#but sure I’ll add this to the guilt I’m feeling

[themosthatedbeingg]

.

[deadsetobsessions]

He could overlook a lot of things, but this was getting ridiculous. You’d think seasoned vigilantes would have better excuses prepared, but Danny had caught that flash of panic that crossed Tim’s face as Danny came face to face with Tim dragging an unconscious Steph to her designated room in the manor.

“Uh.”

“Danny! Uh, Stephanie brained herself- uh, sliding down the bannisters and- pleasedon’ttellBruce.”

Danny blinks, staring at Tim and then very pointedly, very slowly, turned his head back towards the direction he came from: the main hall… where the bannisters were. He wonders what vigilante hijinks they were trying to hide from B this time.

Tim coughs, trying to inch Stephanie away. “Uh. She was doing… cartwheels?”

Danny let his eyes slowly take in the bruises that were clearly not from “cartwheeling in the mansion” on the both of them. There’s a huge bandaged cut on Steph’s forearm and a giant bruise on the edge of Tim’s jaw. Tim’s face twitches nervously, not that anyone else would have noticed- except Danny has enhanced ghost senses and could feel the panic coming off of his adopted brother.

“You know…” Shit, what does he do? Not knowing would be so much easier if these idiots gave him good excuses! “I don’t think I want to know what you two have been up to… but should I be worried for your, uh, physical health?”

“Nope!”

“… Okay.” He says. Tim opens his mouth to make further excuses but Danny adds quickly, “But don’t tell me, because if Bruce asks, I want plausible deniability.”

Cartwheels, Danny’s ghostly ass. Luckily, this show of doubt reaffirms Tim’s belief that Danny believes them all of the other times. Danny grins inwardly, planning capitalizing on the guilt that flashed over Tim’s face.

“Deal.”

“Want help?” The halfa points at Steph, who’s still being dragged over the carpet by a noodle armed Tim. Danny knows Tim’s strong, he’s a vigilante, but it’s funny watching him pretend to struggle.

“Please. I’m so tired right now.” He looks it too. Danny’s brows furrow with genuine concern when he takes in Tim’s drowned raccoon look. He picks up Steph, firmly removing her from Tim’s suddenly weak grip. Being careful to avoid her injuries, Danny nods at the door to her room. Tim cracks it open and does a little showy gesture towards the inside.

“C’mon, we’ll tuck her in and then I’ll tuck you in.”

“What, you don’t have to do that.”

“If you don’t let me tuck you in and make sure you sleep, I’ll tell Alfred who really accidentally poured boiling hot coffee on his azaleas last week. And I’ll sic Dick on you and tell him you haven’t been sleeping enough.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Tim grumbles. “But fine. It’s really not my fault I’m this tired. A missing spleen is hard to handle, you know.”

“Yeah, missing an organ sucks,” Danny says, shit eating grin hidden long enough to catch the contemplative bloodhound look that passes over Tim’s face.

“Which- uh, which one of your organs is missing?”

“Liver.” Danny says, remembering the flashes of pain. He tilts his head away to hide the grin at Tim’s panicked face.

When he tucks Tim in, he pretends to believe Tim’s sleeping act and left his room while mumbling about the Wayne’s clumsiness and bruises and stocking up on bruise cream. He couldn’t even enjoy Tim’s floundering, this time, worried as he is.

——

“Brother.” Danny half turns his head, just to beam a sunny smile at Cass. He signs an exuberant hello. The halfa hangs up his coat as he addresses his adopted sister.

“Cass! What’s up?”

“Dinner.” She smiles back, signing that Alfred wanted them to the dinning room post haste. The main dining room, because rich people were fruit loops and Batman is totally included. Cassandra looks down and gasps.

What…?

Oh. Fuck. Danny glances down. He genuinely forgot about that.

“Huh.”

“Okay?” Suddenly, Cass is right next to him, hand reached out and hovering over the actual knife Danny forgot was sticking out of him. At least it’s where his liver should be, so he won’t have to pretend.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m good. Don’t have a liver.” Danny decides on the spot that he’s not gonna mess with Cass. She smiled the same as him. “Got mugged on the way back but I think they said I could keep the knife, right?”

“Danny.” She’s frowning at him. He feels like he just kicked tiny Cujo. But he doesn’t feel bad enough to blurt everything out.

“Here. You can have it if you want?” Danny casually pulls out the knife and holds the wound together with his bare hands. Cass looks more alarmed. She bodily picks up Danny and starts running.

“Woah!”

Cass throws him at Alfred, gently.

“Miss Cassandra! Why, I never-!” Alfred pauses in surprise.

“Uh. Wow, Cass. You’re really strong.” Danny pipes up, hand still over his gushing wound.

She ignores him, pointing at Danny and telling Alfred, “Hurt. Got mugged. Dumb.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault Gothamites are ready to jump people at any moment. Besides, it’s daytime. It’s not like the vigilante furries are out to save my butt. I think I did really well coming back safe, you know?”

“Hurt. Forgot the knife. Was in him.”

“Master Danny!”

Danny pouts. He also knows there’s a discreet camera in the corners of the sitting room, so he’s definitely hoping he could phase into the cave when Barbara eventually tells the group that he called them “vigilante furries.”

Alfred clucks his tongue and set to work patching him up. Danny tries not to bask in the careful way Alfred tended to his wounds. It reminds him too much of Jazz, if Jazz was British and a man with greying hair.

But because they were watching him and he was watching them in return, Danny noticed the moment Alfred’s hands stalled and Cass’ gaze got intense. What now…?

Oh, fuck, his vivisection scar. Oops. Danny smiled, channeling Dani (his lovely clone sister) at her most innocent.

Cass smiled back, just as sunnily, fists tightening at her side in repressed fury.

——

“Cass? Why’d you call us?”

“Yeah, baby bat. I got a couple o’ smugglers to talk to.”

Cass paces.

“What is it, Cassandra?” Damian tuts impatiently.

“Danny. Has… scars. Autopsy. But was struggling. When cut.”

“What.”

“A vivisection, Master Jason.” Alfred’s voice was crisp and eerily cold. His hands are folded, rage only held back by his sheer will and a well practiced sense of propriety.

“We find. Who hurt him,” Cass snarls. “We. End.”

Jason’s eyes glint green, hands going to his guns. “Fine. By. Me.”

“It does tie in with the dead comment. I wonder what happened to him.” Tim clacks away at the bat computer, furiously looking into the matter already. Bruce has taken to prowling, stressed out at the prospect of one more of his children- not a vigilante at that- getting hurt the way Jason had. Worse, even. A vivisection. He was alive, dissected. Aware enough to struggle. Dick looked like he was torn about hunting down and lunging at whoever hurt Danny to rip their throats out with his bare teeth versus the urge to go back up to the manor and wrap Danny in bubble wrap.

In the corner, Danny was having a quiet breakdown because he came here to watch them react to vigilante furries, not offering to murder the people who vivisected him. What the fuck?? He ran his hands through his hair, invisible.

——

“Oh, by the way, we should consider more daytime shifts.”

“Why?” Spoiler asks Barbara.

“Danny got mugged. And called us the nightly furries.”

���The fuckin’ what-?” Jason chokes out, laughing. Bruce stops his pacing, body language becoming slightly offended.

Danny muffles a laugh only Alfred would have heard.

[rinhaler]

Not me being an absolute slut for step dad Gojo and Uncle Nanami!?!? 😩 sharing is caring!

-Very Much Embarrassed Anon🫂

PERHAPS i got carried away but i hope u enjoy this !! luxe write something under 1k challenge: impossible x

warnings: 18+ MDNI, step/incest, fem!reader, step dad!gojo, uncle!nanamin, implied virgin!reader, threesome, vaginal sex, oral (m receiving), fingering, tit sucking, possessive!gojo, daddy kink, praise, pull out method, orgasm denial, noncon photo taking, slight oral fixation, hair pulling, face fucking.

words: 2.7k

“You know you’re too young for boys, right?” your step-father reminds you, like it’s a mantra he’s told you again and again for years. It isn’t a suggestion or a thought he’s choosing to share. It’s an instruction. “I don’t want you to think because you’re all grown up and going to college now that you can be reckless.”

“I- I know, Satoru.” you smile at him.

Both of your attention is stolen as you hear your uncle, Kento, laugh out a scoff. He tries to conceal it as he ruffles his newspaper and drinks his coffee. You see your step-dad’s brows furrow in annoyance. Or, anger. He looks at you, again, and his expression softens.

“I know you’re a good girl, sweetheart.” he tells you, wrapping his arms around your form and placing a kiss atop your head. Nanami’s eyes peer over his newspaper, locking with yours. A knowing glance to each other before a smirk finds his features. He raises his newspaper, shielding his face completely as he tries to focus on reading.

He lets you go, reluctantly, as you pick up your college bag and grab your phone.

His expression sours as he sees you reach for your phone, smiling at a text message you received. He shouldn’t pry. He knows he shouldn’t pry. But he can’t seem to stop himself as he finds himself leaning across the kitchen island and snatching your phone from your hands. And now he scoffs, scrolling through your messages and looking at the name at the top.

“What did I just say?” he speaks, only an octave away from yelling at you. Your lip wobbles, and he keeps your phone at arm’s length as you try to grab for it. He tosses it towards the kitchen table so Kento can look for himself.

“He was just asking if I needed picking up for my classes, Satoru! You don’t need to worry…” you tell him. Of course this would happen. He’s always been stupidly over protective.

“Well you don’t, do you? That’s what I’m here for. Hell, I’m sure even Nanami would be happy to take you since he came all of this way to spend his off time visiting you.” Gojo reminds you. And you feel a slight pang of guilt at that. You know how hard your poor uncle Nanamin works. He could be on vacation, somewhere tropical, unwinding from the humdrum of his boring office job. But here he is, sitting reading the newspaper and listening to you two argue with each other. “In fact, you’re grounded. I’m keeping your phone and you can forget about going to class today.”

“But—!”

“Don’t whine, I’ll write you a note.” he adds, walking around the counterspace to collect your phone from Nanami. He finishes scrolling, locking it, though he keeps hold of it. “Go upstairs.”

You huff, but grab your bag and do as you’re told. It’s not like he can stop you from being online. You can talk to people on your laptop, after all. Though given the mood he’s in you suppose you’ll have to be stealthy about it.

“You’re too harsh on her.” Kento tells Satoru, earning another disgruntled glance from him. He closes his newspaper and rests an ankle over his knee as he leans back and drinks the remainder of his coffee. “She’s curious, you can’t do anything about that. It’s not like she’ll stay a virgin forever.”

“Tch. Spare me.” he laughs lightly. “You think I don’t know why you’re here? I hear you, you know, when you sneak into her room at night.”

And Gojo revels in how the colour drains from Nanami’s face. He sits upright, his back stiffened straight and he starts to loosen his tie. He should have known, really, it was too good to be true. He should have known he’d always get caught eventually. But by Satoru Gojo of all people?

“I haven’t…” he clears his throat. “It’s not what you think.”

“Sure.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “If I’m bein’ honest… I don’t really care. Who am I to stop you? I’m not blood… like you. Sick fuck.” he laughs, sitting down at the table and looking into Nanami’s panic-stricken eyes.

Your uncle rests his elbows on the table and holds his head in his hands. What is Gojo plotting? Blackmail of some kind, maybe. It’s not like he’s concealed his disapproval for his sisters relationship with him. He’s tolerated him, sure, but he’s a nuisance he thinks his family would be better off without.

“I don’t like this either.” he throws your phone towards the white-haired man and sighs. “But she doesn’t respect you, Satoru. She doesn’t even call you dad. I think she sees you as temporary, so of course she isn’t going to listen to you. Not really.”

“But…” he leans over the table with a smug grin. “She respects you, doesn’t she? Her favourite uncle. I don’t like college guys, I remember what we were like in college, I don’t want her around that.”

“No… maybe she won’t go searching for it if she’s better educated.”

Gojo’s brow quirks in intrigue, a sadistic smile soon follows.

“Who knew a corporate goon could be such a sick fuck, hah?” Gojo laughs, picking up Nanami’s coffee mug for him and walking it to the sink to clean. Nanami rolls his eyes, burying his reddening face in his newspaper again.

You feel a surge of fear stab through you as you hear footsteps climb up the stairs. You hide your laptop back into your bag and turn on your TV, hurrying to find something to watch as a cover. But when you hear a knock, you relax, Satoru never knocks.

“Come in!” you speak, happily, welcoming your favourite and only uncle Nanamin into your room. Though your heart sinks as your step-father follows, crossing your arms across your chest as you huff and pout petulantly.

“Don’t be like that…” Nanami speaks softly, sitting on the edge of your bed and resting his hand on your thigh. “We need to talk to you. And we want to ask you something.” he continues. Your pout fades, then, a slight feeling of anxiety creeps into you as you wonder if something serious has happened.

And Satoru sits on the edge of the bed, too, his beaming blue eyes almost pierce through your heart as he begins to explain. How he’s just worried about you because he knows from experience how college guys can be. How he’s your dad no matter what and he just wants the best for you. And he thinks you need a little help in the right direction on your journey of self-discovery.

“I know you’re a woman now, sweetheart, but you’re still daddy’s little girl. Yeah? So, let daddy help.”

“He- with what?” you blink at him, dumbly, and the delighted snarl on his face almost chills you to the bone. He doesn’t speak right away, so you look at Nanami. But it’s like he can’t bear to look at you as he sinks his head low with shame. “With what?” you ask again.

 “Well, Nanami said you’re curious. So he’s been fucking you, right?”

“No!” you and your uncle yell simultaneously. Did he really tell your insufferable step-father something so personal?

“I told you, I haven’t slept with her. Don’t tease her or you’ll make things worse.” Nanami clarifies before he focuses his attention on you. “But you are curious, aren’t you? You’re getting attention from boys and you’re enjoying it, clearly. They aren’t good for you though, princess. They don’t know how to treat girls right.”

You hum, softly, as he pushes your legs apart, revealing your pink cotton panties to the two of them as they continue to talk you through their thought process. And the touch of your uncle Nanamin is your ultimate weakness. They both get a live response to his action as your pretty pussy starts to gift your panties with a dark, sticky patch between your dewy folds.

“Boys that age, sweetheart, they don’t know what they’re doing. Do you touch yourself? ‘m sure you do, I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise. But that means you like to cum, yeah? These college guys don’t care about that. They just want a little hole to cum in and defile. And we think you deserve better than that.” Satoru explains, his inquisitive fingers begin to prod at your puffy cunt, though you trap his hand between your plush thighs.

“Satoru…” you respond, bashfully.

“No.” he speaks, grabbing your thighs and pulling you down the bed and towards himself. He looks mad, but there’s no real malice behind it. Still your heart is pounding. “I’m your dad like he is your uncle. I’m not Satoru. Who am I?” he asks, reaching under your skirt to pull down your panties.

“D-Daddy… you’re daddy. ‘m sorry.” you whimper. Your eyes flutter as his long fingers invade your pretty, virgin walls. “Hng—!”

“Gooood girl.” he smiles as he begins to curl them upwards. “I slipped right on in, has uncle Kento gotten you used to taking his fingers?”

“Mhmm…” you blush. The man in question bends down to kiss you.

It’s sweet, though you find yourself grabby and desperate as you follow his lead. He pulls away to undress you, unbuttoning your shirt and then his own after throwing away his tie. He helps you out of your bra, and you instinctively go to cover your nipples as you remember who you’re actually in the company of. But Nanami doesn’t want that. He locks his fingers with yours, holding your hands above your head as he begins to suckle on them until they’re both puckered and raw.

“Sit her up, and sit behind her.” Satoru tells his brother-in-law. And of course he acquiesces. You’re moved like you’re weightless as your uncle sits behind you, his clothed cock pressing angrily into the curve of your spine as he continues to torment your tits. Satoru pulls his fingers out of your cunt and sucks them clean, smiling at how your eyes begin to sparkle with wonder as he puts on such a display. “Do not tell your mother about this, understand?”

You nod, obediently. You wouldn’t dream of telling her something so scandalous. Though it does fill you with a slight sense of pride as your Satoru makes it abundantly clear how desperately he’d longed to be the first person to explore your untouched core. He pulls down his trousers and you moan at his smooth, pink cockhead. Though right now it’s closer to an angry shade of red.

He really is desperate.

You wince, slightly, as he pushes his tip inside. Though he retracts it, coating his head in your wetness.

“Fuuuuck, you weren’t lyin’. You really never fucked her, huh Nanami?” Gojo chuckles as he pushes in deeper and deeper. Nanami slots his fingers into your mouth to suck on as you accommodate to the length. “Relax, baby. Clampin’ so much you’re gonna push me out.” he laughs shallowly, his thrusts matching as he begins to work you open.

“D-Daddy!” you gasp, back arching against Nanami’s chest before he pulls you back towards him.

“We’re so proud of you, princess.” Nanami shushes you, placing a kiss to your temple. You look at him with wide, trusting eyes, though he can’t really concentrate as his own fixate on the way your tits bounce with each thrust Gojo inflicts onto you. “Why don’t you show your dad how I taught you to suck cock, hm?”

“Oh? Now that I’d like to see.” Gojo smiles, pulling out of you briefly. The sound of your sticky walls echoes through the room as he pulls out. The men help you onto all fours, and your daddy slots himself right back into your tight heat. The adjusted angle makes you fall forward, your head lolling as he finds a nice little trigger inside of you. “Oh… there, huh? Okay, baby. I’ll fuck you right there.” Satoru tells you as he begins to fuck into you before slowing down.

Nanami takes his cock out of his briefs, tapping the tip against your swollen lips. They open, obediently, and you lick the precum he’s spilling directly from the source. Your hole flutters as he hisses, enamoured by the sensation.

“Perfect, princess. Such a good little girl for me.” Kento comments, and your heart beats harder. You’re almost robbed of all sense as Gojo pistons his hips into you, and he leans forward to grab your hair and wrap it into a makeshift ponytail.

“Now that I’m thinking about it, Kento, maybe we should teach her how college boys fuck. Since she wanted that experience so badly.” Satoru proposes, and Nanami considers it. He really considers it. And Gojo chuckles at that. “Go on… show her.”

Nanami nods, grabbing the sides of your head and fucking your face like you’re his own personal cocksleeve.

It’s relentless and dizzying and you don’t know how to settle. You can’t possibly as you’re ruined from both ends. There’s no reprieve, there’s no way to relax. You’re trembling and moaning and fuck you never knew sex could be so intense. Nanami is always calm and patient with you. But this isn’t that.

They’ve ran out of patience with you.

It doesn’t matter which way you try to retreat, you’re only encouraging the other one. More of Nanami’s cock down your throat and more of Gojo’s hitting your g-spot.

“W-We’ll have to get you on the pill, sweetheart.” Gojo tells you, but it’s more like he’s telling himself. He knows he can’t cum inside. He can’t, but fuck, he wants to. He fucking needs to. “College guys, they like- leaving their- mark.” he thrusts again and again until he’s on the very brink of blowing his load. But his life won’t be worth living if he knocks his cute little daughter up. His marriage will be over. He’ll lose everything.

And with that, he pulls out and coats your pussy lips with his sperm. The loss of feeling from inside makes you cry out around Nanami’s length, though you still can’t pull away from him as he continues to use your mouth as his own personal toy. You never knew your uncle Nanamin had this side to him.

He’s usually so sweet and patient.

He pulls out, too, depriving you of the taste of his cum and the chance to prove what a good girl you are. Though you take his load beautifully as he shoots soupy ropes across your pretty face. His heart skips a beat as your false lashes flutter and he realises a heavy glob stuck to them.

“College guys, sweetheart, might take pictures of you like this.” Satoru pulls his phone from his back pocket and takes a few photos of your quivering cunt. You’ve been neglected in the worst way, and it’s dawning on you now what he had meant by giving you the college experience. He tosses his phone to Nanami, encouraging him to do the same. Your innocent and betrayed face is captured so perfectly through the lens of the phone, Nanami’s pearly seed is the perfect colour for your complexion.

“College guys would send these around to their friends too, you know.” Nanami warns you.

“But we’ll just keep these between ourselves.” Satoru promises you. “I think it’s only fair we didn’t let you cum this time since you were so intent on disobeying your daddy.”

“I think she’s learnt her lesson, though, Satoru.” Nanami speaks, pulling your hair so that you can look up at him and he can identify if you dare to lie to him. “Fucking college boys doesn’t sound that fun anymore, does it? Say sorry, princess. Your dad might let you cum next time if you’re a good girl.”

You sniff, and hiccup, unsure of where to look.

“’m s-sorry, daddy.” you sniffle, Nanami releases your hair and allows you to look back at Gojo, a wild grin on his face.

“Awe… sweet.” Gojo smiles, circling the bed so he’s standing beside Nanami, both of their eyes bore down at you with an intensity you’ve never felt before. “I think we’re owed a thank you, we took the time to teach you such an important lesson, after all.”

“T-Thank you,” you sniff, again, “Thank you, d-daddy. Thank you, uncle Nanamin.”

© 2023 rinitxshi

[charliemwrites]

Part 4

Mister(s) Steal Your Girl is, somehow, now the official title. Congratulations you little shits (affectionate).

Content: Toxic Behavior, Brief Weight Shaming, Hurt/Comfort

You didn’t expect to see Johnny much after that one night - or possibly ever again. Kyle introduced you two, it was a lot of fun, but you figure that’ll be the end of it. Like introducing a new man to your girlfriends (not that you can really introduce Kyle to yours) you passed the vibe check and now Kyle will keep you and Johnny separate.

That’s how it’s been with Brandon’s friends. (Granted, you don’t really care for Brandon’s friends. And you figure it’s mutual based on the “uptight” comments they pretended to think you couldn’t hear.)

You’re starting to realize that Kyle is always going to subvert your expectations.

Johnny becomes a fixture - a welcome one. While you and Kyle still have your date nights and privacy, Johnny joins you two at least once a week for movies, drinks, dinner, or just silly adventures out and about.

You’re surprised that you don’t mind. Johnny is fantastic company, always respectful, funny, and friendly. Whenever the two of you are left alone, there’s no dead air. In fact, sometimes you could almost swear there’s electricity. Which is… well. It makes it hard to look him in the eye sometimes - and looking at Kyle even harder.

Guilt nips at your stomach until one of them distracts you with another story you’re 70% sure they shouldn’t tell you.

You and Johnny play a game with pub napkins, doodling something on one folded half, then passing it over for the other to scribble on the second half. The trick is not cheating and seeing the first half, then unfolding it to a complete (and usually silly) picture. Gaz always gets to name whatever monstrosity has been created.

You get a month of that good company. Then Kyle sighs at his phone one night.

“Shipping out again,” he explains when you glance at him.

“Will you be gone long?” you ask, shifting.

His brow furrows. “Not sure. They can’t tell us much over the phone.”

You hum in understanding. Still new to this whole military thing, the redacted danger of it all, but you think you’re getting the hang of it. At least, Kyle never seems annoyed when he can’t answer you, only apologetic.

“Is it gonna be the whole team?” you ask.

