glanced around the dry hospital room, smears of bright white and the smell of rubbing alcohol apparent.

“I don’t want him to love me. I don’t deserve it.”

Sebastian Vettel, four time world formula one champion, and one of the most formidable motorsports athletes the world has ever known, was stunned. He remained tight lipped and stoic. In frustration, you threw the notebook onto the floor and put your head in your hands. You weren’t crying, no. But you were exasperated . You could hear beeping as each finger pressed a key in the background. You didn’t know what was what, except what was shown to you: The voice of somebody you used to know.

Sebastian had put the phone on speaker and handed it to you.

“Smidge? Are you okay?”

“Hello? Smidge?”

“Was machst du (What are you doing)?”

“Ich vermisse dich (I miss you).”

Mick’s voice was like the half of you that you didn’t know you needed. It melded perfectly with what you were missing in this dark despair of recent days. His slight German-Swiss accent brought you comfort like you didn’t know you needed. He had picked up the call no matter where he was or what he was doing.

“Komm zurück zu mir (Come back to me).” You could hear Mick let out a strained sigh. He wanted to come back, god did he want to.

“Mickey, please…”

Completely taking you off guard, the line went dead suddenly and you were left with another kind of beeping. You slowly handed the phone back to your almost friend, Sebastian. The former driver could only sigh and sit back in the chair that he had been making his home since Mick left.

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Four Days Later

Your leg was finally out of those ghastly rods and into a softer cast. To think this feeling was heavenly, was something you would have never put on your radar thus far. Soon enough though as the many doctors and nurses came by, you were cleared to go home in the next 24 hours.

“We are glad to see you improving Mrs. Schumacher.” You did your best to make eye contact with the receptionist. “Please let us know if you need anything.”

“Thank you…” You started with caution.

“I’m not Mrs. Schumacher though… If you want to change that for your records or anything…” You tried your best to be nonchalant. The receptionist typed a few bits onto the computer in front of her.

Ushering for you to take a seat in the lobby, you tried your best to not think about the past.

Due to a reason unbeknownst to you, Mick was unavailable to take you home when it came to your releases date. You even braved the scary phone long enough to ask Sebastian if he could be there to take you to the new home Mick set up for you. He wished that he could, but evidently he had something to attend to.

Bravery aside, you sat curbside alone trying to figure out who to call. Your leg was in its soft cast, as you remained waiting for something or someone to come rescue you. You didn’t know where you were, you didn’t know any phone numbers off of the top of your head, and if it could get any worse, you were in England where it was raining.

“You’re going to catch a cold if you stay outside like this.”

Great. Now you’re fucking hearing things. Trying to shake the eerie feeling you had resting on your shoulders, you ignored the voice.

“Let me take you home, huh?” The voice repeated to you.

Your head turned to the left towards the voice. They were leaning against some concrete beam, cigarette almost totally nsmoked as they stepped towards you.

“John?”

“Hello, baby sister.”

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You weren’t sure how you ended up at your brother’s flat in whatever country you were in at the moment. The legalization of Mick being your medical proxy was iron clad….

You never once considered an actual family member to be there for you. And as it were, your big brother had also aged some. You knew it was him immediately though. You could tell because he sort of looked like you, and his voice sounded like the only other voice besides Mick that you knew.

“Are we going back home?” Your brother was doing the dishes as you sat on the couch, your leg elevated to help relieve some swelling.

Again, you repeated the question. You could hear him turning the water off, and see him drying his hands as he turned to face you.

“No, we’re going to stay here for a little while.”

Confusion washed over you once more. Did Mick call your brother because he was unable to pick you up from the hospital? Did Mick even know you were here? All you could do was nod, while your brother excused himself to go lay down. It had been a long day of driving for him from where he came from. You remained in the quiet of your own company for a moment, trying to think of all the possibilities that could have ended up with you being in some strange apartment in a country you hardly knew. Finally, you pulled out your phone that Mick bought for you, and took a deep breath.

You: Hi Mick

…

Mick: Hello, Schätzen! It makes me very happy to see your text.

You: Really?

…

Mick: Yes, really. I would never lie to you.

You: That’s sweet.

…

…

Mick: I am so sorry I cannot be there to bring you home, but I will be there tonight and we can have dinner and watch a movie, if you would like. But, my very good friend Daniel is going to pick you up from the hospital, okay? He should be there shortly, if you just want to wait in the lobby where it is warm and dry.

You reread the message as your heart rate began to hasten. If Mick had already made arrangements for you to get picked up from the hospital… How did your brother find you?

You: Oh. I thought you called John, because he picked me up from the hospital already. A few hours ago, actually. I got released early and thought maybe you called him since you couldn’t get there in time.

Milliseconds after you pressed send on your text, your phone screen lit up brightly in your face.

INCOMING CALL: Mick Schumacher

swipe to accept

Your thumb danced over the bottom of the screen, only to have your desire to hear his voice once again take over your body. Slowly, you accepted the call.

“Schätzen, where are you?” You could hear the panic in his voice. How the fuck were you supposed to know where you were?

“Um… I’m in John’s apartment, I think.” You spoke in a whisper as to not to disturb your resting brother.

“Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße (Shit, shit, shit)!”

On the other side of the phone you could hear him getting up and gather his belongings wherever he was. You could pick up bits and pieces of what he was telling someone near him, but not enough to put together a full sentence. You patiently waited on your side of the line for him to speak again. What seemed like forever went by, before he talked to you.

“Can you describe where you are? Can you look outside and see any street names, or building names?” You could tell he was jogging by now.

“I’d have to get up… And my crutches are… On the other side of the room…”

Mick felt absolutely stupid for forgetting that you had a cast on your leg. And he felt even more stupid that he allowed your safety to be compromised… Again. In his defense though, he gave strict instructions to the hospital staff not to allow anyone to take you home besides himself, Sebastian, and Daniel. He even started calling you his Mrs. Schumacher for extra protection, but he’d never tell you that secret.

He was trying as quickly as he could to figure out what the hell went wrong, and how the hell your brother found you. Mick told you he’d have to call you back, but that he promised he would call back in five minutes.

As you waited for him to call back, you decided to try and hobble over to the window. It was gloomy, of course, but you could still see a few things.

House Street

Franklin Street

You decided to text Mick the names of the cross streets, just in case. Glancing around some more through the window, you saw to the far right what looked like a school or a church. You squinted to try and get the name of it.

Longfellow Grade School: Home of The Lions

You also added that to your next text message to Mick, as well as the few models of cars that were sat out on the street. Exhausted now, you hobbled your way back over to the couch and let out all the air you had pent up in your lungs.

INCOMING CALL: Mick Schumacher

swipe to accept

Faster than you did the last time, you accepted the call and raised the phone to your ear.

“Hi Mick, are you okay?”

“The police are on their way, Schätzen. Do not be scared when they arrive, ja? I will be there as fast as I can too. Stay on the line.”

You had a lot of conflicting feelings at this point. Why were the police involved now? Why did Mick sound so afraid? You couldn’t remember the last few years, but now you’re having to deal with all of this? It was as though your body was frozen with a mixture of fear and sadness. You could barely move from your spot on the couch while you anticipated the police’s arrival.

“Okay, Mick. What is going on, though?”

“I will explain everything once I bring you back home, to our home.”

Soon enough, there was a loud knock on the door. You could hear your brother curse loudly from his room as you shrank into the corner of the couch. You were very afraid. Your brother stumbled out of his room, rubbing his eyes as he opened the door to his apartment. One police officer held up a piece of paper to his face, while the other one peered into the space making sure you were alright. The male officer began to speak to your brother about whatever was on the paper, while the female officer approached you with caution.

“Hi, there. My name is Officer Clarkson. Are you alright?” Her voice was calming, and probably the most calming thing about this entire situation. She sat on the couch, keeping a good distance between you.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know where I am.”

Mick had told the dispatchers that you were in a potentially dangerous situation, and that you had been in a bad car crash a month before resulting in some memory loss. He also told them that you in fact had a restraining order out against your brother, and that he had no clue how he got past the hospital staff.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to know anything right now. I’m just going to sit here with you, while my partner takes care of that young man. Is that alright?” Again, the peaceful cadence of her voice warmed you, and made you feel instantly safe.

“Yes.”

Your head quickly whipped to the side when your brother began yelling at the officer. He was pinned up against the wall, face to it, with his hands behind his back. The male officer handcuffed your brother and escorted him out to the police vehicle. It all happened so fast that you weren’t sure what to make of it. Officer Clarkson said some police speak into her walkie talkie that was on her chest, echoing some of the things being said back to her. She got up from the couch and looked around.

“Can you remember the last time you saw your brother?” You only shook your head in response. Your eyes followed the trail she was walking around the tiny apartment.


After a few more questions that you honestly did not know the answers to, you could hear the radio on her chest go off. The officer grabbed your crutches, and the bag you had at the hospital and escorted you downstairs. There was another police car, an SUV. Two more officers approached you, both women.

“This is Officer Hammond and Officer May. They’re going to drive you home, your real home.”

You thought you might combust trying to keep everyone’s names straight. But you still didn’t have any answers as to why your brother was sitting in the back of a cop car. And as you did so dutifully in the hospital, you did again as you just stood in silence allowing things to be explained to you.

“Your friend Mick - the one who called the us - Will meet you there. Your brother won’t bother you ever again, ma’am.” Officer Clarkson gave a promising smile and nod as she handed your bag to one of the other female officers.


Soon, you were in the backseat of the car as the three of you silently drove to wherever this new place was.

Two hours later, you were woken by Officer May trying coax you out of your sleep. You felt embarrassed for falling asleep, but it seemed like your body needed it. Rubbing your eyes, you looked over the officer’s shoulder to see you were parked in front of a modest one story home. You were in the countryside somewhere, and knowing Mick and his love for the countryside, you could tell that he put a lot of thought into this home. Even if it was going to be temporary, you enjoyed the thought of recovering somewhere private and secluded.

Officer May helped you out of the car and handed you your crutches. The sound of another car hastily pulling up made all three of your head’s turn sharply to the right. In true Mick fashion, he sported a big red truck as he parked in haphazardly. He couldn’t move fast enough though, as he jumped out of the car not even closing the door behind him. Mick ran up to you, his hands frantically searching your face for any wounds. He was rambling in German… Italian… Maybe even French as he brought you into a much needed embrace. He kissed the top of your head and looked at you with nothing but regret.

“Smidge, I am so sorry. I really do not know how this could have happened, but you are safe now. Okay? Completely safe from everything.” Mick profusely thanked the officers, and made a note to call and thank the other officers as well.

Mick helped you inside, before returning to the officers so that he could speak to them about the situation. They assured him that they would look into just how your brother was able to pick you up and take you out of the hospital. He wanted nothing more than answers at this point. (Join the club, right?)

You were still on edge when you heard the door open, your flinching making it clear. Mick walked towards you as cautiously as he could.

“It is just me, Smidge; Just Mick.” He stepped in front of you, his face softened by the sight of you. “I am sorry I scared you.”

“It’s just been a long day…” Mick led you carefully to the couch so that you could sit and rest your leg. Propping your leg up on some pillows, Mick moved to the kitchen to get you some water and some food.

The house was nicely decorated with accents of a familiar shade of red all around. The couch beneath you felt like a marshmallow compared to last couch you were sat on, and the hospital bed you had quite become accustomed to for the last month. Mick returned with a water bottle and a few snacks he might think you would want. Sitting beside you, but keeping a respectful space between you, the blond haired boy rubbed a very tired hand over his face. Leaning his head back onto the back of the couch and stretching out his arms too, he sighed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. You watched him carefully, and more meticulously than you had in the hospital.

You liked the way his nose was slightly bigger than normal and the way that it curved downwards at the end. You noticed how his darkened blond hair curled ever so slightly at the tips. His lips were a pretty shade of pink too. You wondered if you ever had the pleasure of kissing them. His neck was bigger than you last could remember it to be. Mick’s Adam’s Apple moving up and down as he swallowed, sucking the insides of left side of his mouth. Mick always did that when he was overworked.

“Sind Sie gestresst (Are you stressed)?” Mick just hummed in response, your body relaxing at the familiar sound.

You remember how you reacted when the doctor hummed. Shuddering away that terrible thought, you scooted closer to him.

“Mir wird es gut gehen (I will be okay).” His eyes were still closed as he responded.

You took a beat and took a nice long deep breath. You remember what he had written in his letter. He probably had to leave his work to come find you. And the fact that he did made you feel something you hadn’t felt before - or at least couldn’t remember feeling. This man has always cared for you. Since you were children, he has always put you first and always made sure you were taken care of in every sense of the word. He was the only thing that connected you to your past and all of your lost memories. And surely he knew the weight of it all, yet he didn’t seem to be overwhelmed by it. He would carry the weight of the world on his shoulders if that meant he got to see you happy.

Something in the back of your head was telling you to reject these new feelings, though. You couldn’t tell what it was that was making you want to hide your emotions. The pull was strong. It was like The Force, pulling you into a dark deep alley where you were always meant to be: Alone.

You did your best to shake the distressing thought. Going back to happier things, you recited the letter in your head as you decided to be brave. After all, you didn’t survive a high speed car crash for nothing, right?

Nodding assertively to yourself, you managed to wiggle into Mick’s side. Your leg was still propped up, just now onto the coffee table in front of you. As best as you could and as comfortably too, you tucked yourself into him and his arm wrapped around you as if it were a dance you two had done a million times before. Your eyelids began to feel heavier and heavier as you felt the warmth of his body warm yours. It was not secret that the both of you were dog-tired as neither of you said a word.

The only thing surrounding you now was the sound of rain hitting the roof and someone’s arm wrapped tightly around you. And while you may not have any memories of the last few years, now was as good as time as ever to begin making new ones.

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

Maybe instead of getting better after Starcourt, instead of healing and mending that which has been broken, Billy just gets worse.

There’s no more playful grins behind cigarettes or keg stands held in good fun. No more speeding down empty backroads or engines revving in parking lots. He gets quiet, and that’s the scary part.

Because as soon as someone presses him to talk, he gets mean.

He outright says no when he’s asked to keep an eye on Max, because there are no repercussions anymore — his wounds from the “fire” haven’t healed just yet, and if he shows up in the hospital with new bruises over freshly cracked ribs, the doctors will suspect something.

So the most he gets is a glare from Neil and a stern do it or else.

And Billy, a believer of malicious compliance, picks himself up a walkie-talkie. Does whatever the fuck he wants while the thing sits on his dresser.

If any voices come through, he shuts it off, or at the very least tunes it to a channel that only he and Max use.

She knows better than to use it.

Things between them aren’t any less tense than before, but it’s different now. Now he knows.

So the playing field is even.

He doesn’t meddle in Max’s business, who she hangs around, and Max doesn’t burden him with asking for rides and things alike. Not that he could really do much with his car sitting in the junkyard — Harrington has taken over the task of chauffeur anyway.

Harrington, who apparently also picked himself up a walkie-talkie.

And who somehow managed to learn about Billy and Max’s private channel.

“Hargrove? You there?”

The voice is staticky over the radio, but not out of range. After the brief moment of shock passes, Billy rolls his eyes at the thought of Harrington parked down the block, sitting behind the wheel of his Beamer listening intently for a response.