“Nah, just me and the cap.” He rubs his palm along your calf, a gesture that you suspect is self-soothing rather than for your benefit. “Probably not too dangerous, then.”

You make a noise of protest, nudging at his thigh with your foot. “Bad luck!”

“Sorry, sorry!” he chuckles, tapping his knuckles on the wooden end table. “You’re right.”

You crawl from your side of the couch to his, nuzzling up under his arm. He trails kisses along the side of your face as you snuggle in.

“I’ll miss you,” you mumble into his neck. Still a little embarrassed to be so needy, but you want him to feel appreciated.

“I’ll miss you too, chickadee. I’ll call if I can, yeah?”

You hum in agreement, squeezing an arm around his middle.

“While I’m gone, if you need anything - even some company - you ought to call Soap,” he adds.

The idea is tempting but… “I don’t want to bother him.”

“I promise you won’t,” he laughs. You don’t know what’s so funny, but hearing his voice rumble in his chest like this is always a treat.

“Maybe,” you allow.

“We’ll take it.” Before you can ask what that means, he loops an arm around your waist and scoops you into his lap. “Now then, about my send off.”

Your giggle turns into a moan as his mouth slants over yours.

Kyle’s only been gone three days. You’ve occupied yourself with cleaning up the flat you share with Brandon. Dust has been collecting since you’ve been out and about so much - and god knows Brandon hardly does more than load the dishwasher. Besides, a good bit of spring cleaning is a pleasant enough distraction, humming as you toss out old things to make more room for the new stuff you’ve been collecting.

“Good to see you getting back to normal,” Brandon says cheerfully. You glance up from the laundry you’re folding. He continues, “I was worried with how behind you got on things, but I knew you just needed some time. I told you this would be better for us both.”

You try not to let that sting. Even if things are better now, and continuing to get better, you can’t forget the pain that lingers from the beginning.

“Tell you what,” he adds, hands in his pockets. “When you finish cleaning up, I’ll take you out to the pub, yeah? Put on something pretty.”

You perk up, pleasantly surprised, though hesitant.

“We could leave earlier if you helped,” you point out, hoping for more than just dinner. “Maybe we could walk in the park or something before eating.”

He gives you a weak smile. One you recognize more than his real one by now. It’s almost apologetic, but not quite.

“I would but I’m bloody exhausted from this week, ya know? Big projects coming up at work.”

Your smile freezes. “And some late nights, I’m sure,” you try to joke.

He doesn’t laugh like you expect, but gives you an odd look. “Why would you say something like that?”

Baffled, you shrug. He shakes his head.

“I’m going to take a nap, come wake me up when you’re ready to go.”

You manage to finish the majority of your to-do list by 5. Shower, get dressed, do your hair and makeup with Brandon snoring in the background until 6. By then, he still hasn’t woken up from his nap, so you perch on the edge of the bed and gently nudge at him until he stirs.

“I’m ready to go, babe,” you murmur.

He scrunches up his face - you spare an affectionate thought for how cute it is. You’ve always found it cute.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbles.

You laugh a little. “It’s getting late, we should probably head out.”

He groans. “Five. Minutes.”

You huff in amusement and reach for his phone to set an alarm, but pause at all the notifications from dating apps crowding his screen. There are… a lot. And as you’re looking, a new message pops up, just labeled “blonde” with a peach emoji. Gross.

You set the alarm and slip away to the living room.

It takes him another half hour to finally rouse, shuffling into the living room with a groan.

“C’mon,” he yawns. “It’s going to be bloody crowded by now.”

You follow him quietly to the car, knowing he’s not chatty when he’s just woken up. Hunger only adds to his mood; you can practically see a cloud forming over his head. By the time he pulls up to the pub, he’s downright grumpy. He grumbles about shit parking, and the milling people outside. It looks busy.

“We could go somewhere else?” you suggest.

“This is fine,” he says.

He parks a block away and starts at a swift pace. You try to hold his hand, but halfway there, he pulls away to check his phone and doesn’t take it again.

Surprisingly, it’s only a twenty minute wait for a table - but Brandon sneers something like “of course it is” under his breath. You smile apologetically at the hostess and usher him away.

He doesn’t talk during the wait, at first. Until suddenly he blurts. “We wouldn’t have to wait if you’d woken me up.”

You blink at him. “I did. You asked for five more minutes.”

“Well, why didn’t you wake me up then?”

“I set an alarm?”

You don’t know why he’s so irritated, just that he seems tired and hungry.

“You know I don’t listen to alarms,” he complains, scowling at the sidewalk.

“Okay… I’ll wake you up next time,” you offer.

“Yeah, next time.”

Thankfully, the two of you are called a little early. The pub is indeed loud and crowded, and you’re definitely overdressed. But at least you know what you want - Brandon’s taken you here a million times before.

Wisely, you wait until he’s downed the texmex rolls before trying for conversation again. He hums along as you talk about work, about the books you’ve been reading, about the new movie you saw last week. You think it’s going pretty well, catching up on each other’s lives, when he interrupts you mid-sentence.

“Where was this?”

You frown. “At the grocery store…?”

“You’re still on that? Thought we moved on from that story.”

You don’t bother finishing it, just ask him about his work. It’s like pulling teeth. A lot of “good” and “busy” and “same as usual.” By the time your entree comes, you’ve given up, not sure if you want to cry or just walk away to see if he even notices. He keeps checking his phone. Your fingers twitch to text Kyle, but you don’t want to bother him while he’s working.

The end of dinner can’t come sooner. You decline dessert when the server asks.

“Probably for the better,” Brandon tells you lowly when they’re gone to get the check. “I think you’ve put on a bit of weight. You know how you get.”

You probably have - Kyle has a sweet tooth and practically begs you to split desserts with him. Johnny’s shares his food with you now too, grinning when you express approval for whatever high-protein dish he’s picked and shoving more at you.

As for “how you get”… Brandon’s mentioned in the past when you were heavier that you get mopey, aren’t much fun to be around.

(A small part of you wonders how that would even effect him at this point. He doesn’t spend enough time around you to notice if you’re mopey. Is that why tonight has been such a disaster…?)

You just collect your purse and lead the way out of the pub. It’s a quiet walk back to the car, even though Brandon seems to be in a better mood. He’s still texting, nearly bumps into an elderly couple along the way.

Back at the apartment, he runs his hand down your side, tugs at the lace hem of your shirt.

“Careful,” you chide.

He sucks his teeth and drops his hand. “I’m just trying to be playful.”

“I know, but I like this shirt.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got three just like it.”

You don’t answer, know it’ll lead to more useless bickering. Just tug the stupid thing over your head, ready to go to bed.

“Hey now, that’s more like it,” he drawls, fingertips running down your spine.

You jump, surprised, but play it off that his hands are cold. He makes some crass comment about warming them up, reaching for your breasts, and your stomach churns.

“I-I think I ate something bad,” you lie, all but sprinting for the bathroom.

You close the door behind you - but don’t lock it. Just sit on the floor, the wall cold against your back, while you try to breathe through your spinning, conflicting thoughts.

He’s finally giving you attention, affection. Why aren’t you jumping at this opportunity to spend time with him? Not long ago, you would have been weeping with joy to have an iota of your normal relationship back. Maybe you really did eat something bad.

“Hey,” Brandon calls through the door, “I’m gonna stay somewhere else tonight.”

You stare at the blank white wood, aghast. “But I’m sick.”

“It’s not like I can do much, is there? Except listen to you be sick all night,” he reasons. “And who knows. Maybe it wasn’t something you ate. Maybe it’s contagious. I don’t want to spend the weekend ill.”

Your eyes burn. He didn’t even open the door to check. “Yeah,” you agree, voice robotic, “you’re right.”

Not even five minutes later, you hear the front door close. That almost, almost does you in. You manage to keep your lackluster dinner down, but not the tears.

You let yourself be pathetic for a few minutes, crying into your arms, folded over your knees. When you finally manage to get yourself together, it’s not Brandon you ache for. It’s Kyle. It’s not possible, you know. You just don’t want to be alone even though the nausea is dissipating.

Sighing, you remove your ruined makeup and wash your face, climb into one of Kyle’s jumpers. At least it still smells like him. It’s only as you’re trying to decide on a comfort show, huddled into a ball on the couch, that you remember his advice.

It takes all of fifteen seconds of debate before you scramble for your phone.

I know it’s late, but are you free, you text Johnny.

A response comes almost immediately.

Always for you, lass. You bite your lip on a tiny smile, already feeling better. Your phone buzzes again. What’s up?

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment as you figure out what to ask - then how to ask it.

Would you want to come to mine for movies? I don’t feel good…

He answers instantly again. Ice cream not-good or Theraflu not-good?

You sniffle when you remember that being sick was a dealbreaker for your night with Brandon.

Ice cream not-good, you reply.

Say no more, hen. Be there in fifteen. Pick a good one.

You watch TikTok’s until there’s a knock at the door. Upon answering, you’re swept up in a bear hug that lifts you off your socked feet.

“Johnny!” you cry, laughing a bit in shock.

“There she is!” he crows, swinging you around. “Been missin’ my best girl!”

You tell yourself the thrill in your stomach is just from him setting you down. (It’s a harder sell when it happens again seeing his wide smile and warm blue eyes.)

“You're ridiculous,” you huff, “I’m not your best girl.”

He arches his eyebrows. “Oh, yer keepin’ track, are ye?”

“C’mon, you must have a partner or something?” you prod as you usher him inside.

“Kyle must’ve told ye, hen, it’s hard in this line of work,” he explains, shrugging. “Tried before but… usually they just end up feeling neglected, ya ken.”

You hum. That’s why Kyle said you and he would work so well with the open relationship - that you’d still have someone at home while he was out. That you wouldn’t be alone if something happened to him.

“Anyway, this is no kinda talk for a cozy night in, now is it?” Johnny says, cutting your melancholy musing short. “Come look at what I brought ya!”

You only notice then the two grocery bags in one hand. He herds you to the couch and sets them on the coffee table for you to root through.

“My favorite!” You exclaim when you extract the tub of ice cream.

The grin Johnny shoots you is proud. “Kyle said so.”

“You two,” you sigh happily.

He’s also brought a squishy stuffed animal, crisps, popcorn, soda, candy, and a small collection of self-care items. You hold the face-masks up with a questioning smile.

“Heard somewhere that it’s good for ye, when yer feelin’ down.” You try not to giggle when the last word comes out sounding like “doon.” He continues, blissfully ignorant. “Hope that’s the right shite, there was a lot to choose from.”

You throw your arms around him, chest warm. “Thank you, this is perfect, Johnny.”

He circles his arm around your waist, holding you close. “Anytime, bonnie,” he murmurs into your hair.

You squeeze his shoulders as you pull away, waving one of the mask packets with a wicked little smile.

“Wanna try this ‘shite’ with me?” you tease.

You expect a resounding and masculine-heavy no. Instead, Johnny tilts his head consideringly for a moment, then shrugs.

“Eh, why the hell not?”

You wake up the next morning to a mess of candy wrappers, discarded moisturizers, and an empty carton of ice cream. And the smell of eggs. Cartoons are playing quietly on the telly. When you yawn and sit up, you’re greeted by a cheerful Johnny at the stove, wearing your pink apron.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls.

You flush and smile back, glad that you called him. “Mornin’!”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[mrsfancyferrari]

Save You

Summary: You are the first woman to be racing in Formula 1 and you and Max are already best friends. To Jos' dismay. Part 2

Song: Me and Your Mama by Childish Gambino

Part 1 - Part 3 Author’s note: This is the longest part I've ever written but I had so much fun written it! CW: sexist comments, domestic violence (not from Max). I'm still salty about Daniel Ricciardo's exit to Formula 1 so I decided to add him a little here. PS. I yapped a bit too much in this one so the third one is the last one!

Please like, reblog and share this!

Tag List: @ahhhhhm, @daniskywalkersolo, @friendshipis-magic, @tellybearryyyy, @lanadelray1989, @owl778, @almostuniversallyface, @maluzets55, @dying-inside-but-its-classy, @noooway555.

Word count: 28.8k

You remember the moment vividly, as if it were a whirlwind that spun you around until you were disoriented, lost in the chaos of emotions and shouts.

It all happened so fast—one moment, you were trying to reason with your boyfriend, caught in a tense exchange that escalated rapidly, and the next, he was storming out of your driver’s room, slamming the door with a force that rattled the walls.

Your heart raced with confusion and fear, leaving you breathless as you tried to process what had just happened. You could hardly grasp the gravity of the situation when Max appeared, his presence a sudden calm amidst the storm.

He moved swiftly, wrapping his strong hands around you, lifting you from the ground with an ease that almost felt surreal.

As he gently placed you on the sofa, the urgency in his movements made it clear that this was no ordinary moment—it was a protective embrace wrapped in an unspoken promise.

Sobbing uncontrollably, you buried your face into the crook of Max's neck, allowing the warmth of his body to comfort you as you fought against the tide of panic swelling within.

The tears came in waves, fueled by both fear and the overwhelming relief that someone was there to protect you. You could feel Max's heartbeat steady against your cheek, a rhythmic reminder that you were no longer alone in this moment of crisis.

You let your emotions spill forth, whispering broken apologies through the muffled sobs, feeling as if you were somehow to blame for the chaos that had just erupted in your life.

"I’m so sorry, Max. It’s all my fault," you managed to choke out, your voice barely a whisper between shaky breaths.

“Shh, schat,” he murmured softly, his breath warm against your ear, trying to soothe your spiraling thoughts. The Dutch term of endearment caught you off guard, making the moment feel strangely intimate despite the turmoil around you.

“You’re going to be alright. He won’t hurt you anymore,” he assured you, his voice steady and reassuring, cutting through the fog of your fear.

Yet, somewhere deep inside, uncertainty gnawed at you—could he really promise such a thing?

You felt Max’s grip tighten slightly around you, an unyielding reassurance that made you cling to him even more desperately, seeking refuge in the strength he offered.

It was as if he could sense your doubts, your swirling fears, and was determined to chase them away simply by being there.

In the background, you could hear Max yelling for security, his voice rising in urgency. “Get someone here! Find him! I want him arrested!”

You pulled back slightly, looking into Max's eyes, searching for the comfort that his words promised.

“What if he comes back?” you asked, your voice trembling as the thought caused fresh panic to swell within you.

Max shook his head firmly, his expression serious but his gaze softening. “He won’t. Not with me here. I’ll make sure of it,” he assured you, each word laced with a fierce promise that began to ease the tension within your chest, if only just a little.

“But… I didn’t want any of this,” you protested weakly, feeling a mix of guilt and fear wash over you again, drowning out the sense of safety that was slowly starting to seep in. "I just wanted everything to be okay."

Max's grip around you tightened, anchoring you in the moment, and he pulled you closer, as if shielding you from the world outside. “You deserve to feel safe, schat. What he did was wrong, and you don’t have to apologize for his actions,” he said earnestly, his voice low yet commanding, creating a cocoon of support around you.

You could sense his determination, the adamancy in his words echoing deep within you, and slowly, you began to believe him.

As the sound of footsteps pattered in the hallway, Max's attention shifted, his protective instincts kicking in. “Stay here. Don’t move,” he instructed firmly, and you nodded as a sense of urgency pulsed through him.

His presence was a bulwark against the storm of fear that raged just on the other side of the door, and you wanted nothing more than for him to stay, to shield you from any lingering shadows of doubt.

The door swung open, revealing a security guard with a concerned expression that mirrored your own internal turmoil. “What happened?” the guard asked, eyes flicking between you and Max, who was still in protective mode, grounding you in a way that felt sublime yet strange.

Max responded immediately, his voice steady once more. “Her boyfriend just stormed out, and he was abusing her. I want you to find him and arrest him,” he insisted, his tone brooking no argument as the security man nodded and rushed out.

You could feel yourself trembling as the grip of fear lingered just beneath the surface, the weight of what had transpired embedding itself deep within your mind.

“Max, what if they can’t find him?” you whispered, dread pooling in your stomach as the thought conjured images of your past—of moments you desperately wished to forget.

He turned back to you, kneeling in front of the sofa now, his intensity softening as he searched your face.

“Shh, just breathe. Even if they don’t, I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe now,” he said earnestly, and you could see the determination etched into his features, lending you strength even amid your anxiety.

Despite the dim light casting shadows around the room, you could feel Max’s warm hands cradling your face, his touch careful as he scrutinized the bruises marring your skin, remnants of a confrontation that had spiraled out of control.

As he gently brushed his fingers over a particularly sore spot, you winced involuntarily, a sharp pang of pain shooting through you.

You caught a glimpse of concern etched on his face as he muttered something in Dutch under his breath, a language that sounded both melodic and heavy with emotion, making your heart ache more than the injuries themselves.

“Should I call Sarah for you?” he asked softly, those deep-set eyes pleading with you for a response, and, feeling powerless, you nodded ever so slightly, sinking deeper into the cushions of the sofa, your mind swirling with anxiety and despair.

In a matter of moments, Max turned his attention to one of the team staff members who were hanging outside the door, his tone firm yet controlled as he instructed them to fetch your best friend, Sarah, as well as Christian Horner, the team principal.

The mention of Christian sent a jolt of apprehension through you, freezing your body in place as dread washed over you. “Why?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

The gravity of the situation threatened to engulf you, and in that moment, the realization hit that the repercussions of this incident were far beyond what you had initially imagined.

Max, however, maintained his reassuring demeanor, placing his hands on your shoulders. “Schat, I’m not going to hide this from our boss. He needs to know, we need more help to find him,” he reassured, the endearment slipping off his tongue even as your heart raced with panic.

Yet, instead of feeling any measure of comfort from his words, terror surged through you, knotting your stomach into an anxious ball.

“What if they fire me because I’m weak?” you blurted out, the breath escaping your lips in quickened gasps, your thoughts spiraling uncontrollably as you considered the very real possibility.

Hiring a female driver had already been a gamble for the team, and to wind up as a broken shell so soon into the season felt like a crushing defeat—a silent condemnation from the very people who had taken a chance on you.

Your mind raced back to conversations you had overheard, the doubts lingering in the air whenever someone spoke about female athletes, and you could almost feel their judgment pressing down on you like a heavy weight.

“Hey,” Max replied gently, his voice dipping into that soothing tone that always seemed to ground you amidst chaos, “You’re not weak; you’re brave.” His words sliced through your fear momentarily, lifting your spirits just enough to remind you that you weren't alone.

The tenderness of his gaze fortified your sense of resilience, tempting you to believe that maybe, just maybe, you could face whatever awaited you outside of this safe haven of the sofa.

However, the momentary calm shattered with the abrupt sound of a knock at the door, and you felt your heart plummet, your stomach twisting into knots.

“Y/N? Can I come in? Sarah is here too,” the unmistakable voice of Christian echoed from the other side, and dread nestled itself firmly in your chest like a coiled spring.

“I’ll handle it,” Max promised softly, reading the anxiety radiating from you. With a firm resolve, he reluctantly released your grasp and walked towards the door, each step amplifying the tension pulsating through your veins.

The door opened just a crack, and you could see him standing there, maintaining that familiar air of authority even under these dire circumstances

“Only Sarah can come in for now, I need to speak to you,” he said to Christian, letting Sarah in before effectively shutting the door behind him once more, blocking out the world, at least momentarily.

Your heart raced as Sarah rushed in, her eyes darting over to you, disbelief coloring her features as she took in the scene.

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Sarah exclaimed, brushing past Max and enveloping you in a tight hug. The sudden rush of affection felt overwhelming; the warmth and concern radiating from her made your heart ache in a way that was both comforting and painful.

“What happened? Are you okay?” She pulled back slightly to examine your injuries, her own fear evident as she took stock of the damage. In that instant, you could see her brave façade begin to crack as she tried to process the sight before her.

“I’m fine... it's just Jake,” you replied, though the tremor in your voice contradicted your words. “I—I don’t know how it got to this point,” you confessed, your voice shaky as fragments of the earlier confrontation flitted through your mind like uninvited ghosts.

"I didn’t mean for it to escalate. I just wanted to talk.” The regret began to seep into your words as you struggled to make sense of the chaos.

“Don’t worry about him now,” Sarah said, her voice straining to maintain a calm facade. “Right now, we just need to focus on getting you healed—physically and emotionally.”

Her words resonated deeply with you, yet the reality loomed heavily like a storm cloud, and Max’s earlier statements replayed cautiously in your mind.

The responsibility of the team rested heavily on all of you, and as malfunctioning pieces of a machine, you knew well that one weak link could cause everything to fail.

As she hurried to gather the first aid kit, you watched her hands tremble; that slight betrayal of her otherwise calm facade spoke volumes of the chaos swirling around you both.

Sarah wasted no time; she grabbed the disinfectant and began to clean your injuries with gentle yet urgent hands. Each time the cool liquid touched your bruised skin, you flinched, a reflex of pain that seemed endless.

“Y/N, you need to breathe,” she instructed softly, her voice steady despite the circumstances, her focus unwavering as she meticulously tended to the wounds.

You nodded, trying to do as she said, inhaling deeply, but it was difficult. The weight of what had just transpired clung to you like a heavy shadow. You couldn't shake the memories of anger and betrayal; the accusations echoed in your mind, each word more cutting than the last.

“I thought we were coming here to celebrate... I never meant to upset him,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her.

With a soothing focus, Sarah replied, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Y/N. You deserve to feel safe and happy.” As she continued her work, the knot in your chest shifted slightly, though the fear of what was brewing beyond the walls of this room still loomed ominously.

After a while, just as your world began to settle a bit, a knock on the door jolted you back into a state of hyper-awareness. “Y/N? Can we come in?”

The familiar voice of Max floated through the air, tinged with an unspoken worry that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket. You responded without lifting your gaze, murmuring a soft, “yes.”

As the door swung open, the heaviness inside the room somehow increased; you sensed that Christian was there, and the atmosphere shifted even more.

As Max stepped in, his brow furrowed with concern, you felt Christian kneel in front of you, his presence larger than life.

“Y/N, I already heard the situation from Max, but I want to hear it from you,” he stated earnestly, his eyes searching yours for something—trust, perhaps? You could hardly look up; the ground beneath you felt like a safe harbor amidst the turbulence of the moment.

You took a shaky breath, feeling your heart race as your thoughts collided chaotically in your mind. “I came here to celebrate with him, but he was mad at me for... hugging Max,” you began, your voice barely above a murmur, fragile as glass. “He said that I didn’t love him, and then he... he started hitting me.”

The admission crawled from your lips like a reluctant confession, and the tremor in your voice did not go unnoticed. You could see Max's expression darken, his shoulders tensing as he processed your words.

There was a silence that followed, heavy with unspoken emotions. You could feel Christian leaning closer, his concern palpable as he gathered himself to respond, and you desperately searched for the courage to continue.

There was a weight in your chest that begged to be released, and you pressed on cautiously, “This isn’t the first time,” you added quietly, the finality of those words sending a chilling wave across the room.

The realization hung in the air, a bitter truth that seemed to fracture the space between you. Max looked at Christian, his eyes ablaze with anger, while Christian’s face turned somber, understanding the gravity of your plight. 

Everyone remained quiet, their eyes wide with shock and concern, but you felt an overwhelming urge to glance away, to escape their gaze that seemed to search for answers you couldn’t provide.

“I’m sorry for causing the team trouble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, hoping to mend the fragile atmosphere, to shift their focus away from your pain and back to the celebrations that were meant to mark the day.

You wanted every trace of the confrontation with your boyfriend to fade into oblivion, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that this situation had been your fault all along, and there was no reason for anyone else to be burdened by your turmoil.

Yet, despite your desperate attempts to shield the room from your hurt, Christian remained kneeling in front of you, his expression locked in a mix of concern and determination that made you feel both vulnerable and cared for.

“Y/N, you didn’t cause trouble; you were put in a situation that no one should have to endure,” he said, his tone unwavering and assured, carrying a weight of authority that made you question the narrative you had spun in your mind.

You didn’t reply, your thoughts replaying like a broken record, insisting that you were to blame for everything that had transpired, and that perhaps his anger was justified.

Christian leaned even closer, his gaze piercing through your defenses, as if he was trying to communicate an unspoken truth that resonated deeply.

“Y/N, what he did to you is not love; it’s control, and you deserve so much more than that.” His words struck you like a lightning bolt, its intensity shattering the delicate veil you had cloaked your heart in.

You felt a rush of conflicting emotions; anger, shame, and the desperate longing for validation collided within you. Christian’s bluntness was perhaps harsher than he intended, yet it pierced through the fog of denial you had wrapped around yourself for so long.

You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, too powerful to be contained, and before you realized it, you were crying, your hands instinctively covering your face as if to hide the vulnerability that was now exposed to everyone in the room.

Just as the moment became overwhelming, a sudden knock on the door jolted you from your despair. “Sir, the podium ceremony is about to start, and we can’t find the two drivers,” a voice called from the hallway, breaking through the dark cloud of tension lingering in the air.

You froze, the harsh reality of the upcoming ceremony crashing down on you. For a volatile moment, your mind flickered between the desire to stay hidden in your grief and the urgency of your obligations to the team.

The celebration you had come to cherish now felt like a distant memory overshadowed by the weight of your turmoil.

Without warning, you felt strong arms wrapping around you, patting your back in a comforting gesture. You recognized Christian's warm presence immediately; it felt safe and secure, something you so desperately needed at that moment.

“Max, go to the ceremony. I’ll pay for the fine of Y/N not being there,” Christian asserted, his voice firm and resolute, leaving no room for argument.

You glanced up just in time to catch Max’s conflicted expression, a combination of concern for you and the demands of his role come alive in his eyes.

Max sighed deeply, the burden of his decisions evident on his face. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised, his gaze lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before he turned to dash out of the room, leaving you and Christian surrounded by the remnants of a conversation heavy with unspoken emotions.

In the silence that followed, a myriad of thoughts coursed through your mind, battling against a newfound understanding of the reality you faced, the strength and comfort that Christian had extended towards you.

As the door clicked shut behind Max, you turned your attention back to Christian, who remained kneeling beside you, his presence steadfast and unwavering.

"Y/N," he said softly, his eyes reflecting concern and warmth, "you don’t have to go through this alone."

At that moment, as you glanced into his earnest gaze, the burdens you had clung to began to feel just a little lighter, and for the first time, a flicker of hope ignited within you. . . .

As you stepped into the sterile environment of the medical office, the fluorescent lights dimly illuminated the white walls adorned with various health posters, each outlining a different aspect of well-being.

Christian, with his serious demeanor, turned to you before leaving, stating, “When you’re finished, you can go to my office to stay until I come back.”

His voice was firm, yet filled with an undercurrent of concern, which only heightened the weight on your chest.

You watched him walk away, his silhouette vanishing just as the doctor entered, clipboard in hand, wearing a reassuring smile that struggled to dissolve the tension enveloping you.

Deep down, you felt ashamed for taking up the woman’s time, as though your presence here was an inconvenience that disrupted the flow of her practiced routine.

You were here because of the circumstances that had befallen you, yet as she gently guided you to the examination area, the overwhelming reality of the situation became more apparent, pressing down like a heavy blanket.

As the doctor began her examination, her focus was both professional and compassionate, yet every question she posed felt like a dagger, pricking at the fragility of your emotional state.

“Has he ever sexually abused you before?” she asked, a serious note underpinning her words, thickening the air between you.

You hesitated, processing the gravity of such a term—before shaking your head softly, “No, he has never.”

She nodded, her pen swiftly dancing across the tablet in her grasp, writing notes as though it were a casual affair. Yet, you could sense the importance of her record-keeping beneath the surface; this was far from casual.

Her next question pierced through the relatively calm atmosphere, “Has he ever abused you before today?”

You felt a lump rise in your throat, and with a small, defeated whisper, you answered, “Yes.” A heaviness settled around that one word, a truth that had wrapped its icy fingers around your heart.

“Would you be able to tell me what happened today?” The doctor’s tone shifted slightly, filled with a careful urgency. “This can be used during court when he is arrested, so please be truthful.”

As the implications of her words washed over you, you felt your eyes widen in disbelief. “Court? Arrested? I don’t want that for him,” you blurted out, the panic creeping into your voice.

The weight of advocating for justice felt immeasurable, and silence hung in the air as you contemplated the meaning of those words.

“Y/N, he needs to be held accountable for what he’s done to you,” the doctor stated, her resolve unwavering as she searched your gaze for understanding.

But even as the truth of her words resonated deep within you, your mind rebelled against the possibility, “But maybe he’s sick; he was never like this,” you said, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate rant.

“You have a right to feel safe, Y/N. This is your chance to reclaim that safety.” Her voice softened, yet the gravity of the statement stirred a newfound resolve within you.

The desire to protect him clashed violently with the instinct to protect yourself, and you felt torn between two worlds. Eventually, the stories spilled forth, rolling out like an uncoiling serpent, with each recollection revealing the depths of your pain.

With each word, the doctor wrote meticulously, capturing the moments that had led you to this very room.

“Now what happens to him? To me?”

Her gaze focused intently on you as she replied, “After hearing your story, you will either probably go to witness protection, or your boss can arrange security for you until he is arrested.”

The reality of that world sank in, even as you nodded numbly, realizing that this was the pathway to reclaiming a sense of safety you had long forfeited.

Feeling emotionally drained and physically exhausted from the events of the day, you were dismissed with a gentle nod, your body moving almost on autopilot as you left the examination room.

The sterile scents of antiseptic and anxiety lingered in the air as you navigated the corridor, heart pounding in rhythm with your swift steps.

Each stride took you closer to Christian’s office, a sanctuary amid the chaos that had engulfed your life so suddenly.

Arriving at his office door, you hesitated for just a moment, recalling his serious expression and the weight of his concern for your well-being.

When you finally pushed the door open, relief washed over you like a warm embrace, but fatigue quickly crept back in. The room was quiet, with just the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the empty spaces, creating a cocoon that felt safe.

You glanced around, taking in the familiar decor—framed photographs of successful moments, a comfortable sofa nestled against the wall.

Your eyes settled on the sofa that beckoned to you, promising a brief respite from the emotional rollercoaster you had just endured.

Nervously, you wondered if Christian would mind you taking a nap in his office, but the exhaustion was overwhelming, and your body ached for rest.

Slumping onto the sofa, you closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to shield your thoughts from the world outside those four walls.

The events of the day replayed in your mind, like a film reel you could not rewind, each moment etched vividly in your memory.

What would happen when Christian returned? Would he press you for more details, or would he allow you the time to sift through your own feelings?

Somewhere deep within, you hoped he would understand, giving you a moment to breathe before confronting the complexities of your feelings for him, for the man who had hurt you, and for the healing journey that lay ahead.

As you drifted into a light sleep, fragmented thoughts flitted in and out of focus, mingling with the soft sounds of the office—the distant murmur of voices in the hallway, the rhythmic ticking of a clock that reminded you that time was both a friend and a foe.

You felt during that fleeting moment of unconsciousness an odd sense of being caught between two worlds—the one that had once felt safe, and the other that now lay battered and bruised, promising change yet filling you with trepidation.

You started to think about Max. How shocked he looked when he saw him put his hands on you? How gentle he was with your injuries and how he handled the situation.

“You deserve to feel safe, schat. What he did was wrong, and you don’t have to apologize for his actions,”

From what little Dutch you knew, you remembered that schat meant darling or used when speaking to a loved one. Why would he use it for you?

You woke up feeling an unexpected warmth enveloping you, a stark contrast to the coolness that had cradled you to sleep just hours earlier.

The gentle pressure of a hand rubbing your arm slowly stirred you to consciousness, the soothing motion coaxing your senses awake. Blinking your eyes open, the familiar sight of your team principal, Christian Horner, focused on his laptop filled your vision.

It seemed he had draped a blanket over you during your unintentional slumber. Puzzled, you thought, Who was keeping watch over me?

“Hey, schat, you awake now?” came a soft voice from above, pulling you fully into the present. You looked up to find Max standing beside you, a warm smile gracing his features.

“Max!” you exclaimed, attempting to sit up but feeling momentarily ensnared by the blanket that enveloped you. “What happened? I thought you were celebrating with the team.”

“I was,” he admitted, still smiling. “But I wanted to check if you were okay. When we found you in Christian’s office, he said to let you sleep. You looked too peaceful to disturb.”

“Did I really doze off for that long? I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Max interrupted, leaning down so your eyes met. “We had a long day out there, and you’ve been working hard. Besides, you looked really cute all curled up.”

“Cute?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow with playful skepticism. “You’re calling me cute? You must still be half asleep.”

“Absolutely not,” he replied with a convinced grin. “I only speak the truth. You should know by now that sometimes I have my serious moments too.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “Okay, Mr. Serious. What time is it? And what about the rest of the team?”

“It’s just past 10,” he explained. “Everyone’s pretty much had their fill of the day. They went back home, but Christian stayed behind to do some paperwork for tomorrow and I wanted to keep you company for when you woke up.”

“It’s actually 11,” Christian corrected from his desk, looking over with a warm smile.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I could have gone home—” you began, finally unraveling yourself from the blanket.

“That’s the problem, Y/N. You can’t go home for now,” Christian said, turning his full attention to you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, a knot of unease forming in your stomach.

Christian’s expression grew serious, his brow furrowed slightly. “We don’t know where he could be. He might be at your home right now, waiting for you to come back and... continue what he started.” You shuddered at the thought.

“Since I’m sure you don’t want to draw any attention, I’ve thought of some options,” he continued. “You can either stay at a friend’s house or stay at Max’s apartment until I prepare a room for you in mine and Geri’s house, and she’s alright with you living with us for a couple of weeks. Or…” he paused dramatically, letting the gravity of his last suggestion linger, “you can go into witness protection.”

“I’ll stay with Max,” you decided quickly, feeling a mix of urgency and safety in your choice.

Max’s eyes lit up, relief flooding his features. “I’ll make sure you’re comfortable, don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Max, I appreciate it,” you replied, feeling grateful for his presence.

Christian nodded approvingly. “Good choice. I’ll take care of the logistics for your transition in the meantime. Just focus on feeling safe.”

As the conversation unfolded, the sense of camaraderie between you and Max eased your anxiety. The world felt a little less daunting with him by your side.

He nodded, his expression turning more serious as he added, “Just remember, you’re not alone. You’ve got me and Christian in your corner.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, reassured. “Yeah, I know.” As you and Max exchanged glances, an unspoken understanding passed between you, solidifying your newfound alliance in the face of uncertainty.

After Christian went into minute detail about the anticipated events to come, unwinding the tension that had gripped you, he finally allowed you and Max to leave, his voice still echoing in your mind like a soft melody lingering long after the music has ceased.

Max, with a protective grace only he could possess, instinctively drew closer to you, ensuring you felt cocooned in warmth and safety, even amid uncertainty.

As he walked you to his car, the cool evening air felt alive with the subtle electricity of unspoken promises, and the distant hum of life resumed around you.

With an elegant fluidity, Max opened the door for you, his focus unwavering as he ensured you were settled comfortably before he closed it, sealing you momentarily in a world of sanctuary.

The click of the door echoed softly, granting the illusion that nothing could intrude upon your brief escape from reality. Glancing up at him, you couldn’t suppress the small smile that spread across your face, a mixture of gratitude and affection shimmering in your gaze.

“Max, you don’t have to act like my bodyguard,” you say, a small smile ghosting across your lips, a playful challenge against the fortress of concern he has erected around you.

The faintest hint of a smirk appears on his face, but there’s a deeper sincerity in his blue eyes that speaks volumes beyond mere banter.

“But I want you to feel safe when you’re with me, so you don’t have to think about that… kontol,” he mutters that last word. You knew enough curse words from Max to know what it meant.

Settling back in your seat and casting your gaze to him, you’re struck by the intensity of his focus as he maneuvers the car through the quiet streets, each motion deliberate and serene.

The way his fingers wrap around the steering wheel—the casual strength reflected in his posture—invites you into a realm where unease dissolves into a calming rhythm.

“You really don’t have to worry so much, you know,” you venture softly, your voice mingling with the hum of the engine, finding a tender spot nestled within the palpable tension of the moment.

You sense the tightness in his shoulders as his grip on the wheel tightens even more, betraying the concern he is trying to mask for your sake.

“I just can’t get that image of you looking helpless with him,” he whispers, the vulnerability dancing in his words palpable and raw.

Your heart lurches, feeling the weight of his worry press upon you, like a stark reminder of just how deeply your experience has affected not just you, but him too.

“I feel like I should have known something was wrong, I should have been there quicker to help you,” he adds more to himself than to you, the burden of ‘what ifs’ clearly heavy on his shoulders.

You want to reach out and ease that weight, to let him know that he’s not responsible for the shadows of your past, but the moment feels too fragile for such heavy revelations.

“You were there for me today, and that’s what matters now,” you counter, placing your hand gently over his in a gesture meant to soothe, to bridge the distance that feels all too real between you.

The warm flush creeping into his cheeks ignites a warmth within you that offers a fleeting sense of relief; a flicker of connection that momentarily overrides the heavy past.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his gaze flitting away to the road, trying to mask the sweetness of the exchange with quiet humility. But you see it—the way his heart races beneath the surface, mirrored in the subtle blush that graces his skin.

The drive to his house preserves a unique atmosphere, woven through with a quiet intimacy forged from shared vulnerability. Every beat of silence flows with unspoken words; your thoughts cascade with reflections, and the knowledge that you are safely ensconced in his world lightens the heaviness that clung to you only hours before.

Max’s home appears on the horizon like a promise, a sanctuary that beckons you in—where the walls may shield you from the storm outside, and where you both can catch your breath, suspended in this precious moment away from the chaos that once clouded your existence.

When he finally parks the car and steps out, you find your heart racing—not from fear, but from a deepening connection that you can’t quite explain.

Max rounds the car and extends a hand to you, his expression earnest and inviting as he helps you out.

Max’s apartment was a reflection of his personality, cozy yet sophisticated, steeped in a warmth that seemed to welcome you the moment you stepped over the threshold.

The spaces unfolded before you like chapters of an intimate novel, with the large kitchen on one side glimmering under the soft glow of pendant lights, whispering promises of shared meals and laughter.

The rich, wooden cabinets contrasted beautifully with the gleaming surfaces, their handles reflecting a playful charm that hinted at culinary adventures waiting to unfold.

“Welcome to your second home for now,” Max teased, his voice a light melody that danced through the air as he locked the door behind you.

The living room, adorned with plush couches and a vibrant rug, beckoned you to sink into its comforting embrace, where the scent of fresh linen lingered, mingling seamlessly with the warmth emanating from the radiator, creating an atmosphere that felt almost like a hug.

As you scanned the apartment, a sense of trepidation washed over you, chasing away the remnants of your earlier turmoil.

“You sure about me staying here with you?” you asked, your voice a fragile whisper, betraying the vulnerability you felt.

The holiday break promised you two weeks away from the chaos that had blurred the edges of your reality, yet the thought of being in someone else’s space, especially Max’s, made your heart flutter with an unsettling mixture of hope and fear.

“Of course, I really don’t mind it,” Max replied, a soft smile illuminating his features, his confidence anchoring you amidst the storm of your emotions.

With your heart racing, you glanced at the clock: 11:30 PM. An array of thoughts flooded your mind, but most pressing was the clinging stickiness of your race suit, a constant reminder of the day’s events and an unwelcome discomfort that left you yearning for solace.

“Is it okay for me to take a shower?” you asked, your voice barely above a murmur as you moved towards the clean, bright bathroom that was nearly the embodiment of serenity.

The tiles sparkled under the muted light, promising a refuge where you could shed not just the sweat of the day but also the weight of your recent memories.

“Sure, oh and Christian said to give this to you, it’s medicine for your injuries,” he said, handing you a small bag filled with care.

The thoughtfulness of this gesture warmed your heart, though you could feel the physical wounds from the past echoing painfully in your veins, a bitter reminder of how low you had felt just weeks ago.

“Thanks,” you replied, the simple gratitude punctuating your quietude as you slid into the bathroom, letting the door close softly behind you, the world beyond fading into a gentle hum.

As you stripped off the remnants of your race suit, every article of clothing felt like a shackle clattering to the ground, freeing you inch by inch from a past you desperately wanted to escape.

The steam began to rise around you, cocooning you in a veil of warmth that offered both comfort and clarity. You stepped into the bath, allowing the hot water to envelope you, a baptism of sorts that washed away not just the physical grime, but the emotional scars that had festered for far too long.

Yet, as you sank into the soothing embrace of the water, a wave of humiliation surged through you, twisting your stomach in knots.

Memories of your now ex-boyfriend's cruel words and actions replayed mercilessly in your mind, reminding you of the darkness that had lingered. You had been reduced to less than you were, every blow shattering pieces of your spirit, leaving you questioning every facet of your worth.

In the confines of that bathroom, you confronted the painful truth that had been so easy to bury beneath the adrenaline of racing and the busyness of life.

“People say relationships suffer,” you thought, reflecting on the misleading normalcy of abuse, entwined deeply with the deceptive narrative that the pain could be survived, that love was somehow worth the bruises and scars that persisted long after the physical encounters had ended.

Your heart sobbed at this realization, the weight of confusion heavy upon you as you grappled with the fallacy of loyalty served on a platter too often mistaken for love.

You had thought that the resentment would be fleeting, that it would dissipate with time, yet here you were — raw, exposed, and painfully aware of the truths you had tried to ignore.

Just as you closed your eyes to soak in a moment of tranquility, a sharp knock interrupted your reverie. “Y/N?” Max’s voice, warm and inviting, floated through the door.

The sound wrapped around you, making your heart flutter. “Yes?” you replied, trying to hide the slight rasp in your voice, wishing it didn’t betray your feelings of vulnerability.

“You didn’t bring any clothes with you, did you?”

A question that sent a rush of embarrassment to your cheeks; of course, in your haste, you had forgotten the very essential clothing that was supposed to accompany such a spontaneous shower.

“Umm, no,” you managed to utter.

Silence lingered for a brief moment, a lull filled with unspoken thoughts. Then, as if sensing your apprehension, Max responded, “Oh, okay, I have some clean clothes that I haven’t used in a while if you want to wear them.”

His voice was light, making the proposition feel effortless, caring.

“Thank you, Max,” you replied, mentally shaking off the embarrassment as you drew the bathwater to a close and readied yourself.

With a nervous slight tug on the towel, you opened the door just enough for Max to pass the clothes over. As he held them out, you couldn’t help but notice the fabric’s soft texture, fine enough to catch the light yet sturdy—almost like it had absorbed pieces of him.

As you inhaled, the faint scent of his cologne enveloped you, mixing with the steam, leaving your senses dizzy with fondness.

You quickly finished your bath, a smile spreading across your lips as you donned the shirt, the scent lingering, almost wrapping you in an embrace.

The fabric felt like a gentle caress against your skin, a reminder of his presence as you gleefully caught another whiff.

Once you draped the outfit, you noticed your race suit lying crumpled on the floor like a forgotten promise of adventure. You picked it up and folded it, placing the race suit on the empty cabinet.

After applying the medicine on your injuries, you stepped out of the bathroom, your feet grazed something soft; you looked down to find cozy hotel slippers waiting for you, an unexpected but welcome touch of warmth.

A grin crept onto your face as you slipped them on and padded out in search of Max.

Max wasn't like Jake. Max could never be like him.

Finding him nestled comfortably on the couch, the dim light casting a soft glow over him from the TV, you felt a flutter in your chest—a magnetic pull toward the easy way he carried himself, like royalty in the thick of an enchanting evening.

He looked up at you and smiled, an expression that radiated genuine interest coupled with an undeniable charm.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, making the smile dance on your lips that much wider.

“A bit,” you admitted softly, your voice a mere whisper yet laden with sincerity.

You settled onto the couch opposite him, heart racing as the anticipation of conversation thrummed in the air. Max's warm smile seemed to wrap around you, making the atmosphere in the room palpable with familiarity and comfort.

The air was thick with an unspoken connection, and sitting there in his clothes—your heart oddly buoyed by the fabric’s softness—made you feel like you were wrapped in his affection in a way that words could never convey.

“Can I ask you a question?” you muttered, your gaze fixated on the flickering images dancing across the TV screen. The show’s plot blared loudly in the background, a mere soundtrack to your swirling thoughts, but you barely registered its presence.

Your knees were drawn up to your chin, an instinctive posture reflecting your vulnerability as you hugged your legs tightly, seeking comfort in the familiar embrace of your own warmth.

“Of course, go ahead,” Max said, his voice steady and inviting as he shifted on the sofa to face you squarely, the cushions barely creaking under his movement.

There was a glint of curiosity and concern in his eyes, a warmth that sent a ripple of comfort through your chest, yet the uncertainty that loomed was undeniable.

You hesitated for a moment, the words lingering in your throat—a mix of trepidation and hope—but the longing to understand what had pushed the two of you into this chasm of silence propelled you forward.

“Were you ignoring me before?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you turned your head to gauge his reaction.

You searched his face, studying the way his brows knitted together in confusion, wondering if the curiosity in his gaze could dispel the cloud of doubt that had settled over your hearts.

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes widening with an intensity that startled you.

You could see it in the way he leaned closer, his body language eager and open, as though he was reaching out to bridge the distance that had subtly grown between you.

“Why would I ever ignore you?” he added, urgency creeping into his tone, and you felt a flicker of relief. Perhaps there was hope yet.

“For a few weeks, you were quiet and not really speaking like you were ignoring me,” you explained, the words tumbling out of your mouth as if they were long-buried treasures surfacing for the first time.

“Did I do something before this?”

The vulnerability of the question hung in the air, heavy and poignant. Your heart raced as you revealed your insecurities, clinging to the fragile hope that there was an explanation beyond your own anxieties that had distorted your perception.

Max’s expression shifted, a concoction of surprise and remorse weaving through his features. He inched closer on the couch, and the warmth radiating from him was a balm to your aching heart.