Rather than reach over to his nightstand, Billy rolls over to face the wall.

His sheets have become more of a nest as of late. Gathered around him in piles because he prefers the chill on his skin to sweating beneath scratchy blankets.

He hasn’t changed the bedding in weeks. Hasn’t opened the blinds or really even left his room at all this summer — the pool has likely already filled his position. Not that he’d be going back any sooner than a year or two from now.

If he ever feels comfortable taking his shirt off again.

“Billy? Look, I know you’re there, man. Max said that this was the channel to reach you on, and—“

Billy snatches the walkie-talkie and holds the button down.

“Go fuck yourself. Over.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then static pours through. Likely the air conditioning in Harrington’s car.

“Touchy,” he tuts. Exhales a heavy sigh and blows a raspberry. “Don’t always have to be such a dick, y’know.”

“Being a dick isn’t something all of us have to try at, rich boy, so put your shit in gear and get off my block.”

There’s another brief pause.

“How’d you know I was in your neighborhood?”

“Walkies don’t work out-of-range, fuckhead.”

“Damn, okay,” Harrington huffs. “Sue me for wondering how you were doing.”

Wondering how I’m doing?

“Wondering how I’m doing?” Billy repeats.

He stares up at the ceiling, brows pinched together.

“Yeah? Y’know, like checking up on you?”

“Why?”

For months, Billy has done nothing but rot in his bed. Too sore to move, too short-fused to bother talking about it.

Too guilty to open any of the get-well-soon cards that he’s received.

Among the poorly-addressed ones with crayon scribbles from his former swimming students, he recalls one almost equally as poorly-addressed dawning the signature Steve Harrington at the bottom.

It was the only envelope he’d bothered to open. Practically had to rip it up with his teeth because of the lack of dexterity in his fingers, though, he never worked up the nerve to dial the number scrawled at the bottom.

Harrington scoffs over the channel.

“It’s like you’ve died or something, man. It’s worrying.”

Disregarding the flush spreading across his cheeks, Billy rolls his eyes and spreads out more atop his comforter.

“If you’re so worried, why didn’t you just ask Max?”

“If she answered my questions, do you think I’d be on this channel right now?”

Billy presses his lips into a line.

He knows he hasn’t been the best brother. Quite the opposite, actually.

But it still aches to learn that Max apparently refuses to so much as talk about him. Makes his limbs sink deeper into the mattress like gravity has doubled down on him.

Makes him want to shut his walkie off and never turn it back on.

“Well, you’re a few months too late on your check-up, Harrington,” Billy rasps. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head at the sound of his own voice coming out so wet and pathetic. “Walking corpse at this point.”

A beat of silence persists. Then the static comes through again.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I have a therapist that already doesn’t help, thank you.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Harrington trails off. He holds the talk button down for a long beat, absently tapping his fingers against the door panel in his car. Then, he sighs. “Is it okay if I use this channel again?”

Billy’s vision blurs and he sniffles. Thankful that it can’t be heard by anyone but himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice shakes with it.

And that’s how Billy’s radio goes from being dead silent to constantly filling his room with chatter.

It helps and it hinders all at once.

Billy smiles for what feels like the first time in over a year, and laughs, even. But each time Harrington tells a little joke or giggles over the channel, Billy’s heart starts to ache more deeply.

It opens up old wounds.

He feels like Neil knows, somehow, when they’re both in the kitchen together. Accompanied by nothing but silence.

Neil asks if he can babysit for the weekend, and Billy drops the mug that was in his hand with a shaky wrist, fearing an entirely different question that doesn’t even get asked.

When Neil would normally berate him, he simply watches the way that Billy flexes his fingers. The way that he makes a weak fist, unable to straighten his fingers completely once he relaxes them, and his brows pinch in mild worry.

“Still havin’ trouble?” Neil asks.

His voice is gentle enough that Billy’s eyes well with tears as he nods. Bites his lip to keep it from wobbling.

Neil pulls him into a hug and Billy sobs into his shoulder. Not because of the pain or disability, but because he thinks he’s let a hint of love creep back into his life after all this time.

Which should be a good thing.

For once, Billy agrees to watching Max, if only because he doesn’t have the energy to snark back right now. Neil pats his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Asks if he’s sure, like it’d be no issue at all for him and Susan to cancel their weekend plans.

Billy can’t help that he huffs a laugh. Can’t help that it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

Why be accommodating now, after a lifetime of neglect and maltreatment? He shakes his head to himself, and his expression must give his thoughts away.

Neil digs his thumb hard into his shoulder, earning a stifled whimper and another influx of tears.

Billy cleans up the broken mug and wipes the liquid away from the floor by himself, knelt on his achy knees while he’s watched like a hawk from the doorway. Like he might shove the glass under the counter if he’s left unsupervised for even a second.

Over the weekend while their folks are away, Billy takes Max out to pick up a couple of movies and get a few snacks with Susan’s car.

Since he so scarcely leaves the house, he turns a few heads when people recognize him.

None so much as Harrington, who gawks at him from behind the fucking desk at Family Video. Billy glares hard at Max when she smirks at him before disappearing to the horror section.

The brunet is a bit more rugged than Billy recalls. Has a stronger jawline and more hair. Lots more hair.

It makes Billy feel especially pathetic, draped in a t-shirt that used to fit his figure well, but now swallows him more than anything.

That heavy feeling droops his shoulders down. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away nonchalantly when Harrington abandons his station, leaving Buckley behind the counter floundering at the register.

“Look who’s out ‘n about,” Harrington chuckles. He has no issue reaching out and setting his hands on Billy’s biceps, moving close as if to inspect him. “Have I always been this much taller than you?”

Billy flushes red and straightens his posture. Brings himself back up to eye-level, which spurs a dull pain in his spine. He must not do well in terms of hiding it, because the brunet’s brows furrow.

“Do you wanna sit down?”

Rather than respond right away, Billy huffs and waves Harrington off of him. Shoots Max another glare when he spies her watching the exchange from behind a shelf.

“All I fuckin’ do is sit,” Billy grumbles. “If I knew I was gonna get a pity parade I would’a just sent the shitbird in.”

Harrington nods to himself. Takes half a step back and smiles.

“Alright with standing, then. Got it.” He tilts his head to the side. Eyes never leaving Billy for even a second. “Your hair’s grown out a lot.”

His gaze is a fond one. Like they aren’t in public right now. Like Billy is his damn girlfriend on prom night, and he’s seeing the gown for the first time.

Billy shrugs. Absently toys with one of the curls that dangles over his collar bone.

That weird pit is back in his stomach. The one that leaves him crying in the dark when Harrington signs off after hours of chatting about everything and nothing at once.

Billy wonders where he parks his car when they talk for that long. If he’s right outside or in the deep quiet of the woods, where the stars can really be seen and the train shakes the ground.

He’d rather Steve just climb through his window.

“I like it,” Steve adds. Nudges Billy’s elbow with his own. “It’s a soft look. Fits you really well.”

“Are you this nice to all the girls that come in here, or just the ones you wanna pork?” Billy teases.

Steve laughs, and it sounds so much better in person. Billy wants nothing more than to bottle it up and keep it forever.

Before the brunet can come back with a snide little joke of his own, Max meanders up to them. Holds up a few tapes for Billy to approve. Without really looking them over, he hands her the cash, and they all move back to the register together.

Steve rings them up. Max pays. Everything is so much slower than it should be going, like he’s trying to prolong the encounter as much as he can.

Billy understands the feeling.

When Steve slides Max the receipt, he’s less smiley. Billy turns to face the door, but doesn’t miss the way that Max nabs a pen and scrawls something on the slip of paper before sliding it back towards Steve.