“No, no, no,” he said earnestly, shaking his head almost as if the very notion were unthinkable. “You didn’t do anything, I promise… it was my father. He said that you were a distraction, and I stupidly believed him. I’m sorry.”

“No, he’s right; I am a distraction,” you muttered, feeling the all-too-familiar sting of tears pooling in your eyes, blurring your vision. Each word felt like a dagger, more painful than the last, ripping through the fragile walls you had built around your emotions.

Why were you crying so much today?

A thousand thoughts cascaded through your mind, each one vying for attention, each one whispering doubts that clawed at your heart.

You felt raw, exposed, and achingly vulnerable as the tears slipped down your cheeks, staining your skin with reminders of your fears and frustrations.

You could see Max’s silhouette in front of you, but everything felt so far away, contorted by your swirling thoughts.

“You’re not a distraction,” he said softly, his words brushing against your cheeks like gentle summer rain, coaxing the tension from your shoulders and momentarily soothing the raging storm inside.

“Then why didn’t you talk to me? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” you asked, the tremor in your voice betraying the courage you tried to summon.

When he looked at you, his deep eyes seemed to hold the universe’s secrets, hinting at vulnerabilities etched into his soul.

“I was afraid,” Max admitted, his voice dropping to a confessional whisper as he held your gaze steady.

“Max, you’re the strongest person I know,” you whispered, the words slipping from your lips like a prayer, a plea for him to see himself through your eyes.

But he shook his head gently, a bittersweet smile dancing across his lips, which felt like a fragile shield against the haunting thoughts that loomed in the back of his mind.

“No, I’m not. It would be you, Y/N. You’ve been so brave today,” Max reassured you, the sincerity in his tone wrapping around you like a warm embrace on a chilly evening, reminding you of the delicate threads that tied your hearts together.

“You know, my dad was abusive when I was young. I used to look at how he would yell and hit my mom and think that isn’t love, and I promised myself that I would never treat a woman like that,” Max said, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability that sent ripples of emotion through you.

You could feel the weight of his past, heavy and burdensome, and it carved deeper channels of understanding between you.

“Why was I so stupid?” you muttered to yourself, resting your head in the crook of his neck, seeking solace in the warmth of his presence as the flood of memories began to wash over you, tainted by regret.

“You aren’t stupid. You thought he could change, but he didn’t,” he replied, his gentle reassurance sending waves of comfort through your body.

Max rubbed your back softly, a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat, steady and reassuring, anchoring you both in the moment.

As you found yourself drifting off, nestled comfortably in the warmth of Max's embrace, you couldn't shake the feeling that safety wrapped around you like a soft, familiar blanket.

Just as your eyelids grew heavy, you heard his teasing voice cut through the tranquil silence, “Alright, it’s already past your bedtime; you’re falling asleep now,” he chuckled, a playful lilt in his tone that made your heart flutter.

Though you felt a twinge of embarrassment for being caught in such a vulnerable moment, the warmth of his arms cradled you securely, and you silently reveled in the vertiginous rush of emotion, wishing you could tell him just how safe and cherished you felt in his presence.

Awakening slightly to the realization that you needed to move, you slowly extracted yourself from the embrace of his strong arms, the warmth dissipating like a gentle breeze as you asked, “Where am I going to sleep?”

Your voice was laced with a hint of drowsiness, and you felt your heart skip a beat, wishing you could cling to his presence just a little longer.

Max, ever the gentleman, looked at you with an endearing smile, as if the world outside had faded and all that mattered was the moment shared between you two.

“You’re sleeping in my bed while I’ll sleep here,” he replied, gesturing to the sofa, a hint of mock seriousness lingering in his face.

“Why can’t I sleep there? I’m the guest, after all,” you said, crossing your arms with playful defiance.

“Exactly, as the guest, you have the bed,” he said with a grin, the twinkle in his eye making your stomach do somersaults.

With a resigned sigh that went hand in hand with your smile, you said, “Alright, goodnight, Max,” as you rose from the plush sofa, the coolness of the air brushing against your skin making you long for the warmth you were leaving behind.

You turned to stroll towards his bedroom, taking in the sweet scent that lingered in the air, mingling with the soft glow of the lamp lined with shadows.

As you entered the sanctuary of his bedroom, you were greeted by new sheets that exuded a tantalizing freshness, yet the unmistakable hint of his cologne clung to the fabric.

You slipped under the sheets and instantly felt a wave of comfort envelop you, a serene cocoon that embraced your body as you sunk into the softness.

A smile crept upon your lips, and as you lay there, you could almost imagine Max right beside you, the warmth of his presence lingering like a comforting ghost.

The very thought of him there calmed your mind, and you allowed yourself to indulge in a colorful daydream, your thoughts conjuring up scenarios of what it would be like if he were to join you, sharing whispered words and laughter that floated across the room with the gentleness of a lullaby. . . .

As you stood there, the air heavy with a palpable tension, your mind raced to comprehend the scene unfolding before you.

Max was positioned a few feet away, his expression nothing short of disgust, but it was the biting words that cut deeper.

“Max?” you stammered, your voice trembling with confusion. “What are you talking about?” In that moment, his features twisted into a scowl, and he spat out, “Why did I even save you? You deserve to be beaten.”

The sting of his accusation made your heart race painfully, leaving you frozen in a whirlwind of disbelief.

The world around you blurred into insignificance as you tried to grapple with your friend’s betrayal; the very person who had once stood by you now stood glaring, with an expression that twisted your gut in knots.

Before you could formulate a response, another voice sliced through the air like a knife, colder than the steel that usually bound your friendship with Sarah.

“Why are you so weak? I’m so ashamed of you,” she declared, her tone laced with venom. Your best friend, the one you had confided in countless times, now seemed like a stranger draped in a veil of contempt.

You felt your insides churn as you processed her words, each syllable echoing in your mind like taunts. Memories of shared laughter and whispered secrets felt shattered, like fragile glass scattered across the ground, leaving only a raw sense of betrayal behind.

“Why are you even saying this?” you managed to blurt out, your voice wavering as confusion morphed into anger.

You looked between Max and Sarah, searching their faces for any semblance of the friends you once knew, but all that reflected back were harsh judgments and scorn. Max folded his arms across his chest as if to shield himself from your desperation.

“You’re just a disappointment,” he sneered, eyes piercing into yours with a coldness that felt like ice.

Each word from him and Sarah chipped away at your spirit, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable, as if you were standing naked in front of a relentless crowd that reveled in your humiliation.

The desire to fight back surged within you, but the fear of losing them completely had your heart in a vice grip, caught between the impulse to defend yourself and the dread of being utterly alone. . . .

The stillness of the night enveloped you like a thick blanket, lulling you into the deep embrace of slumber, when a sudden jolt shattered its peace.

Your eyelids snapped open, and the dim light casting shadows across your room revealed Max, his face a canvas of distress.

The anxiety etched on his brow stirred something deep within you, pulling you from the remnants of dreams into the stark reality of your fears.

You could see the way his eyes darted around, seeking solace yet seeming so lost.

The moment hung heavy as confusion washed over you, and without thinking, hot tears pooled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks like unrestrained streams.

"Max, please don’t leave me, I’m sorry," you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice trembling like a fragile leaf in the wind. The apology escaped your lips almost instinctively, the weight of the words heavy with desperation.

As his gaze bore into yours, you could see the confusion radiating from him, like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. "What?" he asked, the question hanging heavily in the air, reminding you of the helplessness that was tightening its grip around your heart.

In that moment, time felt suspended, and all the doubts and regrets swirled around you, amplifying the emotional chaos you were desperately trying to convey.

Grappling with the fear of losing him, you grasped Max’s hand tightly, your fingers interlocking in a grip that felt both grounding and desperate.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered again, your voice barely rising above a whisper, as if the enormity of your feelings couldn’t bear the weight of louder tones.

You didn't want to plunge back into the darkness of sleep, where nightmares thrived, and instead, you clung to this fleeting moment, scared yet hopeful that it could anchor you.

"Why are you apologizing?" Max pressed, his brow furrowing deeper as he tried to decode the underlying emotion behind your tears.

With an instinctive urge to pour out everything bottled up inside, you took a shaky breath. "I don’t want to lose you… I’ve messed things up so many times," you confessed, your voice trembling as you navigated through the fog of your thoughts.

“I just—” the words caught in your throat, but the honesty behind your despair painted a vivid picture for him, illustrating fears and insecurities that had no measure of expressiveness until this moment.

As the silence enveloped you both, you could see the gears inside Max’s mind turning; he was trying to bridge the chasm of misunderstanding that loomed between you

"You’re not going to lose me," he assured, and in that very promise, there was both comfort and resolution.

It was a promise that somehow had the power to lift the weight of anxiety off your shoulders.

When you finally calmed down, Max then asked you, "Did you have a nightmare?"

You nodded, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks, embarrassment washing over you.

This was the second time today you had let your emotions spill over in front of him, and it felt like a cascading waterfall of humiliation.

You had already cried five times that day, each tear representing a different worry or fear that consumed you. It was exhausting to feel this way, especially around someone like Max, who always seemed so put together.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he replied softly, his voice a gentle balm to your frayed nerves. He leaned in closer, his silhouette warm and reassuring under the soft glow of the lamp in the dim room. “Can you tell me about it?”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you wanted to expose that part of yourself, the vulnerable part that was torn apart in your dreams. But something about his genuine concern urged you to speak.

“It was about you and Sarah,” you finally muttered, glancing down at your hands. “You were both saying that I deserved to get beaten up and that I was a disappointment.”

Max’s eyes widened in surprise, a mix of concern and disbelief flashing across his face. “What? I would never say anything like that, you know that, right?” His brows knitted together, revealing the depth of his worry for you.

“I know that,” you sighed, feeling a sting in your throat as tears threatened to spill over again. “But in the dream, it felt so real. It’s like I could hear the words echoing in my mind, and it just made everything feel worse. I didn’t want to feel that way about myself… I swear.”

Max nodded, sensing the weight of your distress. “Do you want to go back to sleep, or do you want something to drink?” he suggested, his voice laced with a gentle concern that always managed to soothe the edges of your anxiety.

“I just want you here until I go to sleep,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, feeling shy and grateful for his presence. It was comforting to know that amidst the chaos in your mind, you had someone who cared.

“I can do that. Let me go switch off my sim race first.” Max said, jumping off the bed with a sense of urgency. His warmth left a chill in the air, but you appreciated the brief absence.

His passion for racing was contagious, and the thought of him returning filled you with a faint sense of anticipation.

You patiently waited for him to come back, allowing the quiet of the room to settle around you. It wasn’t long before you heard the familiar sound of his footsteps padding back towards you.

He climbed back onto the bed, a soft smile stretching across his face as he settled into place beside you. “Okay, I’m all yours. So, about yesterday… your first win?”

You perked up a little, the memory of your victory igniting a spark of joy. “Yeah! I still can’t believe I pulled it off. The thrill of crossing the finish line… it was unreal!”

Max chuckled, his eyes shining with excitement. “I remember my first win! I was so ecstatic, I nearly jumped out of my seat! But oh man, do you know how many technical problems I faced beforehand? My car almost didn’t even start up! I had the entire team sweating bullets. But when I finally got that checkered flag… whew! Talk about the sweetest moment.”

“I can just imagine you doing your victory lap,” you teased, a smile dancing across your lips. “Did you dance in the car?”

“Of course! I had to celebrate! I mean, who wouldn’t?” Max laughed, closing his eyes momentarily as if reliving those exhilarating moments.

“But then, as soon as I got out of that car, I was hit with all the pressures that came with winning. Everyone was expecting more.”

You listened to him intently, his words lacing with both excitement and the weight of responsibility that success brought. As he recounted the finer details of that day, his passion was contagious.

You could feel your eyelids growing heavier, each word weaving a cocoon of comfort around you. The rhythm of his voice was like a lullaby, slowly drawing you into slumber.

“...and then I had to deal with the media,” Max continued, his tone still animated but softer now. “They all wanted to know my secret—”

You couldn’t help it; your eyes fluttered shut, and soon, you surrendered to sleep, comforted by the sound of Max’s voice and the warmth of his presence.

In this moment, as you drifted off, the worries that haunted you began to fade, replaced by the assurance that you weren’t alone.

You’d face whatever demons awaited in your dreams, but for now, you were safe, cocooned in your shared space with Max. . . .

You woke up to the tantalizing aroma of Spanish food wafting through the air. The smell wrapped around you like a cozy blanket, beckoning you from the warmth of Max’s bed.

With a yawn and a stretch, you slowly got out, your sleepy mind still not fully processing the delightful scent.

As you tiptoed down the hallway, you couldn’t help but notice Max in the kitchen, diligently sorting through grocery bags.

He was dressed in a casual grey shirt and black shorts that highlighted his toned calves. His tousled hair suggested he had just rolled out of bed moments before, and there was a charming disheveledness to him that made you smile.

“Max, why is there so much Spanish food?” you blurted out, your curiosity piqued. “I didn’t know you liked it.”

“Morning to you too, Y/N,” he replied with a touch of sarcasm, not looking up from the bag. “I actually bought them for you since you like it so much.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in surprise as you stepped closer, the kitchen now filled with the rich scents of chorizo and spices.

“Yeah,” Max said, finally meeting your gaze. There was a playful pride in his voice. “You’re staying here for two weeks; might as well treat you the best.”

A grin spread across your face. “So, what’s on the menu for today? I hope there’s paella!” you exclaimed excitedly, catching sight of a bottle of saffron nestled among the colorful array of groceries.

“Of course! Paella is a must,” he confirmed, his enthusiasm infectious. The way his eyes lit up made you feel like a kid on Christmas morning. He began pulling out pots and pans, navigating the clutter of the kitchen like a seasoned chef.

“And I thought we could make some tapas as well. You know, make it a proper Spanish feast!” he added, his excitement bubbling over.

“Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself,” you laughed, moving closer to help him. “I can’t believe you went shopping just for me.”

“Anything for my favorite guest,” he said, winking playfully as he handed you a cutting board and a knife. “How do you feel about preparing the veggies while I handle the seafood?”

You laughed again, the sound of your amusement filling the kitchen. “I can handle that. What do you need me to chop?”

“Let’s see,” he said, rifling through the bags. “Bell peppers, green beans, and you can’t forget the garlic! A Spanish dish is not complete without garlic.”

“Got it!” You carefully selected the vibrant veggies and began chopping them. There was a rhythm to the kitchen as the two of you worked in tandem—Max stirring pots with one hand while the other tossed fresh seafood in, the air turning more fragrant by the minute.

“Do you really think we can eat all of this?” you asked playfully, glancing at the massive amounts of food filling the counter.

Max chuckled, “You’d be surprised at how much we can devour. Spanish food is meant to be shared—just like this experience!” He looked over, sincerity mingling with mischief in his eyes. “And don’t worry; I can always use leftovers for the next week.”

“Lucky me,” you teased. “You’re always looking out for your guests, aren’t you?”

“Only the special ones,” he said with a teasing grin, before focusing back on the sizzling pan. “So how’s your family? You mentioned they were planning a big gathering for Thanksgiving?”

“They are! My mom has already started prepping,” you started, your excitement growing as you thought about home. “She’s trying out a few new recipes this year, hoping to impress everyone. My uncle can be pretty critical.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Max chuckled, sprinkling spices into the mix. “You’ll have to tell me all about it once you get back. But for now, let’s focus on our Spanish feast. I think this will be just as memorable.”

With the wafting aromas of saffron and spices enveloping you both, you realized that, for today at least, there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Over the course of the two weeks you spent living with Max, it was almost as if a new world had opened up for you.

Each day unfolded with a comforting rhythm that wrapped around you two both like a warm blanket. It started with the little things—like the way Max would invite you to join him in sim racing, which was way different from the ones you've used in the past.

“C’mon,” he’d say, his eyes sparkling with that competitive spirit he always had, “you’ll get the hang of it. Just don’t crash my favorite car!”

“Hey! Watch the road, not me,” he teased, laughing as your car veered off course again.

“Easy for you to say,” you replied, grinning. “The controls are the problem!”

On days when you seemed overwhelmed or lost in thought, Max would gently remind you, “Don’t forget your medicine.”

It became a tender ritual—he would hold out the small tube to you, a knowing smile on his face as if he was protecting you from the weight of your own mind.

“Remember, I’m looking out for you,” he would insist, and you couldn’t help but blush at the concern in his voice.

He didn’t particularly enjoy going outside, but when you mentioned needing to stretch your legs, he’d roll his eyes and say, “Fine, but only because I’m convinced you might spontaneously combust if you stay in that long.”

Together you'd take walks around the neighborhood, his pace steady beside you, even though you knew he would rather be curled up on the couch with a gaming controller in hand.

“Look at that tree,” you said one afternoon, pointing to a large oak with brilliant leaves. “It’s got to be hundreds of years old.” Max shrugged, but you could tell he was intrigued despite his usual disinterest in nature.

“Yeah, yeah. Still prefer the virtual cars though,” he teased, nudging you playfully.

When you two were back home, you transformed the kitchen into a whirlwind of culinary experimentations. “You’re a terrible sous-chef,”

You laughed one day as you caught him unceremoniously tossing ingredients into a pot. “I think the recipe clearly says ‘diced,’ not ‘chunked.’”

Max smirked, “It’s called ‘rustic.’ Ever heard of it? Besides, no one can mess up spaghetti, right?”

“How do you mess up spaghetti?” you joked back, and you both burst into laughter as you stirred the simmering sauce.

It wasn’t just the cooking or the racing or your endless binge-watching of movies that grew your bond; it was the unspoken comfort of simply being together.

There were nights where you would fall asleep, only to wake up moments later to find yourself nestled against Max’s chest.

You’d remain there, still as a statue, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was reassuring, like a metronome keeping time to a song you never wanted to end.

“Hey,” Max murmured one night, sensing you were awake. “You could move, you know. I won’t bite.”

You chuckled softly, “I’m okay just like this.” Your eyes wandered over his face, the silhouette of his strong jaw against the moonlight illuminating the room.

He smiled, genuine and warm, and said, “You know, I wouldn’t mind this every night. Sleeping like this… it’s not so bad.”

Your heart raced at his words, and panic briefly washed over you. A small voice in your head warned your to push the thought aside—that this was just a temporary arrangement, and you shouldn’t read too much into it.

But how could you, when every little moment felt so domestic, so right?

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” you replied, playfully nudging him. “What if I start snoring?”

Max laughed, “Then I’ll simply have to learn to embrace it.” You both lay there, in the gentle silence, your heart pounding in a rhythm that matched his.

Those two weeks were more than just a temporary living situation; they were a chapter in your lives that you feared might close.

But in that moment, with your head on his chest and his heartbeat echoing in your ears, you dared to hope that maybe it didn’t have to end after all. . . .

As you settled into the plush leather seat of Max's private jet, a mixture of excitement and unease fluttered in your stomach like an errant butterfly escaping its cocoon.

The rhythmic hum of the engines and the lavish ambiance of the aircraft surrounded you, yet your mind drifted back to the fleeting two weeks spent together. Those days had slipped away faster than the blink of an eye, drenched in laughter and shared clandestine glances that held more meaning than words ever could.

Disappointment lingered like a bittersweet aftertaste as you recalled the warmth of his hand grazing against yours, each touch igniting sparks that made the world outside seem pale and distant.

You gazed out of the expansive window, watching the clouds float by like cotton candy, while a soft tone pulled you back to the present.

“You nervous?” Max's voice cut through your reverie, a playful lilt embedded within. You turned to face him, observing the way the sunlight danced in his hair, making it shimmer with golden flecks.

“Kind of,” you admitted, your voice a whisper tinged with uncertainty. “I really want to race for the rest of the races this year.”

It was both a declaration and a plea, words hung on the edge of hope. You could feel his gaze, steady and unwavering, as if he were silently supporting your dreams and aspirations.

The stakes felt higher than ever, the anticipation of not knowing whether Christian would allow you a seat in the car making your heart race faster than any Grand Prix.

Yet alongside that fear was a flicker of determination; you inhaled deeply, channeling every ounce of courage into your reply, as the jet soared toward the neon lights of Las Vegas, a city that pulsed with energy and life.

When the jet finally touched down on the private runway, the world outside transformed dramatically, an explosion of vibrant colors and thumping bass reverberating through your body.

Max stood up, pulling you from your seat with a gentle tug of your hand. “Let’s make some memories,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Even in that moment, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was just another distraction, a temporary escape from the looming decision set to unfold in Christian's office.

As you descended from the jet, your heart beat in tune with the rhythm of this electrifying city, but the weight of uncertainty loomed like a thundercloud overhead, always threatening to release its rain.

You and Max navigated the bustling streets in the car, clarity fading as the dazzling casinos and extravagant shows surrounded you like a whirlwind of possibility.

However, each step closer to Christian’s office felt heavier, like an anchor weighing you down, pulling your spirits into the depths of apprehension.

“What if he doesn’t let you race?” Max asked, slipping his arm around your shoulders as you walked.

The worry etched into his brow was softened by the warmth radiating from his embrace. You shook your head, biting back the tide of fear welling inside you.

“I can’t think like that. I’ve earned my place, and I’ve worked too hard to just let it all go,” you replied, your voice steadying as a semblance of confidence took root within.

"Good, I hope he knows he can't replace you," Max grinned at your confidence.

When you finally reached Christian’s office, your breath caught in your throat as reality kicked back in with full force.

The opulent office, adorned with trophies and racing memorabilia, felt more intimidating than you ever remembered. You were ushered in by Max, who gave you an encouraging nod, though you could sense his concern, hidden just behind that confident facade.

“Let’s get this over with,” you murmured, trying to steady yourself as you took a seat before Christian’s imposing desk.

He looked up with a pinched expression, a man heavy with responsibility, and for a moment, the air was thick with silent tension, the kind that overshadowed every unspoken word you both shared.

“So, you’re all healed up?” Christian finally inquired, his tone neutral, betraying little of what lay beneath the surface. You nodded, straightening your back as you gathered the fragments of your courage.

“Yes, I am. I’m ready to compete again,” you replied, infusing as much conviction into your voice as you could muster.

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air, and you could practically feel the wheels of his mind turning as he weighed your words against the reality of the season and your past challenges and wins.

Max shifted in his seat beside you, perhaps sensing the rising tension as you waited for Christian’s verdict. Time felt like molasses as it stretched into something insufferably long. Finally, Christian looked up, his expression unreadable as if he were gauging the contents of your very soul.

“Alright, I want you back on the track this week,” he declared, the words echoing in your mind as your heart surged with adrenaline at the realization that your wish was coming true.

You caught Max's eye, and in that shared look, a symphony of emotions played between you; relief, excitement, and a silent promise.

"Y/N, can I speak to you alone?" Christian's gaze was intense as he fixed his eyes on Max, who was leaning against the nearby chair, a protective aura surrounding him.

Max caught the hint. He patted your thigh reassuringly, his eyes never leaving Christian's. "I'll be outside if you need me," he said, his voice friendly but firm, before stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind him.