Billy decides not to pry. Fears that if he asks, he’ll find that it’s some secret nerd shit that he can’t be privy to.

Fears that the heavy feeling will bear down on him again.

He doesn’t have to ask, turns out. The phone rings later that night, and Billy’s blood pressure spikes when Steve’s voice pours over the line.

“You should come out more often,” he says easily. “Really need some sun.”

Billy just tsks. They wind up sitting on the line for a little under half an hour. Billy wishes it lasted longer.

But he’d rather not explain the minutes away when his father shows him the phone bill.

Just before they hang up, after giggling at each other nearly the entire time, Billy barks out, “Don’t call here again.”

Then he hangs up.

Steve, naturally, gets on the radio not a few seconds later. Giggles and says, “Okay, dick. You can call me from now on.”

They stay up for practically the rest of the night talking.

Billy stares up at the ceiling and wonders how long this little thing between them will last.

He starts to question it more when Steve actually, by some miracle, convinces him to come out a handful of times.

The brunet is really touchy. Always has an arm around Billy’s shoulders or a hand on his back, and constantly bumps their knees together when they’re sitting down. Billy feels stupid for wanting more.

Why, he doesn’t know, because he’s fairly certain that he could ask for anything at this point.

Steve never calls again and that’s okay.

Billy prefers hearing whispers over the radio anyway.

It’s one evening in particular that Max is out of the house for the night, away at the Chief’s place for a sleepover, that the pit in Billy’s stomach turns into a black hole.

Steve has been ranting about his manager for the last half hour, only stopping to mention how a movie cover reminded him of Billy. How he couldn’t even wait to get home before he turned his radio on and pressed to talk to him.

The black hole consumes Billy before he can catch the words leaving his mouth.

“Do you like me?” he hears himself ask.

His voice gets choked up, and the second he lifts his finger off of the button, he rolls over and screams into his pillow. Quiet enough that Neil and Susan won’t hear, but hard enough to let a fraction of the tension out.

“Obviously,” Steve says. “Why else would I be friends with you?”

Billy presses his face harder into the pillow.

He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes. Feel the blistering heat of fresh tears and the throb in his temples as he huffs a strangled sigh into the pillow. Before he can even decide between turning the walkie off or fabricating a response, static pours through.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, he means do you have feelings for him,” Max groans.

There’s a beat of silence.

“What? Rea—“

“What the fuck are you doing on this channel?” Billy interrupts.

He can feel the veins in his neck straining from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Can practically see red when giggles pour through the radio.

A red hot flush of shame paints Billy’s face when he realizes that Eleven is listening in too.

“What are you still doing on this channel? If you didn’t want us to eavesdrop, you should’ve switched forever ago.”

“How long have you been listening to us talk?” There’s a beat of silence. Billy huffs. “Max. How long?”

“How long have you and Steve been talking?” Max asks.

Her rhetorical question is accompanied by giggles that are cut off when she lifts her finger from the button.

There’s nothing but silence for a moment. Then two.

Billy’s vision blurs as he sets his walkie down on his nightstand. The cold fingers of embarrassment wrap around him and drag him down, lower than he’s ever been drug before.

He’s ruined everything.

His sister not only hates him, but she knows about him now, and the only guy he’s ever let himself truly like is going to want nothing more to do with him after this.

Not for the first time since Starcourt, he wishes that monster had killed him.

“Billy?” Steve asks gently. When there’s no response, he sighs. “Look, we can figure out the channel thing some other time, but… was she right? Is that what you were trying to ask me?”

Silence. Then, giggles.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m right,” Max teases.

“Radio silence,” Steve snaps. “Now.”

His tone is stern. Brotherly in a way that should be surprising, but isn’t, really.

“Signing off…” Max says dejectedly.

Astonishingly, the channel falls silent. Billy sniffles as he reaches over to paw at his nightstand, curling his fingers weakly around the radio.

He doesn’t press the button. Tries to swallow his silent sobs in a failed attempt to compose himself first.

“Billy?” Steve coos, voice much softer now. “If you don’t wanna talk over the radio, that’s fine, but—“

“Yes,” Billy rasps.

A beat of silence.

“Yes?”

“She was right.”

Billy winces at how broken his voice sounds. A whistle pours through the radio.

“Oh, man,” Steve chuckles, and Billy’s heart sinks. “The boy of my dreams wants to know if I have feelings for him? Are you dense?”

There’s a crisp millisecond of confusion before Billy presses the button.

“What?”

“Of course I like you, dude.”

Billy inhales like he just resurfaced for air for the first time in years.

“Why?” he breathes.

“You’re funny, smart, surprisingly sweet, and pretty easy on the eyes. Just for starters.”

If his heart was thumping fast before, it’s going light-speed now. All he can do for a few beats is focus on controlling his breathing.

“You don’t like me,” he murmurs. “Trust me, Steve, I’m fucked up.”

“You aren’t the only one who’s a little fucked up.” Steve hums a laugh to himself. “And I do like you. You’re not gonna be changing my mind about it anytime soon.”

“What if I told you to go fuck yourself?”

“I’d tell you that you don’t always have to be such a dick.”

A tiny hint of a smile creeps its way onto Billy’s face when he hears Steve chuckle.

His eyes are dry. The pool of dread in his belly has begun to drain, and he feels the slightest bit hopeful.

“If you’re so sure, then I guess picking me up for dinner and a movie sometime won’t be difficult for you, will it?”

Steve sighs fondly at the notion.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you accepting?”

There’s a brief pause. Billy’s unable to keep from smiling giddily to himself.

“Depends,” Steve lilts. “Gonna open your window?”

There’s a light tap on the glass. Billy pushes himself up and draws the blinds, revealing a grinning brunet standing about a foot below, holding his walkie-talkie.

Billy tosses his on the bed before he opens the window and leans his elbows against the ledge.

“Is this the part where you ask me to let down my hair?” he teases.

Steve chuckles, but furrows his brows as he steps closer to the house.

“Were you crying?”

Taken aback by the question, Billy wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Shrugs nonchalantly, which doesn’t seem to be the answer that Steve was looking for.

“I was expecting things to go a bit differently,” Billy admits.

Steve frowns, and the expression doesn’t look right on him. He reaches up. Settles his hand on Billy’s forearm, smoothing his thumb back and forth against his skin until Billy shifts to dangle his arm out the window.

The pads of Steve’s fingers are soft where he holds Billy’s hand, clasped and suspended in the air together.

Billy really does feel like Rapunzel for a moment.

“I can be a little thick-skulled sometimes,” Steve says softly. “You’re always talking about yourself like you’re some unsalvageable disaster, so when you asked me if I liked you, my mind instantly went there. I wanted to make you sure you knew for certain that I do.”

He gives a little half smile. Billy squeezes his hand gently. Hopes that Steve doesn’t notice how weak his grip is.

“It’s not like I really gave you any context clues.”

“True. You didn’t.”

“I am a bit of a disaster, though. Feels like I’m only good at messing things up sometimes,” Billy sighs. “Max already hates me, and when I thought for a second that you might too, everything felt so lost.”

Steve makes a face.

“I would never, and I’d like to point out that Max doesn’t either.”

Billy blinks. Huffs amusedly, and as always, it comes out sounding closer to a scoff.

“Pretty sure she does. You’ve said yourself that she wouldn’t even talk when you asked about me.”

After thinking on it for a brief moment, Steve laughs.

“Yeah, man, ‘cause she bites the head off of anyone who asks about you. Definitely told me to mind my fucking business more than once.”

Again, Billy just blinks.

He never considered that maybe it was a protective thing and not a shame thing. The revelation has a surprising amount of weight lifting off of his shoulders.

“Definitely sounds like her,” he says.

They share a chuckle. Billy flattens his other forearm against the windowsill and rests his chin against it.

“Thanks for trying to lift me up earlier?” he muses. “Didn’t really work in the moment, but still.”

Steve softly swings their hands from side to side and sighs.

“I can tell. Your eyes are all puffy.”

“Should’a seen me the other night.”

The brunet cocks his head to the side in mild confusion.

“What happened the other night?” he asks. “Didn’t mention anything while we were talking.”

“It was, ah… after we signed off for the night. It’s no big deal, really. I cry after most of our talks.”

Billy looks away. Steve squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Billy rasps.

His eyes prick with tears again and Steve steps closer. Drops his walkie-talkie in the grass and reaches up with his free hand to cup Billy’s cheek.

“Oh, you’re just a big crybaby, huh?” he coos. Billy chuckles sadly and leans into his touch. “If I’d known, I would’ve snuck over here sooner.”

“My old man checks in on me sometimes, so it’s probably better that you stay in your car.”

“Well, do you have a curfew? I’d love to steal you away every now and again and kiss your cute, stuffy nose.”

Billy sniffles, and chuckles again. Wipes his eyes with his free hand and shrugs.

“Haven’t really had anywhere to go ‘till now,” he says.

Steve nods.

“You eaten yet?”

A smile cracks across Billy’s face. Steve mirrors the expression.

“You buying?”

“I’ll spend my entire paycheck on burgers and fries if it gets you outta this fuckin’ room. I swear sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

They share a chuckle, and Billy sits up. Flushes red when Steve presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Gimme a sec.”

Again, Steve nods. He’s slow to release the blond when he pulls away, and Billy can’t help that he’s grinning like an idiot as he opens the door and pads out of his room.

He finds Neil and Susan in the living room watching tv. Makes up some lie about a few friends having a kickback. Even goes as far as to apologize for the short notice.

His folks share a look. Susan spreads a big smile and sets her hand on Billy’s bicep.

“No worries, sweetheart. Go ahead,” she says. “Have fun, alright?”

“Will you be coming back tonight?” Neil asks.

Billy stays quiet for a moment. Then two, just processing, and eventually shakes his head.

“It’ll probably be too late,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have somewhere else lined up, though.”

He winces at his own words, regret beading on his skin like a cold sheen of sweat.

Neil nods. Turns his attention back to the tv.

“Just stay outta trouble.”

And that’s it.

Nothing more is said, but Billy still stands there like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

When nothing does, he nods curtly and pads back down the hallway to his room, deciding not to press his luck by letting them think too hard on it. Once he has the door shut behind him, he’s immediately leaning out the window again.

Steve has his walkie back in his hands, rocking back and forth patiently on the balls of his feet while he waits. He smiles when he notices that the blond has reappeared.

“What’d they say?”

“Go get your car, I’ll be ready by the time you pull up.”

Billy leans back. Grabs the window and shuts it just as Steve nods enthusiastically. Turns on his heel and jogs off of the lawn and back towards the street.

Giddy, warm feelings pool and buzz in Billy’s stomach as he digs through his drawers for jeans that he hasn’t worn in forever. Already has a date-worthy outfit in mind as he unfolds a pair.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when static pours through the radio still sitting idly on his bed.

“Update?” Max asks.

Billy rolls his eyes. Moves to grab it when another voice comes through.

“We’re goin’ steady,” Steve informs, out of breath.

“Yes!” Max shouts.

Then, a third voice comes through.

“Finally! Jesus,” Dustin huffs.

There’s a beat of silence, followed by Steve panting when he presses the talk button.

“How many of you dickheads are on this channel?”

“Just two?” Mike says. “Technically, since we’re only using two walkie’s.”

There’s laughter over the radio, and Billy rolls his eyes. Can’t really find it in himself to be mad right now with all of the butterflies swirling in his tummy.

“You’re all banned from the front seat of my car,” Steve huffs. “And the wedding, when it happens.”

“No! I wanted to be the flower girl!” Eleven whines.

“I was gonna walk you down the aisle,” Dustin adds.

“Good luck finding another officiant, then, I guess,” Lucas says with a scoff.

More laughter is had. Max and Mike chime in with various jokes about ring-bearers and bridesmaids, but they’re cut off when Steve presses to talk again.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I highly recommend switching channels.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” Max muses.

Billy can practically hear the smirk in Steve’s voice when he speaks next.

“‘Cause I’m gonna start using this one for sex stuff, and it’s gonna get real weird real fast, so be warned.”

Multiple groans and sounds of disgust pour through the radio.

“Yuck,” Max says. “Switching channels.”

“Ditto,” Dustin adds.

Then silence. True silence.

Billy grabs his walkie.

“We really gonna have phone sex over the radio?” he muses.

Steve laughs. The subtle rumble of the engine is audible from the street as his car pulls up to the curb.

“Not if you hurry up and get your ass out here already.”

The blond bites his lip. Can’t believe for the life of him how light he feels. How, for once, he feels better for having survived car wrecks and slimy monsters in the dark.

Feels like letting someone new into his life won’t cause him grief this time around.

“On my way, pretty boy.”

[000marie198]

Beats till the song disappears

......

Classic era, Sonic 2's bad ending timeline but I made it better. Or worse. Leaving for you to decide. Enjoy :)

...........

He trudged through the dark zone, silent and windless akin to a closed, lifeless chamber.

The place was littered with systematically arranged crystal blocks that would've looked aesthetically pleasing if it were daytime. For now, they just made the place more eerie as he waited for Robotnik to show up.

After what felt like an eternity of worried pacing to the speedy hedgehog but in reality was barely a couple of minutes, two of the structures nearby split apart, revealing a camouflaged panel sliding in the ground.

Sonic stopped, facing the opening to see the Eggmobile rise from the underground, hovering a meter or so above the inclined floor leading into the depth.

The doctor looked composed, unworried, his spectacles glinting with a previously absent touch of confidence, of victory.

"Did you bring them?" He asked, addressing the frustrated hedgehog.

Sonic revealed four emeralds without a word, pulling them away as the other tried to grab for them.

"Tails?"

"Hand them over first."

Sonic was about to retaliate but paused at seeing the other hover a finger over the mobile's control panel, staring straight at him with the unspoken threat clear in his body language. He could kill the kit if Sonic wasn't careful.

His thoughts conflicting with one another and the concern for his little brother chiming in, he finally relented, holding out the gems for the mobile's claws to grab.

"Now tell me where he is."

"Careful, hedgehog, you don't get to make demands here. I believe we had an agreement that he'll be spared only if you brought all five Chaos Emeralds, hmm?"

Silence fell over the terrain, the hero shooting a venomous glare at Robotnik. It would be too much of a gamble to attack him when he had a link open to wherever he was keeping Tails. His lack of acknowledgement to the earlier question was answer enough. He hadn't been able to collect the required number of emeralds on time.

"I see," the scientist murmured.

Sonic gritted his teeth, high strung, on edge. He was aware he had failed but he needed to know...

"Just tell me if my brother is alright."

"He is," the other sighed in an exaggerated display of disappointment, "I would've gotten rid of him by now provided your ineptitude-"

"You know I can't locate them all this fast!" Sonic snarled, looking seconds away from jumping at his throat.

"But I am feeling rather... merciful today," the man continued on without even reacting to the interruption, his demeanor betraying he held all the cards. "I propose another deal, hedgehog. If you agree, I promise that no harm will come to Tails."

Sonic shouldn't trust him. Didn't trust him. But if it meant Tails would be safe...

He nodded, signalling to Robotnik that he was listening. Said scientist smirked under his mustache.

"Become part of my legion. Surrender yourself to me, and your little friend will go unharmed."