The tension in the room shifted slightly, and you could feel the weight of Christian's presence. "I wanted to talk about your housing situation. I can assume that you had a safe and good time with Max?" he stated, his expression serious.

You nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude for Max. "Yes, I feel safe with him. He's been… really supportive."

Christian leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing you with a look that seemed to search deep into your thoughts. "You know staying with Max is not an option anymore. It would eventually cause rumors, and you don’t want that kind of attention, especially not now," he stated, as if giving you a warning.

Swallowing hard, you felt the weight of his words. "What do you suggest then?"

Christian leaned forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany desk. "You have two options: you can come live with me, Geri, and the kids until he’s caught, or you go into witness protection," he outlined, his voice steady.

Your heart raced at the mention of witness protection. "Witness protection? Do you really think things are that serious still? I mean, I appreciate the concern, but—"

"Y/N," he interrupted, his voice firm yet filled with care, "it’s not just about safety; it’s about you having a life free from fear. You deserve that. I know it sounds extreme, but this is a serious matter. You're too important to risk being caught up in something that could put you in danger."

You fidget with your fingers, trying to process everything. "Living with you? With your family? That's a lot to ask. I barely know your kids. What if they—"

"Will see you as part of the family," Christian reassured, a softening in his features. "Geri and I have talked about this. We want to protect you, truly. The kids would love having you around. They need the company, and you need a safe place to stay."

The offer was tempting. A warm household, laughter, and safety. "But what about Max?" you questioned, a pang of guilt pressing against your heart. "He’s done so much for me. It feels unfair to leave him, especially if he might be in danger too."

Christian sighed, a hint of understanding in his gaze. "Max is capable and smart. You two have built a bond, but he knows the situation. If he thought it was best for you to leave, he would support your decision, even if it hurts him to see you go. Your safety has to come first."

The thought struck you hard. Did you really want to give up the comfort of Max's presence? "What if I chose to go into witness protection?" you asked, testing the waters.

Christian raised an eyebrow, his expression neutral. "That would mean leaving everything behind—your job, your friends, your life as you know it. It’s a complete reset. Are you ready for that?"

You took a deep breath, glancing back at the closed door, imagining Max waiting just outside. The two of you shared so much in the past weeks. But as you weighed your options, the gravity of your situation settled in.

After a moment of silence, filled only by the distant hum of the city outside, you finally spoke again. “I’ll stay with your family until he’s caught,” you said, the decision resolute but still thick with uncertainty.

“Good choice,” Christian replied with a reassuring smile. “Your room is almost ready; it will be finished by tomorrow, so you can come by then.”

“Is that all?” you asked, stifling a yawn that threatened to escape. The long flight had drained you, and adrenaline was wearing off; fatigue was creeping in.

“Yes, that is all. Good night, Y/N,” Christian said, his voice gentle. “And tell Max that I can see him staring at me from outside, and it’s not intimidating.”

You turned around just in time to see Max quickly avert his gaze, a hint of pink dusting his cheeks. You couldn’t help a small smile as you thanked Christian and stepped out of his office, the door clicking softly behind you.

As you and Max walked down the hallway, the weight of the situation hung heavy in the air. “So, what did he say?” Max asked curiously, catching up to walk beside you.

You hesitated, looking down at your trembling hands. “Just that everything is going to be okay… that I can stay with his family until…” Your voice trailed off, the weight of the unspoken hanging over you both like an ominous shadow.

“Until he’s caught,” Max finished for you, his own voice subdued. “I don’t like this, you know. I don’t like that you have to hide. It’s not fair.”

“I know,” you replied softly, feeling a pang of guilt mixed with fear. “But it’s not about what’s fair. It’s about what’s safe.”

You paused, glancing at Max, whose brow was furrowed with concern. “The last thing I want is to put you in more danger.”

Max looked down, his frustration evident. “But I am in danger. You being around me is a risk, too. I can’t just stand by and let you go through this alone.”

He stepped closer, his hand lightly brushing against your arm, a comforting gesture amidst the chaos. “Promise me you’ll keep your guard up and be careful.”

“I promise, Max,” you said, forcing a smile to lighten the mood. “He also mentioned that he could see you staring at him and that it’s not intimidating,” you added with a playful lilt to your voice, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Max’s eyes narrowed playfully as he rolled them. “Yeah, right. Like I could ever not find him intimidating,” he said, unable to completely hide the nervous laugh that escaped him.

“Will you continue being my bodyguard in the paddock?” you asked jokingly, a playful smile gracing your lips as the sun dipped low, casting a golden hue over the bustling scene around you.

Max looked up from where he was adjusting his cap, his smile widening as if your lighthearted question had brightened his entire afternoon.

“I thought you would never ask,” he replied happily, his eyes glimmering with a mix of amusement and something deeper, something unspoken that danced just beneath the surface of your banter.

“You know,” you continued, your voice softer now, “it’s not just about the races. It’s about feeling safe with you around.”

Max’s smile slipped, replaced by a seriousness that made your pulse race. “Then I’m honored to be your shield,” he declared, stepping closer, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

As you settled your suitcase on the floor of Max’s cozy apartment, a wave of nostalgia washed over you. “It looks nice,” you muttered, taking in the familiar sight—the warm hues of the walls, the bookshelf crammed with books, the couch that seemed to beckon you for a rest.

It reminded you so much of the last place you two lived together, a shared sanctuary filled with laughter and late-night conversations.

Part of you was sad that you was only staying for a day, feeling the weight of past moments pressing against your heart.

“What do you want to do?” Max asked, closing the door behind us, his voice tinged with hope as he leaned casually against the frame.

He looked at you with those bright, contemplative eyes, and you felt a pang of longing.

“I really just feel like sleeping until tomorrow,” you replied, turning to face him, unable to hide the weariness in your tone.

Just as you said it, you noticed the disappointment flicker across his face, a fleeting shadow that made you second-guess your words. You wanted to be with him, to wrap yourself in the comforting familiarity of your bond—not to just shut down for the night.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking a step toward you. “You don’t have to force yourself. If you’re tired, we can just chill here. You know we can always catch up.”

Your heart swelled at his understanding. “I know, it’s just… I didn’t plan to stay, and I didn’t want it to feel like an imposition.”

“It’s never an imposition. I’ve really missed having you around.” His gaze softened, and he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The simple touch ignited something deep within you, a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface.

“Max, we just live in a house together for two weeks,” you asked, a shy smile creeping onto your lips. “How did you already miss me?”

“Of course I miss you! Who else will I binge-watch terrible reality shows with?” He chuckled, and the sound was infectious, momentarily easing the tension that had built between you two.

“Touché,” you smirked. “I do bring a certain charm to mindless television.”

“Exactly,” he said, returning your smile. Your eyes locked, and in that moment, you could feel the air thickening with unspoken words. The space between you two seemed to shrink, the familiar safety of your friendship morphing into something more tangible, more raw.

“Do you want to lie down?” Max asked, gesturing to the couch. “I mean, we can watch something or just… talk.”

“Talking sounds nice,” you replied hesitantly, yet the thought of lying next to him on the worn couch sent butterflies fluttering through your stomach even though you've done it several times by 'accident'.

As you two settled down, you curled up against him, resting your head on his shoulder. The warmth of his body enveloped you, softening the sharp edges of your weariness.

You two spent a few minutes in a comfortable silence, yet you could feel the tension crackling in the air.

You found yourself leaning in, drawn to him in a way that felt both right and utterly wrong.

It was a stark reminder—only weeks ago, you had closed the chapter on a relationship that had once defined you.

You shouldn't rush something so fragile; the memory of your past still loomed large, casting a shadow over this budding connection.

“So who’s getting the bed tonight?” you asked with a playful grin, tilting your head to meet Max’s gaze, those eyes of his truly captivating—you could often describe them as ‘shimmering sapphires’ or ‘endless oceans,’ each glance drawing you deeper into their depths.

Max smirked, the corners of his mouth curling up in that infuriatingly charming way that made your heart race, “We’ll just have to fight it out.”

Before you could reply, his hands slid under you with effortless strength, lifting you up bridal style.

Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck, the warmth of his body enveloping you like a cozy blanket on a chilly evening.

"Hey! That's unfair!" you said, slightly squirming before giving up and relaxed into Max's arms.

"That's the whole point schat," Max chuckled, the sound low and playful, your heart beating a little faster as he gazed down at you, those enchanting eyes sparkling with mischief.

As Max carried you down the hallway, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging in his arms, the playful teasing blurring into something deeper, something that lingered in the space between you. . . .

Max's frustration hung in the air like an uninvited guest, refusing to leave the room. "Why can she stay with me until he's found?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a blend of desperation and confusion.

Christian, unfazed, leaned back against his desk, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Because, Max," he stated calmly, as though revealing an irrefutable truth, "first, you know that the two of you will eventually be seen together, and rumors will start to swirl—trust me, Y/N doesn't want that attention right now."

He continued, watching Max's expression twist into shock and embarrassment with each revelation.

"Second, it’s kind of odd, isn’t it? You're both just cohabiting there as if you’re already a couple, yet haven’t taken that step. It makes things unnecessarily complicated." Christian paused for just a moment, truly considering Max's feelings.

"Lastly," he added gently, “I just don’t want her to feel pressured or frustrated by your feelings toward her. It’s a heavy weight to carry, especially now.” The words, while protective, sent an uncomfortable chill down Max’s spine as he grappled with the reality of his emotions.

Caught off guard, Max sputtered, "I don't—" but Christian cut him off.

"Look, I don't want to pry into your private life more than I have to," he interjected, his tone firm yet understanding, "but if you two are truly dating and make it public, then all of this changes. Only then would I feel comfortable allowing her to stay in your house.”

The implications of his Christian's words hung heavily in the room, echoing with possibilities. Max's heart raced, torn between wanting to shield Y/N from the chaos of their intertwined lives and admitting the depth of his feelings for her.

As he searched for the right words, he felt the weight of what Christian suggested: making things official.

Could he really bear the thought of Y/N mingling with rumors, or worse, being pulled away from him in this tumultuous time?

Max helped you carry your suitcase to Christian's car, his gentle hands guiding the weight of your belongings as if they were delicate treasures.

“Be safe, okay? Call me when you get there,” he said cautiously, a glimmer of protectiveness in his blue eyes, aware that Christian was watching the two of you from his car, a hint of impatience growing in the tense atmosphere.

The moment felt suspended, the unspoken feelings between you and Max hanging in the air like the golden thread of sunset—beautiful, bittersweet, and entirely unresolved.

“Okay, Dad,” you teased, your voice light yet your heart heavy as you caught the faint flush of color bloom across Max's cheeks. “But really, I’m going to be fine, Max; I’m in good hands. I promise I’ll call you when I get there,” you insisted, trying to soothe his worry while feeling a warmth well within you, realizing how much his concern meant.

“Yeah, yeah, I know Christian has a good track record,” he chuckled lightly, brushing aside the earnestness of his previous concern, the easy camaraderie that had defined your friendship shimmering just beneath the surface.

“Good, now give me a hug, ex-roommate,” you joked, the playful tone dancing lightly on your lips.

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him—clean and comforting, a temporary home you were reluctantly leaving behind.

There was something timeless in that embrace, a moment suspended, as if you were both aware that it could be one of the last times you'd feel this way.

“Promise me you’ll call, alright? I don’t care what time it is,” Max said, a seriousness flickering beneath the surface of his vibrant smile.

You felt the walls around your heart crack just a little, the vulnerable parts of yourself laid bare under his earnest gaze. “Yeah, I promise,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper, and you could see the corners of Max’s mouth twitch upwards, a flicker of relief dancing through his features.

“Alright then, off you go. Don’t keep Christian waiting,” he urged, that playful glint in his eyes returning as he took a step back, releasing you to the world outside the cocoon of your shared memories.

As you turned to head to the car, you paused for a moment, glancing back at him.

“See you tomorrow at the meeting, don’t be late,” you called out, your smile lingering in the air like the last rays of sunlight slipping below the horizon.

You waved goodbye, your heart stuttering with the weight of the unsaid, the emotion swirling around you like autumn leaves—beautiful but fleeting.

Getting into the car, you looked back at Max, now a silhouette against the sun, your heart full of unexpressed emotions tumbling through as you nestled into the seat.

With Christian beside you, the door to a new chapter beckoned, but the shadow of Max lingered, whispering secrets of familiarity and warmth.

Just as you settled into your new world, a sudden longing surged through you, a need to hold onto the closeness you shared as friends, both exhilarated and anxious about the journey ahead.

As Christian started the engine, turning the key with an eager spark, you stole one last glance at Max, his waves dissipating into the distance as the car rolled forward.

The road stretched ahead—unknown and promising—a direct reflection of the confusing emotions dancing in your chest. “You okay?” Christian asked, glancing over at you, a genuine concern etched onto his face.

You blinked, momentarily caught in the juxtaposition of your feelings; how could you articulate the whirlwind of heartache and excitement that coursed through you?

“Yeah, just… thinking,” you replied, your voice trailing off, filled with layers of meaning, laced with thoughts of the boy left behind, forever entwined in your heart.

“Max is a good guy,” Christian commented, trying to coax a smile from your lips as the gentle hum of the car’s engine enveloped you.

“He is,” you admitted, a wistfulness threading through your voice.

Both of you understood that your past and present existed in a delicate dance, entwined in a tapestry of emotions too tangled to unravel.

Yet, with every mile that passed, the unyielding desire to forge ahead built a crescendo in your heart—still, the ghost of lingering glances and gentle hugs could not be so easily dismissed.

As you parked the car alongside Christian's extravagant home, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

The house loomed before you—a sprawling, modern marvel that boasted large floor-to-ceiling windows, elegantly framed by rich mahogany trim. It was painted a soft gray, showcasing neatly manicured landscaping that whispered of meticulous care.

The front door, a bold shade of navy blue, stood out against the neutral facade, inviting yet imposing. You took a deep breath, trying to quell the butterflies in your stomach.

“Come on, Y/N, I’m sure Geri has already made dinner,” Christian said, his voice pulling you from your contemplations. His confidence was reassuring, but doubts still lingered in your mind.

What if his kids hated you? What if Geri changed her mind about you staying?

With your heart still thumping, you hopped out of the car and grabbed your suitcase from the trunk, noticing the gleaming exterior of the house reflecting the soft glow of the evening sun.

Christian walked over, pushing the door open with a flourish. “After you,” he said, gesturing grandly with a smile.

You stepped inside, and the interior left you momentarily breathless. The open-concept living room was filled with plush furniture arranged around a stunning fireplace adorned with a collection of family photos.

A delicate chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm ambiance. It felt like a scene from a magazine, yet you couldn't shake the unease fluttering in your chest.

Just then, the sound of small footsteps echoed through the hallway. A rush of energy burst from around the corner as a boy and girl, Montague and Olivia, appeared, their eyes wide with excitement.

“Daddy!” they yelled in unison, rushing to greet Christian before halting abruptly, taking in your presence. The air thickened with anticipation.

“Montague, Olivia, go greet Y/N like I taught you,” Christian urged gently, nudging them forward.

Olivia, the older of the two, looked up at you, her big eyes sparkling with curiosity but tinged with shyness. “Hi,” she squeaked, her voice a small whisper.

Montague, her younger brother, clung tightly to Olivia's side. “Are you staying for a long time?” he asked, his tone innocent and hopeful.

“Yes, I am,” you replied, crouching down to their level, eager to break the ice. “I hope we can have fun together.”

Olivia nodded slowly, the nervousness still evident in her expression. “What’s your favorite color?” she inquired, her curiosity overcoming the initial surprise.

“Pink!” you answered with a smile, seeing a flicker of interest pass between them. “And what about you?”

“Purple!” Olivia chimed happily, and Montague added, “I like blue!”

Christian chuckled softly. “Well, it sounds like we already have a creative team here.”

He pulled his daughter and son into a gentle hug. “Now, let’s head to the kitchen and see if your mom needs any help with dinner.”

As you followed them into the next room, the warmth of the moment began to wash over you. The smell of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables wafted through the air, inviting and homey.

Geri stood at the counter, her face lighting up as she spotted you. “Y/N! I’m so glad you made it!” she called, her voice warm and welcoming.

“Thank you for having me,” you responded, feeling a wave of relief.

“Have you met the kids yet?” Geri asked, turning her attention to them with a motherly smile.

“Yup! We’re talking about colors,” Montague responded enthusiastically.

“Colors and fun. That sounds like a great start,” Geri laughed. “Why don’t we all sit down for dinner together? I'll go get Blue and I’ve made plenty for us to enjoy.”

You felt a gentle tug on your shirt, a small but unmistakable gesture that drew your attention downwards. There, with her big, expressive eyes peering up at you, was Olivia, her demeanor a blend of shyness and anticipation.

As you knelt to her level, your heart warmed by the innocent enthusiasm radiating from her, you noticed a light blush coloring her cheeks.

“Yes, Olivia?” you asked, your tone inviting, eager to hear what she had to say.

“Can I show you to your room?” she whispered, her words barely audible yet filled with earnestness.

This simple request tugged at your heartstrings, and you couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of her eagerness to help.

Looking back up, you sought the assurance from Christian, who stood just a few feet away, an encouraging nod of his head affirming that it was indeed okay for you to follow Olivia.

“Okay, Olivia, you'll have to give a tour of the whole house so I don’t get lost,” you replied, smiling to ease her nerves.

The sound of her giggle was like music to your ears, a bright melody that resonated with the warmth of her spirit. Olivia's face lit up as she grabbed your hand with surprising confidence for such a young girl, embodying a sense of purpose that you found endearing.

Balancing your suitcase in your other hand, you set off with her as your guide.

The house was a charming blend of cozy rooms and sunlight that spilled in from large windows, and you felt excitement bubbling within as you anticipated each stop on the tour.

First, she led you to the kitchen, her small hand pulling you gently through the archway. “This is where we eat!” she declared, her eyes shining as she pointed toward the rustic wooden table laden with colorful placemats.

“My mom makes the best cookies here,” Olivia said proudly, prompting an immediate response from you.

“I can’t wait to try them! Do you help her bake?” you asked, genuinely curious about this little chef.

Her face beamed, and she nodded vigorously, “Yes! I mix the flour and sugar!”

As you turned your attention to the living room, Olivia continued to pull you along, her enthusiasm palpable. “And this is the living room!” she said, ushering you with an exaggerated gesture, as if revealing a grand prize.

The room was adorned with plush sofas and scattered cushions, with a massive bookshelf crammed full of colorful stories waiting to be told.

“This is where we have movie nights!” she informed you, her voice filled with a sense of pride.

“Do you have a favorite movie?” you inquired, hoping to catch a glimpse of her interests.

Beaming, she replied, “I love Frozen! I can sing all the songs!”

Next, she led you to the bathroom, where she pointed out the whimsical shower curtain decorated with dolphins. “Mine are cute!” Olivia exclaimed, delighted by her own taste.

You smiled, appreciating how keenly she had chosen items that reflected her personality. "Dolphins are great," you said, letting her take the lead as she explained the significance of each nautical detail, her words bubbling over each other with the excitement of a storyteller.

Moving forward, Olivia was keen to show you her own room. “This is my special place!” she announced, her voice filled with an unmistakable pride as she opened the door.

Inside, the walls were painted a soft lavender, enhanced by an array of colorful drawings she had created and pinned up.

She pointed to a large stuffed bear propped against her pillows, “That’s Mr. Cuddles! He protects me at night.”

You chuckled softly, recalling your own childhood companions. “Does he keep all the monsters away?” you teased, and she immediately nodded, eyes wide with seriousness.

“Yes! He’s very brave!” she declared, and you could see the fierce loyalty she had for her stuffed friend.

After her room, you finally arrived at the guest room where you would be staying. The door creaked open to reveal a bright room, adorned with a subtle decor that felt both welcoming and serene.

“This is it! This is where you will sleep!” Olivia announced, stepping back to give you a moment to take it all in.

You placed your suitcase down gently, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you for her thoughtfulness. “It’s perfect, Olivia! Thank you so much for showing me around,” you said, genuinely moved by her eagerness to ensure you felt at home.

Feeling adventurous, you sat on the edge of the bed, and she joined you, her curiosity piqued as she surveyed the room.

“What do you think? Is it what you wanted?” she inquired, her expression earnest. “Honestly, it’s more than I expected! I think I’m going to love it here,” you replied, your heart full.

She giggled again, the sound infectious and bright. “We can have sleepovers! You can sleep in my room!” Olivia suggested.

The innocence of her proposal struck a chord within you, and you smiled warmly, touched by her openness to share her world.

“Olivia, Y/N, it's time to eat!” Geri's voice echoed up the stairs, breaking the serene silence of your room. In an instant, Olivia sprang from your bed, her enthusiasm infectious as she tugged on your hand.

“Come on, Y/N, it’s time to eat!” she chirped, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

You barely had time to collect your thoughts before she led you down the stairs, the aroma of home-cooked food enveloping you like a warm blanket.

“Thank you for being such a great tour guide, Olivia. I won’t forget this day,” you assured her as you both made your way back to the living room, already dreaming of making memories in this new haven.

Descending the wooden steps, you could really smell the enticing aroma of Geri’s cooking wafting through the air, stirring your appetite.

Upon reaching the dining room, you were greeted by the lively scene: Geri was bustling about, dishing out bowls of steaming pasta, while Christian leaned casually against the counter, scrolling through his phone.

Montague, perched in his highchair, was animatedly babbling, his cherubic face smeared with remnants of whatever colorful concoction was served earlier.

You took a seat at the table next to Bluebell, who was lost in her own world, absorbed by her phone. The moment the chair scraped against the floor, her gaze shifted towards you.

“Hello, Bluebell. I’m Y/N. Hope you don’t mind me staying here,” you introduced yourself, trying to break the ice with a gentle smile, aware of how teenagers could be a bit apprehensive at first.

She looked up, her brows slightly knitted as if deciding whether to engage. “Hey. No, it’s cool,” she replied shyly, her demeanor softening as she put her phone down, curiosity flickering in her amber eyes.

“Just wasn’t expecting… company, you know? It’s usually just me, Monty, and Geri.”

“Monty?” you inquired, glancing over at the three-year-old, who was now energetically waving at you, pasta sauce dripping down his chin in a comical display.

“Yeah, he’s really a handful,” Blue said with a chuckle, her shyness fading as she began to talk animatedly about her younger brother. “He thinks he’s a superhero and tries to save the world. It’s adorable but exhausting.”

“He really seems like a little ball of energy!” you responded, laughing as Montague attempted to climb out of his highchair, his laughter ringing through the room.

Olivia joined in, her giggles mingling with her brother’s, creating a harmonious chorus of childhood joy.

“Y/N, you should come play with us after dinner!” Olivia exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as she gave you an earnest look.

“Yeah, totally!” Blue added, a hint of a smile breaking through her usual teenage facade. “We normally play hide and seek or make up stories. Just don’t let Monty be ‘it’ too many times—he’ll end up chasing you until your legs fall off.”

As the dinner progressed filled with laughter, playful banter, and the delightful chaos of family, you felt an unexpected connection blooming around the table.

Geri, with her motherly warmth, ensured everyone was well-fed, while Christian chimed in with witty commentary, balancing the atmosphere beautifully.

By the end of the meal, you realized that being here with them, amidst the laughter and shared stories, felt like a stitch woven into the fabric of a new beginning, one filled with cherished moments yet to come.

It didn't feel as nice as staying with Max but you didn't ponder on that thought for long as Olivia was telling you how her tooth fell out and she got 10 pounds under her pillow. . . .

The echoes of giggles and competitive banter from Christian’s children danced lightly in your memory—Olivia and Montague were familiar companions in this whimsical world of imagination, but it was Bluebell who had truly captivated your attention.

You realized that her spirit, fierce and competitive, was a mirror of her father’s unyielding drive; it had been a surprise to find her enthusiasm so captivating, her laughter ringing like chimes, propelling you into games that were blissfully exhausting yet heartwarming.

As the sun elongated shadows around the room, you took a deep breath, the air laden with remnants of last night’s popcorn and the sweet aroma of cocoa, feeling a warmth in your chest that settled deep, a gentle reminder of the magic shared.

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself from the confines of your cozy haven, looking forward to the day ahead.

Christian was set to drop you at the paddock where you could let go of the previous night’s laughter and embrace a new day of potential adventures.

Getting up early felt like a delightful challenge, a rare chance to be productive before the world started its hectic pace, and you moved about with a sense of purpose that felt thrilling.

After a refreshing shower, you felt the warm water wash away the fatigue of the day. The steam enveloped you, creating a soothing atmosphere as you took a moment to enjoy the tranquility.

Once you stepped out, you wrapped yourself in a soft towel, feeling the gentle fabric against your skin. As you moved to your vanity, you laid out your makeup essentials, each product a small tool in your routine.

As you admired your reflection, you felt a sense of confidence wash over you. The transformation was complete, and you were ready to take on the world, feeling empowered and beautiful.

You then went downstairs to pour coffee into a mug, enjoying the steam that curled like tendrils of warmth into the cool morning air. As you sipped, images of last night danced in your mind—each hide-and-seek episode, each playful shriek of victory from the kids.

How amusing it was to see Christian, usually so composed, getting caught up in their competitive spirit, cheering and teasing in equal measure.

Before the clock struck midnight, you had called Max, almost forgetting in the rush of the evening. The moment you heard his voice, you were instantly transported back to warmth and familiarity.

“Hey Max, you weren’t sleeping were you?” you asked, tone light yet filled with the anticipation of sharing your escapades with him.

“No, no, I was waiting for your call of course,” he replied, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling a soft flutter at the thought that he valued your chatter enough to stay awake.

“How is the place?” he continued, genuine curiosity dancing in his words.

You chuckled softly as you recalled the previous hours filled with whimsy. “Everyone is so nice here but Christian’s kids have me running around this house more times than I can count for hide and seek,” you said, lying back on your bed, the soft sheets cool against your skin.

You could hear him laughing on the other end, a sound that filled you with warmth—a gentle reminder of the connection you both cherished deeply.

There was something charming about sharing those mundane yet magical moments, and it felt good to let him in on this little slice of your life.

“Seems like you’ve had quite the workout,” Max teased lightly, his laughter mingling with your own as you could just picture his playful smile, the way it lit up his eyes.

“So which company do you like better? Mine or theirs?” he asked, his tone light, but a hint of seriousness lingered, as if he were genuinely curious to know where your heart lay.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the words slipped from your lips, “Well, I’d rather cuddle and watch a movie than chase three kids around, so I’ll pick yours,” you said, unabashedly.

You could almost hear the playful gasp echo through the receiver, as if you had thrown a gleeful gauntlet over the endless banter between you two. “So, I’m the cuddly one now, huh? I always thought I was more of the adventure type!” Max quipped, his voice dancing in the space between you, filling you with an easy warmth.

You grinned, they’re playful exchanges a lifeline reaching across the distance time and again. “Maybe both, but right now, I think I’m just all about the cuddles,” you replied, your heart fluttering at the thought of cozy evenings spent together away from the chaos.

“I can’t wait for that,” Max breathed, the earnestness behind his words brushing against your heart like a gentle caress. “It does feel weird not having you beside me,” he confessed, that hint of vulnerability beneath his bravado softening the air between you.

You were still thinking about the phone call with Max when Christian was driving you to the paddock. His voice echoed in your mind, a mixture of concern and warmth that made you feel both comforted and anxious.

As Christian navigated through the busy streets, you could almost hear Max's laughter as he playfully teased you about your nerves, and it made you smile despite the lingering thoughts.

“Are you going to be okay?” Christian broke the silence, glancing over at you with that serious look he always had when he meant business. “Should I get someone to escort you?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” you replied, giving him a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You unbuckled your seatbelt and opened the car door, the rush of energy from the paddock filling your senses.

“Thanks for the ride!” you called out, waving as you stepped out.

Making your way into the paddock, you felt a mix of excitement and anxiety flutter in your stomach. The roar of engines and the chatter of mechanics surrounded you, but your mind was focused on one person.

You headed straight to Max's garage, where the familiar sight of him in his race suit brought an instant smile to your face.

When Max noticed you, his expression lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “There you are!” he exclaimed, brushing off his hands and running towards you. “I was wondering if you’d make it before practice,”

You couldn’t help but return his infectious smile, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “Sorry I couldn't come earlier; Christian was so insistent on driving me here.”

“Good! I was worried about you after the call yesterday. Did Christian give you a hard time for your first day in his house?” He raised an eyebrow teasingly, clearly aware of how protective the team principal could be.

“Just a bit,” you admitted, playfully rolling your eyes. “He asked if I needed an escort.” You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall of the garage, watching as he fiddled with his helmet.

“Well, that’s a bit of an overreaction, but it’s not surprising given what happened,” Max muttered, glancing at the camera crew that was trying to record your conversation.

He pulled his helmet down, the expression in his eyes serious for a brief moment. “I mean, you’ve seen the way he looks out for the team, right? Especially after that ordeal the other day.”

You nodded, remembering the tense atmosphere that had enveloped the paddock after the incident. “Yeah, I guess he just wants to make sure I’m safe. But I can take care of myself,” you said defiantly.

Max chuckled softly, and there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. “I know you can. That’s one of the things I admire about you.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But sometimes, it helps to let others look out for you, especially when we’re all so deeply invested in this world.”

“Trust me, the last thing I want is to feel like a damsel in distress,” you replied, your tone more serious now. “But I also appreciate the concern. It just feels a bit overwhelming, you know?”

He nodded, understanding glimmering in his bright blue eyes. “I get that. But your presence here means you’re already part of this family. And I promise, we’ll look after you.” He grinned, the playful Max returning. “Even if Christian is a bit overbearing!”

You laughed, the tension easing further. “Alright, I guess I’ll keep the whole ‘being escorted’ concept in mind,” you countered, your tone lightening.

Max took a step back, his hands resting on his hips as he surveyed you with an affectionate gaze. “Good! Now, let’s focus on the practice.”

“Of course! Just don’t crash or anything,” you called back as he dashed off to prepare, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and admiration.

As you watched him get back into the groove of his pre-race rituals, the worries began to fade, and all that mattered was the electric atmosphere of the paddock—and Max, with his vibrant energy, ready to take on the world.

As you stood in the hushed moments before practice, the air thick with anticipation, you meticulously slipped into your race suit, its slick fabric hugging your form like a second skin.

The scent of fresh tires and gasoline mingled in the air, awakening a fierce adrenaline among the buzzing crowd of crew members. Your heart raced as you checked the data on your device, numbers bouncing around your mind like your thoughts—each lap time, tire pressure, and weather condition swirling together in a delicate balance that only the fiercest competitors understood.

Just as you prepared to slide into the cool cockpit of your car, a sudden tap on your shoulder jolted you from your racing calculations.

You turned around slowly, your heart caught in your throat, only to find a shadowy figure standing behind you, a mask concealing all but the curve of his lips, and a hat pulled low enough to obscure his eyes entirely.

Instinctively, a thin veil of fear wrapped around you, tightening its grip as you momentarily froze, feeling vulnerable and exposed in this electric environment.

In a heartbeat, the figure revealed himself, peeling back the mask with a flourish that sent a rush of relief and disbelief cascading through you.

It was Daniel Ricciardo—your idol—standing mere inches away, his warm smile illuminating the tension that had momentarily gripped your chest.

“Hey, Y/N! Can I have a hug?” he asked, his eyes sparkling beneath the brim of his hat, disarming you with both his charm and genuine enthusiasm.

You found yourself unable to respond in words, instead, your body acted on its own, arms wrapping around him in a spontaneous embrace that sent your heart racing in a completely different way.

The echo of his presence was oddly soothing, yet even in that moment of comfort, a lingering thread of fear tugged at your heart, the petrifying thought of Jake lurking like a shadow in the back of your mind, reminding you that danger was never far away.

As you clutched onto Daniel, savoring the warmth of his embrace, the panic that gripped you earlier continued to simmer just beneath the surface, whispering unsettling thoughts and fears that made your stomach roll.

You knew the truth—you were still afraid, unable to shake the haunting reality that Jake was still out there, a ghost from your past threatening your present. The very thought of him stepping through the crowd, isolating you in a sea of engines and cheers, sent a wave of nausea crashing through you.

Almost in a daze, you stepped back from Daniel, desperation clawing at your throat as you raced towards the nearest restroom, fighting the overwhelming urge to succumb to the panic that threatened to spiral out of control.

Once inside the solitude of the bathroom, you felt the walls close in, your breathing becoming shallow and labored. Your heart still raced from Daniel’s unexpected arrival, but now, it beat in rhythm with the anxiety bubbling within you.

You pressed your forehead against the cool tiles, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as tears prickled at the corners of your eyes.

You felt pathetic, the weight of your feelings crashing down like a heavy wave, your body betraying you in what should have been a victorious moment.

Then, a soft knock on the door jerked you from your thoughts, halting all movement in your panic-stricken state.

“Y/N, are you okay? Can I come in?” Daniel’s voice broke through the tumult in your mind, filled with warmth and concern.

You instinctively held your breath, reluctant to let him see you unraveling; the revelation of your raw, shaky vulnerabilities felt too overwhelming, especially in front of someone you admired so deeply.

“Y/N, I’m not going anywhere! But seriously, if you need anything, let me know,” he continued, his voice laced with genuine concern.

It was endearing to hear him use your name, pulling you back from the abyss of your spiraling thoughts. “I really appreciate it, Daniel. I just—” you spoke quietly, caught between the urge to confide in him and an innate desire to maintain your façade.

It felt impossible to lay bare your fears and the scars of your recent past to someone who was supposed to remain an untouchable beacon of inspiration.

“Just take your time,” he said softly, his words acting like a balm against your racing heart. “I’ll be right outside if you need me. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

Somehow, the reassurance in his voice made the knot in your stomach loosen, even if just slightly.

Taking a moment, you swallowed hard and focused on your breathing, allowing Daniel’s comforting words to envelop you like a protective cloak. When the storm in your mind quieted to a gentle swell, you gathered your resolve and, with a deep breath, opened the door.

Daniel leaned casually against the wall, friendly smile still gracing his face, the tension of moments ago melting away as he teased, “Hey, look who’s alive!” He lifted his hands in mock surprise, his tone lightening the atmosphere. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

You found yourself chuckling, the sound foreign yet comforting, as if his playful spirit had chased away the shadows of your earlier fears.

“Thanks for waiting,” you responded, your voice steadier than before. “Honestly, I’m so sorry about that.”

Daniel’s expression shifted slightly at that confession—he looked concerned yet compassionate as he said, “I... heard about the accident.”

Instantly, your heart sank; Jake’s actions felt like a stain on your mind that refused to wash away. The fact that Daniel knew about him was both embarrassing and terrifying.

“Christian told me but only because he didn’t want me to startle you when we first meet... seems I did it without thinking, sorry about that,” he admitted, sincerity dripping from his words, making the weight of your fears feel heavier.

“It’s not your fault; it’s been a month now, and I haven’t gotten over him,” you muttered, the truth slipping from your lips, baring a piece of your vulnerable self that you wished to shield from the world, especially from Daniel.

Daniel noticed the tension in your shoulders and without hesitation, pulled you into a warm embrace.

"You know what? For giving you a scare, why don’t we go out after? Anything will be my treat, promise," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, a stark contrast to the raging storm inside your mind.

You nodded into his shoulder, grateful for his presence. It felt safe, comforting. "I should get back to my car for the practice," you muttered, though you didn’t make an effort to pull away.

There was something about the way Daniel held you that made you forget the fear, if only for a moment.

Daniel chuckled softly, pulling you back just enough to look into your eyes. "I'll give you more hugs later, just beat Max is my only request," he joked, a playful grin dancing on his lips as he wiped the tear stains from your face with his thumb.

The gesture made you laugh a little despite everything.

"Deal," you smiled, feeling a flicker of warmth suffusing your chest. Support from Daniel felt like an anchor, grounding you even amidst the emotional tempest swirling around you.

Together, you left the bathroom. Daniel walked closely by your side, sharing small stories and light-hearted banter that somehow managed to lift your spirits. As you approached the garage, you felt lighter with each step, the looming dread receding little by little.

He watched you get into your car and waved enthusiastically as you turned the engine on.

"Remember! Just focus on your laps! You got this!" he shouted, a mixture of encouragement and playful irony in his voice, reminding you of the countless hours you had spent pushing yourself to the limit.

As you drove towards the track for practice, the familiar scenery rushed past, but this time, there was hope mingling with the anxiety. You could still hear Daniel’s laughter in your ears, a sound that promised solace and support.

The memories of the mask and the man who had startled you began to fade, replaced by a determination not just to conquer the track, but to reclaim your peace of mind.

Arriving at the track, the adrenaline started to kick in. The engine roared to life as you prepared to hit the track, and with each lap, you left a little more of your fears behind, driven by the support that Daniel freely offered.

"Let's do this!" you whispered to yourself, feeling a surge of confidence. . . .

As Daniel stepped into the paddock, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he took a deep breath, savoring the thrill of the race.

His heart was still pounding from the excitement, but he knew he had something more pressing on his mind. He darted through the paddock, weaving past busy crew members and engineers, his eyes scanning for Christian.

After a few inquiries with the staff, he finally spotted him—leaning against the wall, headphones on, immersed in conversation with a couple of mechanics.

“Hey! Christian!” Daniel called out, waving as he approached.

Christian looked up and a wide smile spread across his face. He promptly removed the headphones and wrapped his arm around Daniel in a quick embrace, giving him a friendly dab.

“I heard you met Y/N! How was it?” His curiosity was evident, the playful grin never leaving his face.

Daniel's expression shifted slightly, a hint of seriousness clouding his features. “It was worse than I thought,” he started, his voice dropping to a more somber tone.

“She thought I was… Jake. She looked terrified, man. I genuinely felt awful. I think she almost threw up from fear.” He paused, the weight of the moment hanging heavy. “But, I made sure she was alright to race.”

Christian’s brow furrowed, concern replacing the lightheartedness of the previous moment. “Do you think I should get her a therapist?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

“Honestly? It’s probably the best option,” Daniel responded. “But let her agree to it. We don’t want to push her into something she’s not ready for.”

Christian nodded slowly, processing the gravity of the situation. His gaze drifted to one of the nearby TV screens, where you were racing across the track.

“She looks strong out there, but I hate that she had to go through that. We need to make sure she feels safe here,” he said, his eyes still glued to the screen, watching her maneuver skillfully through the corners.

“Yeah, I know. She’s tough, but that doesn’t mean we can ignore what happened. It’s a lot, especially for someone new to all of this,” Daniel replied, glancing over at Christian to gauge his reaction.

Christian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just hard seeing someone go through that, especially when she's part of this team. We want everyone to feel like this is a safe space.”

Daniel nodded in agreement. “You know how it is, Christian. Racing isn’t just about speed; it’s also about the mental edge. If she’s distracted by fear, it could really affect her performance. We’d be doing her a disservice by not addressing it.”

“True,” Christian said, shaking his head slightly. “Maybe I should just have a chat with her, see how she feels after we get home. I don’t want to overstep, but I don’t want to ignore it either.”

“That sounds like a good plan. Just keep it casual; let her know you care,” Daniel encouraged.

“Right. I think she’ll appreciate that. I just hope she opens up,” Christian admitted, his brow still furrowed with concern.

As they spoke, Daniel couldn’t help but admire Christian’s sincerity. It reassured him that they were all in this together, determined to support each other, especially when it mattered most.

With a renewed sense of purpose, they turned their attention back to the race, both feeling a bit more resolute about ensuring you felt supported as you settled into this high-speed world. . . .

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears as your car was wheeled back into the garage, the adrenaline of the day coursing through your veins.

You had just finished first in practice, a thrilling outcome that put you ahead of Max, who had come in a respectable third. As you stepped out of the car, you caught sight of Daniel, just as he had promised before racing commenced.

A grin spread across his face, the kind that could light up the darkest days.

"You really took my promise of beating Max seriously," he laughed, giving you a high five that resonated with the excitement of victory.

You accepted the high five, your heart swelling with pride. “Of course! I expect to get what I want later,” you joked, a playful gleam in your eye as you made your way towards the scale for your post-race assessment.

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get changed; I have a busy schedule,” he replied, the feigned seriousness in his tone contrasting with the light-hearted atmosphere.

“Alright, just let me get this done,” you called over your shoulder and waited for the team to finish taking data.

Once freed from the technicalities, you slipped away to change into your casual clothes.

Meanwhile, Daniel was already on the move. He made his way to the adjoining garage where Max was still unpacking his equipment, grinning with mischief. The sight of Daniel took Max by surprise.

“Daniel! What are you doing here?” Max exclaimed, rising from a crouched position and dapping him up, clearly thrilled to see his old friend.

“Well, I came to see who the new star is, who is also a big fan of mine. Doesn’t that remind you of someone a few years ago?” Daniel teased, a knowing look in his eyes as he referenced you.

Max’s cheeks flushed a light shade of crimson. “Why did I ever tell you I had a man crush on you back then? You just won’t let it go, will you?” he retorted, a mix of embarrassment and amusement evident in his tone.

“Not a chance! Plus, I’ve become the chaperone for Y/N today; gotta fulfill my duties to the new star,” Daniel added with a wink.

Max’s expression shifted, disappointment flitting across his face. “You’re going out now with her?” he asked, as if the words physically pained him to say.

“Yeah, sorry I stole your crush away. You can have her tomorrow though,” Daniel whispered teasingly, watching Max’s face turn an even deeper shade of red at the implication.

“She’s not my—” Max began, but Daniel interrupted him with a knowing smirk.

“Not your crush? Max, I’ve known you for years now. I think I can tell when you love someone; your eyes can’t hide anything,” Daniel continued, his teasing tone unrelenting.

“But anyways, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow!” Daniel winked and turned to leave as he headed back to you.

As you finished putting on your casual outfit, you re-entered the garage, feeling like a weight had lifted from your shoulders. You hadn’t just met expectations; you had surpassed them. Just as you stepped out, Daniel was waiting for you with an enthusiastic grin.

“We’ve got plans, superstar.” he exclaimed, pulling you into a celebratory hug.

“Yeah? Where to?” you asked with a playful twist of your mouth.

“Somewhere you can bask in your glory—not to mention, there’s ice cream involved,” he replied, the excitement palpable in his voice.

“Now you’re talking!” you laughed, matching his enthusiasm.

As the two of you headed out of the garage, Daniel turned to you more seriously. “You’ve shown everyone what you’re made of today. Just keep believing in yourself.”

“I won’t let you down, Daniel. Just don’t forget my ice cream,” you shot back with a wink.

As you walked past Max's garage, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of motor oil and burnt rubber. The engines hummed softly in the background, a symphony of machinery that echoed the excitement in the air.

You turned to Daniel, who was bustling beside you, his playful grin a stark contrast to the urgency of the moment.

"So, you thought of a place to go to?" you asked, curiosity bubbling over as you approached the sleek silhouette of his car parked just at the edge of the paddock.

"Well," Daniel began, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "since you can't have too much before your race tomorrow..." He trailed off, his smile widening as he leaned against the driver's side door.

"I thought we could keep it chill. What do you say to a little drive to that beach café? They have the best smoothies!"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "A smoothie? Is that your idea of being 'chill'? You know that if I drink too much, I’ll be a jittery mess for the race!"

"Exactly! A little caffeine shouldn’t hurt." Daniel teased, feigning innocence as he opened the door for you. "Come on! It'll be fun, and I promise I won't let you have more than a few sips."

Sliding into the passenger seat, you rolled your eyes playfully. "You always say that, but your idea of 'just a few sips' usually turns into an all-out feast!"

He laughed, the sound warm and contagious. "Only because you keep insisting on trying everything on the menu! But hey, for the record, I look out for you. Tomorrow’s the big day, and you need to be properly fueled on adrenaline and good vibes, not heavy meals."

You nodded, feeling a spark of excitement at the thought of getting away from the intense atmosphere of the garage, if only for a moment. "Alright, you win this round. Lead the way, Café King."

As the engine roared to life, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. As Daniel kicked the car into gear, the landscape blurred past, and you took a deep breath, letting the tension slip away.

"So, what's your strategy for tomorrow?" Daniel asked, glancing at you with genuine interest as he navigated the winding road.

"Just keep it clean and smooth. I need to stay focused, avoid any unnecessary risks," you replied. "It’s a long race, and I can’t afford to let my excitement get the better of me."

Daniel nodded, his expression turning serious for a brief moment. "That’s smart. Just remember to enjoy it, too. You work hard, and you’ve got the skills. Have faith in yourself."

You turned to him, gratitude swelling in your chest. "Thanks, Daniel. I appreciate you looking out for me."

"Always," he said, a smirk returning to his face. "And besides, if you crash, I might never hear the end of it from Christian!"

With laughter bubbling between you, the tension of the day eased away.

The bell above the door chimed gently as you and Daniel stepped into the cozy café, a hidden gem nestled on a quiet street corner. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet scent of pastries, creating an inviting atmosphere.

A few scattered tables were filled with patrons enjoying their afternoon indulgences, their laughter mingling with the soft background music.

“Isn’t that Daniel? I haven’t seen you in a while!” yelled the bartender, a lively woman with curly hair and a warm smile, as she waved enthusiastically from behind the counter.

“Yeah, long time no see!” Daniel replied, his face lighting up as he made his way to the bar.

Your curiosity piqued about who this friendly bartender was, as you admired the countless bottles lining the shelves behind her.

“I see you’ve brought a friend,” she said, glancing your way with an inviting smile.

“Hi,” you responded shyly, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness at being in this vibrant café.

“And a lovely friend at that!” The bartender winked at you before turning back to Daniel. “It’s great to see you again. It’s been what, a year? What have you been up to?”

“Oh you know, the usual. Work, travel, and trying to eat my way through every café in town!” Daniel chuckled, leaning against the bar. “But I had to bring her here. I wanted to show her the best smoothies and ice creams in town! I had to come here!”