His legion. The hero had fought against him enough times, had seen enough horrors and rescued enough critters being used as test subjects to read between the lines, to know what Robotnik meant. The mere mention of that thing still makes him sick. Robotnik wasn't asking him to just give up his freedom. He was demanding for Sonic to give up his mind and body, his free will, in the worst way possible.

Sonic's life or Tails' safety?

It took him less than a second to choose.

"Well?" Robotnik's voice prompted, already knowing his nemesis' decision.

"If you hurt Tails-"

"Oh don't be so leery. I gave you my word. Your fox friend will not be harmed. Now, do we have a deal or do I signal my bots to neutralize that menace?"

Sonic squeezed his eyes shut, shaking with a plethora of emotions he couldn't bring himself to grasp and process as they came and went in waves. He gasped in a breath and stilled, before coiled tension leaked away from his body and he sighed. Surrendered.

"Deal."

"Excellent!" He could hear the victorious grin in Robotnik's voice but he didn't react, unable to bring himself to look up, gaze fixed on his red and white sneakers as he willingly sealed his fate. His iconic shoes held his focus, shoes that allowed him his freedom to run as fast as his heart desired. The same freedom which he was now volunterily giving up for his brother.

It felt like just yesterday when he had met the little guy, his shoes very smilar to Sonic's own, a matching color scheme. Something he had never paid attention to before but was now a glaring memory. He hadn't even told Tails how much he cared for him, how much proud he was, had he?

If he were to be given a chance to speak with Tails, he'd never remain silent again.

His feet moved without his consent, following the rotound man into the underground base until he blinked out of his thoughts and found himelf in a lab, facing a tall glass cylinder strung up in the center of the circular space.

It stood empty, it's front open, waiting to be occupied. Sonic stared on, unable to look away.

"Now don't be shy, step into the capsule. Chop chop!"

A hair's breath pause and he stepped forward, inside the glass confinement and upon the platform inside, fully resigning himself to what he had agreed on. His breath shuddered with anguish and dread as Robotnik moved around it to the front and pressed a switch.

The glass sealed behind him with a decisive click.

Adrenaline shot through his veins as the machine hummed to life, lights glowing awake below the platform he stood on and the welded hatch above him.

His heartbeat began to thunder in his ears, quills pricking up but he held still, letting the titanium clamps reaching for him seal around his ankles and wrists.

He saw Robotnik clicking away at a nearby screen and then he felt a subtle jerk, the machine's hum increasing in volume and intensity, the platform under him rising up.

With one final click at the keyboard, sleek contraptions that looked suspiciously like a sci-fi mixture of scanner and blaster surrounded him and pulsing rays shot out from their openings.

Sonic grunted as he felt the energy strike him, the clamps keeping him still.

2%

It started from below, at the legs. Of course it fucking did. Sonic wanted to scream, wanted to yell and kick and bang his fists against the glass, feeling cold numbness slowly spreading up his most powerful weapons, his legs, his speed, stripped from him painstakingly slowly as flesh turned to metal.

All he did was clench his fists and grit his teeth in anguish, his whole being screaming at him to move but he held still. He couldn't move, not if it placed his first friend, his best friend, at risk.

28%

The titanium bands securing his ankles and wrists seemed to tighten, restricting the little bit of movement he had as the rays slowly climbed up to his torso, inches below his heart.

He didn't let the tears show.

For Tails for Tails for Tails for Tails

His thoughts chanted like a mantra, placing all his being into not moving, letting himself be turned into a machine, until his ears swivelled at the swoosh of a panelled door sliding open, urging him to look up.

His breath caught in his throat, each cell freezing up in a mixture of shock, rage and despair.

No. No no no no no no no no NO!

"TAILS!" The anguished wail left his chest just as his heart stopped beating, an engine's hum replacing its frantic rhythm.

He payed it no mind. It didn't matter when it was ripped to shreds anyway the moment his blurry gaze met his brother's.

Glowing red optics stared back.

He tried to move, tried to break free but it made no difference, half his body frozen on the spot, under the control of the Chaos forsaken monster who did this.

65%

The bands on his wrists burned, something warm and damp flowed down his palms and dripped from his fingers. Sonic was numb to it, struggling and shaking in the glass confine, his own screams becoming muffled to his ears.

"You promised! YOU FUCKING PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T HURT HIM!"

A screen beeped, the vitals' charts on it going haywire as the progress bar reached 78%.

The mustached scientist just stood there grinning, unconcerned and victorious.

"And I kept my promise. He is unharmed, well and alive." The words seemed to echo in his head, reverberating as if imprinting on the walls of his mind, the machine's buzz and hum drowned out by them. "Just as you asked, rodent."

He couldn't take his pained eyes off of the small yellow robot and his captor noticed that, turning to address Tails with a deceptively encouraging smile.

"Isn't that right, Metal Tails?"

The little robot finally moved, startled beeps escaping it as it's mechanical gaze shifted away from hyperfocusing on Sonic and towards what it's systems told it to be it's creator.

The familiar innocence in that small gesture, even though seeing it on a roboticized mecha, broke something in Sonic.

He tried to call out to his brother but realized he couldn't speak. He couldn't feel his muzzle or mouth anymore. Oh...

The screen read 96%.

As the metal climbed up his quills and ears and the world began to fade into static, Sonic drowned out Eggman's smug grin and droning of the roboticizer's rays, putting all that was left of his mind and strenght into focusing on Tails.

He wanted his last memory to be of his brother, even if no longer flesh and blood but mere metal and wires, he was still Tails. His Tails. That much was clear from its demeanor alone, the innocence, the curiosity, the intelligence, it was all there. Sonic would be able to tell his kid apart from a thousand other Tailses if he had to.

The tears he'd been holding back finally slipped down, the last piece of his humanity used into conveying to Tails that he was sorry, that he loved him.

99%

His eyes closed, the metal covered up the last of the organic cells and Sonic finally went still.

............

Metal Tails gazed upon the powering down capsule, his processors showing the progress bar having reached 100%.

He couldn't take his focus off of the inactive hedgehog; organic, mechanical, irrelevant, Metal Tails was drawn to him even before the roboticization was completed.

Something suspiciously illogical was recorded in his archives during the process. He had sensed what organics refer to as emotions being conveyed to him earlier by the same being. It seemed to be a combination of concern, remorse and affection.

How could he do that without any working signal and communication link to Metal Tails?

The roboticized hedgehog suddenly beeped awake, internal fans whirring as his systems rapid-fire processed the new programming and commands. He jerked within the bonds and stilled again, hanging limp for a long beat.

Metal Sonic lifted his head up, optical processors switching on to reveal glowing red optics staring straight into Metal Tails' own.

It appeared the other robot was finally awake.

Metal Tails couldn't calculate why the organic hedgehog had seemed to know about him but he had felt drawn to the blue being just the same.

Perhaps it was a satisfactory calculation on his creator's part as Metal Tails' tended to get lonely and this arrangement made him most pleased.

Another robot companion made for the perfect promised gift.

.................

No characters were killed in the making of this story, just as I promised :]

[luoyinzheng]

Robotnik sometimes has to admit that even geniuses like him find it difficult to understand many things. For example, when he lay half obedient and half resistant on the bed, and his assistant, Agent Stone, forcefully and warmly pushed open the buttons of his shirt one by one, he couldn't understand why things had progressed to the current level.

He bit on the edge of the pillowcase, trying to drown the delicate moans into the soft silk fabric. Suddenly, the temperature on the back of his hand made him try to concentrate, and Stone whispered to him in his ear. Doctor. My Doctor.