“Good choice! Our mango smoothie is to die for,” the bartender replied with a grin, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “And don’t even get me started on the chocolate fudge sundae—it's a crowd favorite.”

“Chocolate fudge sundae, huh? I might have to try that,” you chimed in, feeling your mouth water at the thought of such a decadent treat.

“Absolutely!” she exclaimed, grabbing a menu and handing it to you. “You just have to order the sundae with extra fudge. And Daniel, you know I make your favorite coffee, right?”

Daniel nodded, his eyes gleaming with fond memories. “Oh, the caramel macchiato? You know it.”

“Coming right up!” She turned towards the espresso machine with practiced ease, her hands moving swiftly to craft the drinks. You turned to Daniel, feeling a warmth settle in your chest.

“So how do you know her?” you asked, curious about this unexpected reunion and the connections Daniel had in this small town.

“We met a couple of years ago when I first came here,” Daniel explained, resting an arm casually on the counter. “She was working at this café, and we hit it off immediately over a shared love of desserts. Ever since, it’s been my go-to stop for sweet escapes.”

“Sounds like a great friendship,” you said, glancing around the café. The walls were adorned with local art, and the light fixtures hung low, casting a warm glow across the space.

“It is,” he replied, his expression softening. “And now I get to share it with you. You’re going to love it here!”

The bartender returned, placing Daniel’s drink in front of him and yours beside it. “Here you go! One caramel macchiato and a refreshingly fruit-filled mango smoothie. Let me know what you think! And are you ready for the sundae?”

You exchanged glances with Daniel, both of you bursting with anticipation for the dessert you couldn’t resist.

“Absolutely! Bring it on!” Daniel exclaimed, almost like a child at a candy store.

With a laugh, the bartender nodded and disappeared into the kitchen while you and Daniel toasted your drinks and settled into a comfortable conversation.

"So what's been happening with you and Max?" Daniel said in a teasing voice, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

You almost spit out the smoothie you were sipping. "What?" you said, trying to play it cool but failing miserably as your cheeks flushed. Daniel was relentless, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Don't try and deny it," he continued, leaning in closer, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "I'm just curious."

You rolled your eyes, feeling the heat rise in your face. "Daniel, I just broke up with my boyfriend a month ago."

"And?" he replied, a knowing look in his eyes. "Max treats you way better than that guy anyways."

You sighed, knowing he had a point. The memory of your previous relationship was still fresh, filled with moments that made you realize how much you deserved more.

"I guess you're right," you admitted reluctantly. "But it's complicated. I just need some space to figure things out."

"Complicated how?" Daniel pressed, tipping back in his chair with a grin that suggested he was enjoying this way too much. "It’s just Max. He’s fun, he’s sweet, and he clearly likes you. What’s there to figure out?”

You stared at him for a moment, contemplating your next words. “I mean, he’s great. But everything feels so... rushed. I’ve just come out of a long relationship. I don’t want to jump into something new too quickly.”

Daniel chuckled, "Well, from what I’ve seen, advice from someone in a committed relationship should be taken with caution, huh?"

You laughed, knowing exactly what he was referencing. Daniel had been with his girlfriend for years, almost to the point where you suspected he might not know what it's like to date casually anymore. “Touché,” you replied, taking another sip of your smoothie to buy yourself some time.

"But look at it this way," he continued, leaning forward, the teasing glint now replaced by genuine concern. "You deserve to be happy, and honestly, Max makes you laugh. I can’t remember the last time you smiled like that."

"Maybe," you conceded, biting your lip. "It’s just difficult to let go of all the baggage. I feel like I’m constantly carrying it around. It gets heavy sometimes."

"I get that," Daniel said more softly. “But isn’t it okay to give yourself a chance to let someone in again? Just take it slow with Max. No pressure, just see where things go.”

You thought about that for a moment. The idea of keeping things light and fun did sound appealing, especially considering how fun it had been hanging out with Max lately. “Maybe I will,” you said finally, a small smile creeping back to your face. “But if it gets messy, I’m blaming you, you know.”

Daniel laughed heartily, the playful banter returning. “Deal! Just keep me updated on this 'epic saga' of you and Max. I’m all ears for the next smoothie chat.”

You shook your head, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“Always,” he replied with a wink, raising his smoothie in a mock toast. “To new beginnings, then!”

“Y/N, can I talk to you for a second?” Christian asked, his voice pulling you from the carefree playtime with Olivia and Montague. You blinked up at him, a little surprised by the serious tone in his voice.

With a gentle nod, you gestured for Olivia and Montague to continue their game without you, watching as they remained engrossed in their imaginary adventure.

“Yes?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the unsettling knot that had begun to form in your stomach.

Christian hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground before he met your eyes again. “Daniel told me what happened before qualifying,” he said slowly, carefully studying your expression for any signs of distress.

A rush of anger welled up inside you. Of course Daniel had told him—you couldn't believe him. He promised he wouldn’t say anything to anyone.

“Don’t blame him; he’s only looking out for you,” Christian continued, his voice softening slightly. “But I wanted to suggest you go to therapy.”

You felt your heart plummet. Therapy? The world seemed to tilt on its axis at the suggestion. It felt like a gaping chasm had opened before you.

Counseling or coaching was what the “crazy” people went to, right?

“Why? I’m okay, I told you,” you argued, the defensiveness creeping into your voice.

Christian’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, his eyes piercing. “Y/N, you thought that Daniel was Jake because he looked mysterious. It’s okay to not be okay.”

His statement hit you like a slap across the face. You crossed your arms defensively, feeling exposed and vulnerable. “That doesn’t mean I need therapy,” you retorted, your voice tinged with desperation.

“I was just a bit confused. That doesn’t mean I’m... broken or whatever.”

“Confusion is a sign,” he replied, surprisingly gentle yet firm. “You’ve been through a lot lately, and you can’t just brush it off. It’s more than just a mix-up with Daniel and Jake; it’s about how you’re processing everything. Therapy can help you untangle those thoughts.”

You looked away, watching Olivia and Montague, their laughter filling the air and pulling at the corners of your lips despite the heaviness in the pit of your stomach.

“I don't need a stranger telling me how to feel,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Maybe you don’t,” Christian conceded, his tone softening. “But sometimes an outsider can see things you can’t. They can help you make sense of what’s going on in your head and heart. I care about you, Y/N. I’m not trying to push you into something you don’t want; I’m just worried.”

The sincerity in his gaze made you falter. “Worried? Why?” You found yourself searching his expression, looking for the real reason behind his concern.

“You’re my friend as well as one of my drivers,” he replied simply, and the warmth in his voice made your heart ache.

“And I can see you’re struggling, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. Finding someone to talk to could be the first step towards clarity. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

The thought lingered in your mind, swirling around like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Could it really help? Did you want it to? Your silence seemed to stretch, time slowing as you mulled over his words. 

"No thanks, I'm really okay," you said, diverting your attention back to Olivia and Montague, who were playing with a pile of colorful blocks on the floor.

Christian exhaled softly, his gaze shifting from you to the two kids. "You can’t keep pretending forever, Y/N," he murmured, concern etched deeply across his features. "It’s okay to not be okay. We all go through tough times; it doesn’t make you weak."

You paused, watching as Olivia stacked a block high enough that it wobbled precariously. "I’m not pretending, Christian. I genuinely feel fine. Just... busy, you know?” You couldn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on the children’s laughter.

"Busy?" he echoed, the skepticism evident in his voice. "Or is it that you're afraid of what you might uncover if you take a moment to actually look inside? Sometimes a distraction is easier than confronting the mess in our heads."

A pang of irritation surged within you. "I know it sounds cliché, but I really am fine. I just have a lot on my plate." You forced a smile, the kind that felt like a mask rather than a reflection of your true feelings. . . .

Christian drove you to the paddock again, the familiar sound of the tires rolling over the gravel a comforting twist of routine. As you stepped out of the car, your eyes immediately sought out Daniel, who was waiting for you, a look of sheepishness plastered across his face.

"Hey, Daniel," you said, crossing your arms and leveling him with a knowing look. “Are you my escort after yesterday?”

“Y/N,” Christian interjected, shooting you a wary glance. “Be nice and remember what I said, okay? I’ll pick up later.”

“Yeah, okay, see you later,” you replied curtly, as you slammed the car door shut. Your heart raced, not entirely sure if it was from the adrenaline of the day or the unsaid tension hanging in the air between you and Daniel.

You walked past him, straight into the paddock with purpose, though you could feel Daniel’s hesitant footsteps trailing behind you. “Y/N, I’m sorry, but I was worried! You can’t blame me for telling Christian,” he insisted, his voice laced with concern.

You held your silence, striding purposefully until you reached your garage, the familiar smell of rubber and metal welcoming you in. Only then did you turn on him, arms still crossed.

“I trusted you,” you accused, narrowing your eyes. “And you just went behind my back and told Christian. Did you tell Max too?”

“What? Of course not!” Daniel shot back defensively, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I only told Christian because of what happened. You threw up because you thought I was someone else; that’s not normal!”

“Normal? What is normal in this life?” you replied bitterly, shaking your head. “You don’t understand, Daniel. That was—” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat as a wave of embarrassment washed over you. “That was an incredible low.”

As the air between you was thick with lingering tension, Daniel stepped closer, his brow furrowing deeply with concern. The way he gently searched your eyes seemed to awaken something buried within you, a mix of frustration and vulnerability that caught you off-guard.

“I get that you’re upset,” he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring like the calm after a storm. “But you have to understand where I was coming from. I thought you might’ve needed help, or I was worried about you.”

His words hung in the air, an earnest plea wrapped in sincerity, yet all they did was amplify your irritation.

Staring back at him, you clenched your fists as you struggled to wrap your head around the very idea that this guy, who had just walked into your life barely a day ago, felt entitled to share concerns about your well-being.

“Worried?” you shot back, disbelief coloring your tone. “You just met me yesterday!” The words tumbled out harsher than you intended, but the sting of his earlier actions still stung, like a bee that wouldn’t let go.

You felt your heart race, torn between anger and an inexplicable sense of connection that made it hard to let go of the moment. Without missing a beat, Daniel regarded you with those soulful eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a feeble smile that tried to break through the cloud of discontent hanging over both of you.

“Yet I know mostly everything about you,” he argued, scratching his thick curls, a nervous gesture that betrayed his own unease. “Now can we stop arguing? I’m really sorry. Can I give you a hug as an apology?”

There it was, the soft invitation wrapped in a tentative offer—the kind that made your heart flutter and your thoughts race, even as your mind battled against the rising tide of anger.

“...Sure,” you muttered, the word escaping your lips almost as a whisper. The warmth of that fragile agreement filled the space between you for just a moment, but the storm of emotions still raged within.

As he pulled you close, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, you found yourself caught in the tangle of bittersweet sentiments. Daniel settled his chin atop your head, engulfing you in the soft security of his embrace.

A wave of conflicting feelings washed over you, compelling you to melt into his warmth and yet holding you firmly anchored in your discontent.

“You’re still angry at me, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low and comforting, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in your chest.

“Yep,” you replied with a half-hearted chuckle, surprising yourself with the softness of your tone.

The honesty in that simple acknowledgment lingered between you like a thread spun delicately between two hearts, each pulse echoing the other’s unspoken fears and hopes.

“That’s fine,” Daniel replied, his voice unfaltering, “as long as you can speak to me, then I’ll wait for you to forgive me.” This resolute patience struck a chord deep within, igniting a flicker of warmth against the cold betrayal of misunderstanding.

"Also, Max wanted to speak to you this morning; I wonder what it's about," Daniel teased, swinging you gently side to side in the warm embrace you shared, the sunlight filtering through the windows and casting a golden hue around you both.

His laughter, light and infectious, seemed to dance in the air, wrapping around your hearts like a forgotten melody, one you wished to hold onto a little longer. But despite the playful banter, your mind drifted like a leaf on a gentle breeze, caught in the weight of unspoken words and lingering glances from Max.

You felt the soft fabric of Daniel's shirt beneath your cheek, the scent of his cologne mingling with the crispness of the morning, giving you a momentary comfort, yet something gnawed at the corners of your thoughts—the urgency of needing to see Max, to understand whatever was troubling him.

"Daniel, you know it’s never going to be like that; he’s worried for me because of what happened," you muttered into his shoulder blade, your voice muffled by the emotional turbulence that threatened to spill over.

You felt the thump of Daniel's heart against your cheek, steady and reassuring, as if he were a solid anchor in a sea of uncertainty. But in that moment, the weight of your words hung heavy between you.

The morning breeze whispered secrets outside while you remained tethered to the collision of your thoughts and feelings, clinging to a fragile hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you could bridge the gap that the past had carved between you and Max.

"Are you sure?" Daniel's question broke through your spiraling thoughts, his tone steeped in a knowing warmth, as if he possessed insight into your heart that you yourself had yet to uncover.

In an instant, your gaze flickered to Daniel, seeking reassurance, yearning for affirmation that your feelings were not just fanciful dreams but a deeply embedded reality.

"Yeah," you replied softly, yet a flicker of doubt lingered behind your words, coloring them with a complexity you wished could be as simple as the glances shared between you and Max.

You pulled back from the comforting embrace, the cool air catching your breath as you noticed the question hanging unspoken between you.

It was as if the moment stretched beyond reality, each subtle shift in Daniel's expression illuminating the bond that had blossomed amidst the chaos, a bond that was both fragile and resilient.

"Well, just in case you go alone, in case I ruin his big confession for you," Daniel quipped lightly, a spark of mischief igniting in his brown eyes that seemed to bubble forth like champagne in celebration.

It offered a reprieve from the heaviness of the moment, painting a smile across your lips, albeit reluctantly. You could almost feel the warmth radiating from his presence, calming the whirlwind of thoughts in your head.

You took a step back, allowing a gentle sigh to escape your lips as you released the tension in your shoulders, yet your heart raced with anticipation.

"See you soon Daniel," you said, brushing your hair behind your ear, unwilling to linger any longer in this uncertainty.

Your feet carried you toward Red Bull's hospitality room, each step embedding the mix of hope and trepidation deeper into your core.

The vibrant energy of the working teams around you drifted in and out of focus, but your thoughts were solely consumed by Max and the unanswered questions that hung between you like a fragile thread waiting to snap.

The vibrant colors of the team’s uniforms blurred into a watercolor of emotion, each shade whispering tales of romance and camaraderie that resonated with your own heart.

When you reached the hospitality room and inquired with the staff, you felt the fluttering of hope as you searched their faces for familiarity.

"Hey, have you seen Max?" you asked, your heart racing as each voice faded into uncertainty.

The words rolled off your tongue, infused with both urgency and a hint of naivety, yet your heart sank slightly at their vacant expressions.

They exchanged glances, uncertainty casting shadows over their eyes, and your heart quickened—a thump louder than the crowd, resonating with the anxiety that had begun to inch its way into your mind, echoing louder than the chaotic atmosphere surrounding you.

As you wandered through the empty corridor, your mind was ablaze with mixed emotions. The silence was deafening, only interrupted by the soft shuffling of your own footsteps.

Suddenly, you spotted Max's father, Jos, leaning against the wall with an air of arrogance that set your teeth on edge.

Your history had been less than friendly; ever since he had pressured Max to ignore you, labeling you as a 'distraction,' your encounters had been fraught with tension.

Each time your paths crossed, you felt his death stare piercing through me, a reminder of the barriers he had tried to instill between his son and you.

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your options. It would be easy to just turn back, to retreat from this confrontation, but your resolve had strengthened since Max and you reconnected.

There was nowhere else to go, and you had no interest in prolonging this awkward moment. You decided to focus straight ahead and walk past him, deliberately avoiding any eye contact.

But your silence seemed to aggravate him.

"Verdomde teef," Jos muttered under his breath, convinced that you had either not heard him or that your grasp of Dutch was limited to pleasantries. Fucking bitch.

However, thanks to Max, you recognized the phrase all too well.

You spun around, your heart racing yet emboldened. "Een paar laten groeien," you fired back, a smirk creeping onto your face as Jos' jaw dropped in shock. Grow a pair.

"Your son teaches me Dutch, klootzak," you spat, relishing the way the insult rolled off your tongue. His face contorted in anger, a deep flush creeping up his cheeks.

"What did you just call me?" he seethed, his hands balling into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening with barely contained rage.

You leaned in closer, meeting his gaze with defiance. "A ‘klootzak,’ it means bastard if you didn’t know. That's right, Jos. Just what you are. Your little choice to push me away from Max won’t work. He’s not a child anymore, and neither am I."

"Stay away from my son," he warned, stepping closer into your personal space, a smoldering intensity radiating off him like heat from a fire. “I’ll do everything in your power to keep you out of his life.”

“You don’t get to dictate who is in his life, Jos. He’s made his choice, and you will learn to respect it. I’m tired of your intimidation tactics,” you countered, matching his aggression step for step as you took a firm stand.

“Intimidation? You think you frighten me?” Jos scoffed, but you could see a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “You are nothing to me, just a fleeting annoyance.”

Your eyes caught the glimmer of a security camera mounted in the corner of the corridor, a hidden witness to your escalating confrontation.

You knew he couldn’t do anything too drastic without putting his own reputation on the line.

“More like you’re nothing to your son. You’ve already failed as a father,” you shot back, your voice steady and unyielding.

That seemed to be the final straw. Jos’ face twisted with anger, and without warning, he raised his hands toward me. Your breath caught in your throat.

Time seemed to slow as the memories of your ex-boyfriend's violent outbursts invaded your mind, sending a chill through your spine.

You instinctively raised your arms to shield your head, every muscle in your body tensing in anticipation of a punch.

And then it happened—a sharp pain surged through your body, a strong punch that sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You stood there, breathless and bewildered.

The world around you faded, and you concentrated on the looming dread of what could come next.

But your moment of despair was cut short as you heard hurried footsteps approaching, followed by a gasp.

You lowered your arms cautiously and was greeted by the sight of Max standing defiantly between Jos and you. His expression was intense, protective, and full of authority.

"I suggest you get out of here before I call security," Max's voice cut through the air like a knife. "There’s already a camera on you, and I could charge you for assault if she wants to." His hand reached back toward yours, a silent offer of protection.

"She started it," Jos lied, glancing nervously at the camera, but his bravado was starting to falter. "That bitch—"

"If I see you near her ever again, I will press charges myself," Max warned, his grip firm as he took your hand. He led you away toward his driver’s room, taking strides that seemed to echo in the charged atmosphere.

You couldn’t find my voice, your mind still racing from the events that had just unfolded.

Once inside, the door clicked shut, and you finally felt a momentary sense of safety but still held in a bubble of disbelief. “Are you okay?” Max asked, his voice softer now, like a balm on a fresh wound.

You let out a shaky breath. "I’m sorry," you muttered, as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “This is all my fault.”

“Sorry for what?” Max pressed gently, his expression shifting from concern to something warmer, softer. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were defending yourself.”

His words wrapped around you like a safety net, but still, the guilt gnawed at your insides, sharp and unyielding.

“I just—I don’t know how I let it get so out of hand. I should have walked away. I shouldn’t have let him provoke me,” you admitted, staring down at your trembling hands.

Max stepped closer, his presence a mix of strength and warmth. “Trust me, he’s been like this for all of my life now. I… I just didn’t think he would hit you. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

The sincerity in his tone made you glance up, meeting his gaze. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Max. You didn’t do this. I—”

“But I wasn’t there to protect you,” he interjected, frustration creeping into his voice. “This is the second time now this has happened to you. I promised to protect you. I should have seen it coming. I should have done something.”

You took a breath, cupping his face in your hands. The warmth radiating from his skin contrasted sharply with the chill of the night air.

“Max, you are not like your father. You are not Jos,” you reassured him, searching his eyes for any flicker of understanding.

He shook his head vehemently, anger and sorrow dancing in his expression. “How can you say that? I’m his son! I carry his blood. Just the thought of being anything like him… it makes me sick. I thought I’d left that behind, but these moments prove I can’t escape it. What if I end up hurting you too?”

“Stop it!” you urged, your voice breaking, a mix of frustration and concern. “You’re not him. You’re nothing like him. You fought against that legacy every day, Max. You’re kind, you’re protective in a good way… and you care! That’s the person you are, not your father.”

Max’s shoulders slumped, the weight of your words settling between you. “It doesn’t change the fact that he hit you. I should have done something. I should have warned you, warned everyone. I need to—”

“Max, listen to me!” you interrupted, desperate for him to understand. “You can’t control what he does. You’re not responsible for him. All you can do is be the person you choose to be. You’re not to blame for his actions; you didn’t pull the trigger on that.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening as he processed your words. The weight of the situation wrapped around him like a heavy fog, fogging his mind with guilt and concern.

He finally nodded, a reluctant acceptance of your words, though doubt still clouded his expression. “I just want you to be safe.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “I am safe, Max, because of you. You saved me, thank you,” you whispered, wiping the sweat that dripped down his forehead.

Max’s gaze flickered to the ground, and you could see the internal struggle painting his features. “Can... can I see where he hit you?” he asked hesitantly, bravery faltering in his voice.

“Only if you don’t tell our boss,” you teased lightly, trying to diffuse the heavy atmosphere with a little humor. “I want to race today.”

But Max remained serious, his brows knitted in concern. “This isn’t a joke. You could have been seriously hurt.” The intensity of his voice sent a shiver through you, and you couldn’t help but notice how fiercely protective he was becoming.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t make a big deal out of it,” you replied, lifting your shirt slightly to reveal the bruise forming on your side.

The marbled skin was a mottled combination of purples and blue, evidence of the altercation. You winced slightly as the cool air brushed against the tender spot.

Max slowly lifted his arm, his fingers hesitantly reaching for your waist where Jos had struck you. “Tell me if it hurts,” he instructed, his voice low and filled with a mix of concern and determination.

“It stings a bit, but I’ll survive. I promise,” you assured him, trying to maintain a light-hearted tone. As his fingertips touched your skin, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of emotions.

Conflicted feelings about how one moment could shift between fear and gratitude, anger and affection.

“I don’t know how to handle this,” Max confessed, his brow furrowing deeper. “I keep replaying it in my head, imagining what I should have done differently. If only I had been faster, if only I'd been there sooner—”

“Max, stop,” you interjected softly, placing your hand over his to stop his gentle probing. “You can’t keep torturing yourself with ‘what ifs’. It was out of your control. You can’t guard me from everything, and you shouldn’t have to. Just be here with me now, okay?”

He sighed heavily, pulling his hand back but leaving a lingering warmth behind. “I know it sounds selfish, but I just can’t bear the thought of something worse happening to you. I’d never forgive myself.”

You took a deep breath, attempting to bridge the emotional gap. “Max, you’re here now. You don’t know how much that means to me. You fought for me. You stood up when it mattered. That’s something to hold onto. I’m lucky to have you by my side.”

His gaze softened slightly, a flicker of hope igniting behind the ocean of doubt. “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I promise,” you replied, sealing the promise with a firm nod. “And if I need help, I’ll tell you. I won’t keep anything from you.”