Robotnik chose to intentionally ignore the sudden rise in temperature on his face. He angrily regarded the meaningless embellishments before the other person's address as a mockery of evil taste, and wanted to speak some thin words to preserve the last bit of dignity of an evil genius. However, when the words reached his mouth, he swallowed them back in life due to his subordinate's deeper thrust.

He didn't actually realize very clearly that he had completely handed himself over to another person. From the body to the soul. The only thing that can be done is to immerse oneself in the pleasure brought by the light and heavy collisions at Stone, temporarily allowing the brain, which has always been running at high speed, to appear on a consciousness blue screen. He stubbornly believed that physical pleasure was a manifestation of humanity's lowest and dirtiest desires, but at this moment, the overly comfortable mattress and kisses from his subordinates rained down on his shoulders and neck broke this belief.

The scientist abandoned himself and buried his face in the pillow, occasionally responding with two muffled groans. He heard Stone laughing deeply, carefully selecting words and phrases to express his love, murmuring like a lyricist's dream.

"You know I love you more than everything, Ivo."

Hearing his name flowing out of Stone's mouth at such an intimate moment gave Robotnik an unreal sense of trance. The cold fingertips of the young man ran over his stubble covered chin, paused briefly on his chest, and groped down all the way. A series of movements resulted in a slight tremble from the doctor. The agent leaned down in his ear, smelling like vanilla, latte, and hazelnut cake.

"Please... Please Stone..."

He is like a spoiled child, accustomed to always getting everything he wants as he pleases. Therefore, begging for weakness and compromise is not common here in Robotnik. After feeling the warmth of the other person's lips, Robotnik closed his eyes in a tremble.

"Anything for you, Doctor."

The fatigue after release washed through Robotnik's already unclear consciousness like a tide. The scientist felt like he had been flipped over and saw Stone give him a satisfied smile in a daze.

It's a kiss again. But this time, Robotnik instinctively avoided it. He turned his head and lifted his arm to cover his face.

"Hey, is something wrong?"

"No. I just... I don't know if I deserve it. You're too good to me, Stone."

Stone listened quietly, not surprised by Robotnik's rare incoherence. This is not the first time he has sensed the other person's self disgust tendency from the doctor's words, weaving a red thread of fate tightly around him like a spider web, making it difficult for him to escape. So he lived his whole life involuntarily and insincerely.

"Look at me, Ivo."

The assistant carefully moved the arm under his body that covered his face, and lifted his face like holding a priceless treasure. Robotnik's eyes were devoid of the usual sharp and threatening aura, flickering with hesitation and uncertainty. From the slightly twitching mustache to the sweat clinging to his forehead, from the thick black circles under his eyes to the slightly confused expression on his face, Stone couldn't help but give him a brief and quick kiss on the side of his neck.

"I want you to know, Doctor, you are the most perfect person I have ever met. You're beautiful, you're brilliant, you're a real genius. Of course you deserve it, and not only that, you deserve the whole world."

Robotnik ultimately blamed the room for being too hot for his flushed face.

"Thanks, my loyal sycophant."

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter One

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter One: Victorian Era

Summary: Sherlock Holmes and (Y/N) meet Dr. Watson in the 1800s.

Mouse Note: I love this special since it's so fun! Who else is excited for it? Anyways, welcome back to A Study of the Heart and Brain. I can't believe we're already at the final book in the series! It's crazy. I hope you guys enjoy this and continue to comment so I can see what you guys think. This is sure to be a great book.

Sometime in the 1800s…

            (Y/N) watched Sherlock flog the corpse with interest. Their eyes flicked across each point of contact to determine when and where the bruises were appearing. They needed the data for the experiment they were running with Sherlock. It would determine a great deal in the case they were currently working on (which (Y/N) couldn’t remember since it was fairly boring outside of the experiment portion).

            (Y/N) paused as the door creaked open and glanced to determine who was entering. They recognized one of the pair as Stamford, an old acquaintance of Sherlock. The man next to him was a new face.

            (Y/N) catalogued what they could see in him. Army doctor, Afghanistan. Injured leg. Likely here as a roommate option since Sherlock mentioned it to Stamford earlier.

            “Excuse me,” said Stamford when Sherlock and (Y/N) barely reacted or acknowledged their presence.

            “I do hope we’re not interrupting,” said the doctor.

            Sherlock turned to face him. “You’ve been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

            “Dr. John Watson, Mr. Sherlock,” said Stamford.

            (Y/N) tossed a cane at John, and he caught it. “Good reflexes,” remarked (Y/N).

            “That’s (Y/N),” said Stamford.

            “He’ll do,” said Sherlock, nodding to (Y/N) who nodded in agreement.

            “I’m sorry,” said John, furrowing his brow.

            “We have a suite of rooms near Regent’s Park,” said (Y/N). “Between all of us, we can afford them better.”

            “Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?” said John.

            “I did. I mentioned it to Stamford this morning that we were in need of a fellow lodger,” said Sherlock. “Now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and a recent injury. Both suggestive of a campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it.”

            “Not a difficult leap,” said (Y/N).

            “We’ll finalize all the details tomorrow evening,” said Sherlock. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a hanging in Wandsworth, and we would hate for them to start without us.” He pulled on his coat.

            (Y/N) took their purple coat and put it on their grey suit pants, jacket, white button up, and purple vest.

            “A hanging?” said John.

            “We take a professional interest,” said (Y/N). They glanced at him. “He plays the violin, and I join him occasionally.”

            “I also smoke a pipe,” added Sherlock.

            “We presume that’s not a problem,” said (Y/N).

            “Uh, no, well—” John stammered.

            “And you’re clearly acclimatized to never getting to the end of a sentence,” said Sherlock. “We’ll get along splendidly. Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock then.”

            “Oh, and the address is 221B Baker Street,” said (Y/N). “I’m (Y/N) (L/N).”

            “And I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

            And then the pair were out the door.

            “Odd family,” was all John could say.

            “They’re not related,” said Stamford. “But (Y/N) is a Holmes in all but blood by now.”

            John frowned. “They’re not?”

            “Sherlock took (Y/N) in as a ward or something of that nature a year or two ago,” said Stamford.

            “He doesn’t seem like the sort,” said John.

            “No, he doesn’t, does he?” said Stamford. “Sometimes I wonder how and why it’s lasted so long.” He shrugged. “Let me know if you discover why. You’re the who will be living with them.”

l

A few years later…

            “Papers! Papers!”

            (Y/N)’s brow twitched as their thoughts were disturbed by someone yelling about selling newspapers. The carriage stopped, and John leaned his head out the window.

            “How’s the Blue Carbuncle doing?” asked John. He was checking on sales for their latest case.

            “Very popular, Dr. Watson,” assured the seller. “Is there going to be a proper murder next month?”

            I hope so. I need an interesting case, thought (Y/N). They always needed interesting cases.

            John cleared his throat. “I’ll have a word with the criminal classes.”

            “If you wouldn’t mind,” said the seller. He leaned to see past John. “Are those them? Are they in there?”

            Sherlock hit John’s leg, and John grunted. “No, no, not at all. Uh, good day to you.”

            The coach continued forward, but not before the seller called out, “Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes, (L/N)!”

            (Y/N) was glad once they were back in front of 221 Baker Street. They preferred to be back and getting ready for another case, not outside where people insisted on asking questions and interviewing them. (Y/N) didn’t like the attention or the pestering.

            “Mr. Holmes! (Y/N),” said Mrs. Hudson, opening the door with a huff. “I do wish you’d let me know when you’re planning to come home.”

            “We hardly knew ourselves, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock. “That’s the trouble with dismembered country squires. They’re notoriously difficult to schedule.”

            “Did you catch a murderer?” said one of the “Baker Street Boys,” as they were known, as he picked up their cases and carried them to the flat.

            “Caught the murderer, still looking for the legs,” said Sherlock. “I think we’ll call it a draw.”

            “We’re hired for the first part, not the second,” said (Y/N), popping a hard candy, stained purple, into their mouth.

            “Fair point,” said Sherlock, following them inside.

            “Sherlock Holmes, are you still letting them eat those sweets instead of proper food?” said Mrs. Hudson, putting her hands on her hips.

            “They are at least two meals a day while we were away,” said Sherlock. For all the negligence he gave his own health and wellbeing, he wouldn’t allow it in (Y/N). They were his child, and he took care of them.

            Mrs. Hudson nodded, satisfied. She closed the door as John walked in last. “And I see you’ve published another of your stories, Dr. Watson.”

            “Yes, did you enjoy it?” said John.

            “No,” said Mrs. Hudson decisively.

            “Oh!” said John, surprised.

            “I never enjoy them,” continued Mrs. Hudson.

            “Why not?” said John.

            “Well, I never say anything, do I?” she said. “According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve your breakfasts.”

            John hung up his coat beside (Y/N) and Sherlock’s cloaks. “Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function.”

            “My what?!” exclaimed Mr. Hudson.

            “Don’t feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock. “I’m hardly in the dog one.”

            “Neither am I,” added (Y/N).

            “The dog one?” repeated John.

            “I’m your landlady, not a plot device,” said Mrs. Hudson crossly.

            “Maybe it was the hound?” said (Y/N).

            “Do you mean The Hound of the Bakservilles?” said John, exasperated.

            “And you make the room so drab and dingy,” lamented Mrs. Hudson.

            “Oh, blame it on the illustrator. He’s out of control!” huffed John. “I had to grow this moustache just so people would recognize me.”

            He grumbled all the way upstairs about it, which (Y/N) and Sherlock avoided by moving into the sitting room and drawing back the curtains to let in light. They knew the woman standing in the room was patiently waiting for the third of their party to arrive (which spelt trouble for him).

            “Good lord!” exclaimed John as he entered the room. The woman stood in black with a veil, and she seemed ghastly and ghostly in the sunlight.

            “Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman in my sitting room!” called Sherlock downstairs. He knew who it was, but he preferred to keep people out of his and (Y/N)’s apartment when they weren’t home (after him, Sherlock wanted (Y/N) kept safer than ever). “Is it intentional?”

            “She’s a client,” responded Mrs. Hudson. “Said you were out, insisted on waiting.”

            “Would you, uh, care to sit down?” said John, offering a seat.

            You would think he would at least recognize the perfume, thought (Y/N), flopping down on the couch (John reprimanded them that it was “impolite” to sit as they did, but they erased that knowledge as soon as he gave them the lecture the tenth time because it had no meaning).

            “Didn’t you ask her what she wanted?” said Sherlock.

            “You ask her!” retorted Mrs. Hudson.

            “Why didn’t you ask her?”

            “How could I? What with me not talking and everything!”

            “For God’s sake, give her some lines, she’s perfectly capable of starving us,” said Sherlock to John. Then, he faced the “client” completely. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. That’s (Y/N), my ward. You may speak freely in front of both as (Y/N) is almost as intelligent as me—”

            (Y/N)’s gaze flicked up at the frank praise, and Sherlock was pleased by the slight smile that flitted across their face.

            “—and John barely understands a word,” said Sherlock.

            “Holmes,” hissed John.

            “However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations,” said Sherlock. He circled the woman. “You have an impish sense of humor, which currently you are deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish. (Y/N), continue.”

            “You recently married a man of a kindly disposition who has been spending quick some time apart from you,” said (Y/N), quick on the uptake. “He keeps the company of two questionable individuals who may lack some basic morals. You came here as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible.”

            “Good lord, Holmes, (Y/N)!” said John, incredulous. He had seen them do quite a bit, but this was extraordinarily detailed compared to even their best deductions.

            “All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume,” said Sherlock, and (Y/N) nodded.

            “Her perfume?” repeated John.

            “Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to us and disaster to you,” said Sherlock.

            “How so?” said John.

            “Because we recognized it and you didn’t,” said (Y/N) while Sherlock reached up and unpinned the veil. It fell.

            “Mary!” exclaimed John.

            “John,” said Mary.

            “Why in God’s name are you pretending to be a client?” said John.

            “I thought we just explained that,” said (Y/N), furrowing their brow.

            “Because I could think of no other way to see my husband,” said Mary. She smiled, but it barely reached her eyes. “Husband.”

            (Y/N) looked at John as he tensed, and for all their lack of understanding (or interest in) feelings, they knew a marital dispute was incoming.

l

            They had been right as usual.

            “It was an affair of international intrigue,” said John.

            “It was a murdered country squire,” said Mary, hands on her hips.

            Behind them, Sherlock was focused on his violin, and (Y/N) had moved to sit with him because being in the thick of a marital dispute was not enjoyable at all.

            “Nevertheless, it was pressing!” said John.

            (Y/N) sighed and looked at Sherlock, who just shrugged. There was no stopping this since they were both terrible with people.

            “I don’t mind you going, my darling,” said Mary. “I mind you leaving me behind.”

            “But what could you do?” said John.

            “Oh, what do you do?” snapped Mary. “Except wander around, taking notes, looking surprised.”

            Mary wouldn’t be a terrible addition; she seems smarter than the average person, if only by a little. Not many could reach (Y/N) and Sherlock’s levels of intelligence.

            “Enough!” said Sherlock, putting his violin down. “The stage is set. The curtain rises. We are ready to begin.”

            Finally, thought (Y/N), sitting up straighter and unwrapping a candy.

            “Begin what?” said Mary.

            “Sometimes to solve a case, one must first solve another,” said Sherlock.

            “We have a case?” said John.

            “And old one, very old,” said Sherlock. “I shall have to go deep.”

            “Deep into what?” said (Y/N), tilting their head.

            Sherlock just stared into space. “Myself.” He blinked and turned to the door. “Lestrade, do stop loitering by the door and come in.”

            Lestrade pushed the door open. “How’d you know it was me?”

            “Regulation tread,” said (Y/N), gesturing to his shoes. “Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson.”

            “Oh, yeah, I just came up,” said Lestrade as (Y/N) and Sherlock took their seats. “Mrs. Hudson didn’t seem to be talking.”

            “I fear she has branched into literary criticism by means of satire,” said Sherlock. “It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What brings you here in your off-duty hours?”

            “How do you know I’m off-duty?” said Lestrade, glancing around.

            “Well, since your arrival, you’ve address over forty percent of your remarks to my decanter,” said Sherlock. “Watson, give the Inspector what he so clearly wants.”

            “So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?” said John as he poured a drink.

            “Oh, I’m not here on business, I just thought I’d drop by,” said Lestrade.

            “Social call?” said (Y/N), cocking their head. They didn’t believe that, and they were carefully watching Lestrade.

            “Of course, just to wish you the compliments of the season,” said Lestrade. “Happy Christmas.”

            “Happy Christmas,” said everyone in awkward response.

            “Thank god that’s over,” said Sherlock. “Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to our door but embarrasses you to relate?”

            “Who said anything happened?” said Lestrade.

            “You did,” said (Y/N). “By every means short of actual speech.”

            Sherlock could have smirked. That was his kid, seeing what others didn’t.

            “And, Dad, you missed one thing,” said (Y/N).

            “Go on,” said Sherlock.

            “He didn’t just want a drink; he needed one.” (Y/N)’s sharp, snakelike gaze snapped across Lestrade’s appearance. “He’s afraid.

            Sherlock actually did smile this time. “You’re learning.” Every day, his child proved their intelligence and brilliance. “Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down.” They had a case.

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