For the first time that day, a smile broke across his face, albeit shaky. “Okay, let’s get ready for the race. We’ll leave all this behind for a few hours. Just put some ice on it before racing.”

As you raced around the track, a sensation of freedom mingling with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Yet, beneath that thrill, the agonizing throb in your waist from the punch you had received earlier.

You chose to suppress the discomfort, your focus locked onto the track before you. Each turn demanded your complete attention, the adrenaline pushing you to ignore the pain gnawing at your side, a sharp reminder that in this high-octane world, every moment counted.

With every twist and turn, you felt the strain deepen, but you pressed on, knowing that the ice pack you had applied before getting in the car had dulled the worst of it.

Crossing the finish line, the satisfaction of securing third place in the qualifying round briefly overshadowed the agony that surged anew with each hard turn you had navigated.

As you leaped from the vehicle, your heart still pounding with excitement and effort, you caught sight of Max standing there, his hair disheveled.

He had taken off his helmet, revealing the genuine worry etched across his features as he approached you, his footsteps purposeful on the polished asphalt.

“Are you okay? I heard you were having trouble in the car,” Max asked, his voice laced with concern, eyes sharp as they searched yours for any sign of pain.

There was something about his presence, an unspoken bond that connected the two of you, making the ache in your side seem both distant and immediate at the same time.

He stood there, a pillar of strength and support, and you found that you couldn’t lie to him, not after everything you had shared.

“Just the hard turns were bad on the bruise,” you admitted, acknowledging the discomfort that swirled within you like the dust from the track.

Max stepped closer, the warm glow of the afternoon sun casting a golden light on him.

“You really gave it your all out there. I saw how you handled those turns. It’s no easy feat, especially with a bruise like that,” he said, admiration lacing his words.

A shy smile tugged at your lips, his praise wrapping around you like a cozy blanket, easing the pain, if only for a moment. His presence was comfort, a balm that quieted the storm of thoughts racing through your mind.

“Do you want to rest for a bit after this? We can grab something to eat, and I can help with the ice again if you need,” he suggested, the offer hanging in the air between you, filled with unspoken understanding and a desire to protect. . . .

"Y/N, I need to show you something," Christian's voice drifted through the air, drawing you away from the laughter of the two children, their joy briefly flickering out as they realized your attention had shifted.

Excusing yourself with a gentle smile, you made your way to the living room, heart already quickening at the serious tone that laced his words.

Standing close to him as he sat on the edge of the sofa, you felt a rush of concern wash over you; there was a gravity in the air that seemed charged with unspoken tension.

"Yes, Christian?" you inquired softly, your brows knitting together in worry as you searched his eyes for answers. He looked up at you, his expression unreadable, and you feared the weight of what he was about to reveal.

"Jake has been arrested."

The words landed between you like a stone, and shock coursed through your veins, quickly morphing into a reluctant relief that you couldn't quite wrap your head around.

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you simply stood there absorbing the implications. Jake—your former boyfriend—arrested? It should have felt like liberation, but the way Christian’s face twisted into an expression of outrage puzzled you.

“So why do you look angry? Isn’t that a good thing?” Your voice was hesitant, unsure, as you sought to make sense of this unexpected news.

Christian didn't respond directly; instead, he reached for the remote and, with a click, unpaused the television. Instantly, the familiar hum of the news played, and you leaned forward, drawn into the screen as the reporter's voice echoed ominously throughout the room.

"Breaking news! Y/N L/N's boyfriend, Jake was arrested this afternoon. We haven’t received any reasons why, but someone recorded the interaction and posted it on social media."

The words wrapped around you like a shroud, and you felt your heartbeat quicken once more, your palms clammy against your sides. The screen changed, and there he was—Jake, looking not like the same person who had once held you with love, but rather a fragment of a nightmare that you struggled to awaken from.

His eyes, once filled with warmth, were now dark and hollow, filled with anger and bitterness that sent a shiver down your spine.

The police were gripping his arms tightly, their expressions stoic as he struggled against their hold, but all that struck you most was how lost he seemed, how desperate his plea was.

"I’m innocent! I was cheated on by Y/N with Max Verstappen! She left me for this other guy. It’s all her fault. She slept with him when we were dating! I'm innocent! Please!"

[izvmimi]

A typical Thursday night has you and Izuku both home early and on this night in particular, you find yourself straddling him in bed, his body prone and back exposed to you so you can knead his shoulder and back muscles in a makeshift massage.

You let gentle pulses of electricity smooth and relax each muscle, carefully tracing along each roughened and scarred patch of skin for new scars, and gently rotate his joints. You’re not as good as the physical therapist who works at your new hospital, but you’re good enough, and as you feel your husband’s body ease up whatever has him tense, you feel a satisfaction deep in your chest. Slowing down your movements, you let your body lay against him, chest to back.

“Do you feel better?” you ask.

His face is still muffled into the pillow as he murmurs “yes.” You wonder if he’s started to fall asleep, but he reaches his arms overhead and backwards to reach for your head, then patting it gently once he’s found it. You laugh at the way he fumbles to look for it at first and roll off his body so that you’re next to him, and he turns onto his side, pulling you in closer, while beaming.

“Not to say that that new healer isn’t great, but it just doesn’t feel the same when it’s not you.”

You pout a little.

“Oh, what’s she doing wrong?” you ask, quick to offer constructive feedback. He frowns for a second, wondering if he misspoke, then instead presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t think it’s anything wrong per se, it’s just-” he trails off for a moment then pauses, thinking about the best way to phrase the next sentence, then continues - “she’s not you.”

He tries to keep his voice light and not demanding to make sure that you don’t feel any guilt, but it’s hard not to. The few months where you worked in the same agency as Izuku must have made him so happy, and you easily recall the practical smile on his face when you arrived as part of the salvage and resuscitation crew or whenever he walked into the infirmary and you were free. 

But the truth of the matter is that hero work wasn’t your calling in that manner and would never be, and he understands that. You've just started at your new place a few months ago, and the adjustment is hard, but you've seemed overall happy even if you're no longer together as often.

He must sense the twinge of discomfort because he cups your face, kissing you first on the lips before pulling back and giving you a reassuring nod.

“I know it’s an unfair standard to meet though,” he says. “How can anyone compare to my perfect wife?”

The way he lays it on thick makes you chuckle.

“I need you to adjust your standards a bit, you’re just far too used to me.”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes, but wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you so that you’re on top of him. 

“I think you should allow me to praise you,” he says.

“Not to someone else’s detriment,” you protest, pressing your chin to his chest as you look at him. 

He frowns. “I didn’t say ‘the healer at my job sucks’, all I said is it doesn’t feel the same. Maybe, just maybe, I just like the extra love I feel when you touch me.”

You grin, now filled with mischief. “Well, maybe I could offer her some pointers in that respect too...”

His nose crinkles. “Stop that right now.” He holds you tighter, and you let your legs kick as he rocks the both of you back and forth playfully.

“Regardless, you always have me to come back to and I’ll always be willing to kiss your booboo so don’t be too sad,” you add.

He laughs, petting your head. “I’m just being a baby, aren’t I?”

“A little, but you’re my baby,” you remind him, as you cuddle, but you make note of the additional indirect message that he always loves and misses you too.

[ohbueckers]

HEART OF A WOMAN. i put the blame on me for giving you chance after chance … it’s my mind and my soul versus your pride.

00, PROLOGUE. AND THIS IS JUST THE INTRO.

ju speaks. finished this quicker than expected so thank you to that anon for getting me on it early LOL. find the masterlist link to all parts on my blog. lmk your thoughts! pairing. wnba!paige bueckers x fem!oc. warnings. language, angst, toxicity, cheating, etc … general warning!

flashback, april, 2025.

paige: i love you 3:49am

nailea: ?

i love you too

is everything good?

read 4:02am

paige: yeah i’m good baby

missing you ao baD

paige edited a message: missing you

nailea: i’ll see you so soon

i’m sorry i couldn’t make it today

i’m really proud of you

read 4:09am

you’d think by now i’d be numb to it. that i’d learned the script—memorized the lines, the rhythm of it. but as i sit here, scrolling through her saved chats with her, i don’t feel numb. i feel fucking dumb.

it’s not even the months i spent doubting her, the nights i’d start an argument because i just knew she was lying, only for her to stare at me with those wide, innocent eyes and make me feel like the problem. no. it’s knowing that three nights ago, when she texted me after the game, telling me she loved me, that she missed me—that wasn’t real. that was just her guilt talking, a cheap cover-up. because that night, after winning her precious championship, paige found someone else to help her celebrate. and all because i couldn’t be there.

i don’t even have it in me to appreciate the short time she wasn’t doing anything behind my back. we’d had a conversation, a serious one, and it was enough for a bit. but there’s pictures, videos, a few from that night, and i feel sick.

the door opens behind me, and i barely flinch.

“yo, i forgot my—“ my bloodshot eyes meet hers, still holding onto the faintest trace of a smile. she has to notice i’ve been crying. has to see what she’s done.

it’s only been ten minutes. the breakfast spot’s close, maybe two blocks. she must’ve turned around. guilt? instinct? doesn’t matter now.

“nai.”

i glance down at her open phone, and so does she. i can’t see her reaction, but i’m sure it’s anything but pleasant. “oh, i can’t even fucking look at you,” i spit, letting out a breathy laugh as i push myself to stand, heading towards the door.

before i can even take a step, she’s in full defense mode. paige tosses her keys onto the bed with a clatter, closing the door behind her, planting herself firmly in front of it like she’s ready to block my any attempt to walk out. “you’re not leavin,’ bro. hold on.” she furrows her eyebrows, mumbling more to herself as she pulls me away by my arm. quite effortlessly might i add, i couldn’t really fight it.

“move, paige,” i demand. i just want out. want to be anywhere she isn’t.

“nah, we’re gonna talk. sit your ass down.”

“about what?” i laugh, cold and bitter, as i wipe my face again. she’s stupid for thinking i’ll listen to anything she says now, i know that much. “about how you played in my face, yet again? how you kept telling me to trust you when i knew better? or maybe we’ll talk about how the second i wasn’t here, you went right back to her.”

she wasn’t special. she isn’t. i’m sure paige doesn’t even know her middle name. she was just… there. someone to sex her up the way i couldn’t from across the country. it wasn’t like we didn’t see each other every chance we had, but i’ll be damned to let her live a double life. i wish i wasn’t so in deep.

paige steps forward, her hand reaching for mine, eyes softening in some pathetic attempt at damage control. “look, it was one night, alright? it was a mistake, nai, you gotta chill.”

chill.

i yank my hand back. “how many times does one night happen with you, huh?” i squint. “because this isn’t just one mistake, paige. this is you, every time.” the word tastes sour, and i spit it right back at her.

i’m not a doormat. i’m not one of the girls paige bueckers happened to pick up on her way to the top. i was here from the very beginning, and i couldn’t fathom how that wasn’t enough for her. all you could ever want is to grow into love with someone, but paige and i only go backwards, and i don’t think i’m capable of sitting around and letting that happen anymore.

paige’s mouth twists, some shadow of remorse that’s barely visible as she shifts from foot to foot. her hair’s still tousled from last night, strands falling across her forehead, a disheveled mess that somehow makes her look both beautiful and utterly wrecked. it makes my stomach turn—how i’d been unknowingly in the same spot as another girl just a few days ago, her hands roaming through that same hair, leaving their mark where mine should have been.

“let me get it right this time then.” paige’s head tilts back slightly, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that’s almost hypnotic, like she’s daring me to believe her, to give her yet another chance. i hesitate, against all logic, caught up in her. for a second, the anger knots itself up, caught in my throat, tangled in the remnants of whatever feelings she hasn’t managed to destroy.

we just stand there, inches apart, eyes locked, her breath barely steady, mine coming in tight and shallow. her hand lifts again, just slightly, as if she’s about to reach for me again, and i feel that familiar pull—like i’m right on the edge of giving in, of letting her words undo the mess she’s made.

my eyes glance down at her phone in my hand, and i can’t help but think about how sick i am of fucking words.

before i can second-guess myself, my hand jerks forward, and i launch her phone across the room. it skids across the floor, clattering against the wall, and she turns at the sound, head lolling against the door.

paige’s hand slides down her face as she lets out a low, humorless chuckle, her shoulders slumping back. her gaze flicks from her phone again, undamaged but undeniably thrown by an angry girlfriend ex, and then back to me, all narrowed. “you throwin’ my shit now?”

“fetch it. matter fact…” paige’s mouth opens, then closes as she watches me rip her oversized tee off like it’s some dirty rag. the shirt hits her chest and slides down to the floor, and she just stands there, staring at it with her jaw clenched so tight i can practically hear her grinding her teeth. “you can take all your shit back with it. i’m done,” i seethe.

paige looks back up, scoffing. “oh, you’re done?”

i turn on my heel, making my way to my suitcase. paige doesn’t move as i fall to my knees, throwing one of my own shirts over my head. i’m packing my things up frantically, silently, and i can tell it makes her feel unsettled.

“you’re not leaving, nailea.” she doesn’t sound so sure of herself now, and that only makes me move quicker.

i sniffle, even though i’m way past being sad over this. “i’ll stay with az until i can catch a flight. and i’ll ship all your stuff to storrs once i’m back.” i’m declaring my plan out loud, though i’m sure the mounds of her belongings that’ve accumulated in my apartment over the years is the last thing on her mind.

but then she moves, steps around the suitcase, stopping me with a quiet urgency, her fingers reaching toward my face. i pull back instinctively, turning my head, but she follows, her hands slowly cupping my head, steadying me as if i’m the one slipping. “paige, stop.” i mutter, shrugging my shoulders, trying to shake her off. but her fingers tighten, her eyes softer, pleading.

“c’mon…” she whispers. and then, slowly, she sinks down to her knees, meeting me there, her eyes desperately searching mine.

i swallow, hard, stopping my movements. “quit—“

“lemme fix it.” she mumbles, the words laced with something i can’t decipher, something that might’ve been real if it didn’t come too late.

i look up, and for the first time, i see something that almost looks like panic in her eyes. her thumb is focused on tracing the tear streaks on my cheek, and i have to force myself to think about why they’re there in the first place. because of her.

i don’t give her a chance to say another word. “you should’ve thought about that before there was anything to fix,” i say softly.

i turn away, reaching to grip the zipper of my suitcase. the metallic sound rips through the quiet, and it’s the finality of it that makes it feel like the right choice, like i actually just let go.

but with paige, nothing ever stays that simple, that clean.

[sweetfushi]

HIS LOVE HABITS PT 1.

fluff, slight angst | giyu tomioka, obanai iguro, sanemi shinaguzawa x reader, mentions of guilt, crying, mentions of death | word count. 1.1k ◦ notes. watching the new season is making me feel nostalgic about the start of the anime :(

GIYU TOMIOKA.

Giyu shows his passion for you by spending most of what would be his alone time with you. He doesn’t always talk much during the times he’s around you, but he isn’t opposed to you talking. Giyu doesn’t mind where he is, as long as he’s with you and knows you’re safe - despite his underlying feeling of perhaps being incapable of protecting you completely. Thus, he sometimes feels guilty for wanting to spend time with you, but he compensates for that by allowing you to guide him - choosing where to hang out, leading most conversations.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like his alone time. You out of all people know best how much he indulges in silent reflection and meditation, but you’ve also noticed that he’d consult you for those things. He’d start using some of his silent reflection time to ask you questions riddled with guilt. He finds that you’re much like Tanjiro in your overwhelming ability to comfort people.

“You know,” you start as you’re walking alongside him, making your way to the noodle house, “I’m really thinking we need to change our plans. The owners know our orders at this point,” you grin, stretching your arms out.

“Supporting a small business doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” he retorts, plopping his hand on your head and ruffling your hair slightly. ��Besides, that makes ordering our food quicker, does it not?”

You roll your eyes but are forced to agree.

Following that brief conversation, the two of you spend the next half an hour eating to your hearts’ desires. Giyu will pause every few minutes to remove the food items from your plate that you don’t like and add them to his with a small smile, both at your sweet voice thanking him and the sight of more food on his plate.

You’ll always require a sweet treat after your meal, whether that be a drink or more food, so you either head into town to survey the sweet stands or drop by Mitsuri to see if she has any stored - she typically does and you’re forever grateful for that.

All the while, Giyu will let you ask him question upon question, start conversation after conversation, all without complaints just to lengthen the time he gets to spend with his beloved.

OBANAI IGURO.

Obanai expresses his love through promises. They’re never empty ones and he makes sure you know that, sometimes even goes as far as gently pulling your ear to discipline your ignorance towards such. Sometimes the promises are of small value, such as promising to not eat your food or not start training without you. Other times, they mean the entire world, where he’ll promise that he’ll return from a dangerous mission or that he’ll not get injured because he couldn’t ever be so weak as to let a demon injure him fatally.

Every time he promises you something, the eye contact with him is almost intimidating. Obanai feels as though averting his gaze from you connotes distrust and uncertainty, so he always ensures to gaze into your apprehensive eyes when he speaks his truth. In moments of vulnerability, when you’re crying late at night because you’re certain tonight awaits his death, he’ll emerge from the Master’s room determined to fulfil his assignment and not evoke worry.

When he sees you in such a state, sniffling and averting your gaze, he’s convinced that you’re stuck in a cycle of paranoia and fear.

“Are you really so sceptical of my return? Don’t be so foolish,” he says, narrowing his eyes at your despondent state. “I promise I’ll return to you.”

You hear Kaburamaru hiss before feeling him graze your cheek with his face. You whimper and allow him to do so, only until you motion for Obanai to sit beside you. He does so without question and cranes his neck to look into your eyes, to which you turn away from.

“Have I ever broken a promise made to you?”

You swallow thickly. “No.”

He huffs. “So what is your concern?”

You shrug but, in reality, know what is bothering you. Instead of telling him, however, you lift your head to look at him and pout in an attempt to satiate your tears. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t come back, Iguro. I swear.”

You can’t see his mouth, but you know he’s smiling as he nods and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA.

Sanemi shows his love for you through acts of service. Initially, you hadn’t noticed it, but you start questioning him when your katana appears sharper and cleaner, your uniform neatly pressed, and your food managed to suit your tastes.

“Have you only just noticed? I’m almost insulted,” he scoffs, gently smacking the back of your head only for you to groan and swat his hand away. “The swordsmiths are practically sick of me,” he grumbles, watching you admire the shine on your katana.

You grin and elbow his side, making him wince and shove you. “You’re so in love with me.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea from,” he teases, flashing you his canines as the two of you lean closer to each other, faces inches apart as your childish squabbling continues. Sanemi snickers as you attempt to maintain your scowl but inevitably fail at the close proximity, turning into loud laughter when you slump over and rest your head on his chest.

As a Hashira, the Kakushi already know you, but recently have appeared in near fear of your presence (despite being aware of your empathetic personality). At one point, you explicitly ask why the change in treatment, to which they respond: “Shinazugawa-san isn’t forgiving if your uniform is anything but perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“As in washed, pressed and perfumed.”

You pause, shock evident in your expression. “Uh,” you almost break into laughter, “you don’t have to do that, really. I’ll… have a talk with him, make sure he’s not bullying you.”

The Kakushi give you a pointed look, to which you nod and purse your lips. You mumble, “well, he’s getting slapped.”

Sanemi always ensures that the menu provided to the cooks that cater to you suits your tastes. However, you’re highly concerned with the fact that Sanemi thinks anything is obtainable through an arbitrary expression of power, but you have the advantage of being able to discipline him for thinking such without consequence.

“The Kakushi help us, not serve us!”

“That’s a very liberal way of looking at it– ow!”Sanemi groans at the punches you land to his chest, making him double over and eventually lay down on the grass with no attempt of fighting back. “Okay, okay, I’ll be nicer.”

sweetfushi © do not modify, repost, translate, copy or use my post. all that is included in this post, aside from the photos, fictional characters and universes, belong to sweetfushi (zee).

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 5

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Johnny recovers slowly.

-

Fifteen minutes? Simon messages you. A flare going up in the darkness, an SOS signal even if you don’t know the accuracy of the analogy. But he doesn’t hear back from you that day.  Maybe what little luck he had left that wasn’t bad luck has run out. Maybe you realized that you had no real reason to be guilty, that Soap had stepped out in front of your car on purpose. You didn’t owe them anything. 

Simon wishes he could swallow that flare back up, eat it whole, let it burn him alive, but he can’t. Johnny needs him. 

Ever since the seizure, it’s been one bad pain day after another. The seizure itself was rough on his body, but so was how hard Soap fought afterwards, dealing himself damage that he didn’t even have the processing yet to tally up. 

Like clockwork he’s requiring those little green pills, choking them down on empty stomachs. Simon even has to break out what’s left of the sublingual morphine which they hadn’t used since Johnny first came home from inpatient rehabilitation. Only then will Johnny manage to fall into fitful sleeps wracked with nightmares and phantom pains from his missing arm. He cancels all therapy that week, hoping Johnny will return to his baseline soon. Hoping for the days he used to wish away. 

It’s hell on earth. Simon lays in bed beside him, ready to wake him from another nightmare, going on three days without sleep and he wishes that he had been the one in the helicopter instead. Wishes that it had killed him, since he can’t ever wish death on Johnny. Not ever. Not even when his boy begs for it. 

His phone buzzes, and it’s you: I’m free in twenty. Still need me?

Badly. Simon can’t remember the last time he showered. All he wants is fifteen minutes to scrub himself clean and feel human again. All he says though is: Yeah.

You appear just past twenty minutes later wearing a diner uniform. It’s cute: tight pants that hug your thighs and hips, a white button-down blouse tucked in, demarcation where your name tag used to rest.

Simon opens the door and ushers you in, somber-faced, like a pallbearer at a funeral. He goes to the bedroom door and glances in to make sure Johnny is out—there should be no waking him for the next two hours, but if there is one thing Simon has learned, it’s that God Laughs. 

“He asleep?” you whisper, lingering a healthy distance away. 

“Out like a light. I just need fifteen minutes in the shower.”

“I’ll watch him,” you whisper. Then you add: “I looked it up, by the way. What a seizure looks like. Just in case.”

Simon’s stomach drops between his knees. It takes him several heartbeats to realize that he isn’t nauseous out of any fear response, but out of sheer fucking gratitude. The feeling cuts through the fog in his mind like a knife through butter, and he feels like he sees you for the first time: your hair back away from your face, your healing bruises (and the new one on your chin), the embarrassed desperation in your eyes. You’ve latched on to Johnny too, he can tell, likely by some misguided guilt from almost hitting him with your car. But it’s there. He has a feeling that if Johnny were to take a dive off the balcony, he’d be taking you with him. 

You are completely unhinged. Borderline mad, even. Exactly what Johnny needs to keep him alive. 

“Fifteen minutes,” says Simon again before slipping into the bathroom, clean clothes tucked under his arm. When he resurfaces, only 11 minutes have passed. The military taught him everything he could need to know about thorough but expeditious showers. 

You are sitting at the dining table, having chosen the seat that gives you the best vantage point of Johnny’s sleeping figure in the next room through the doorway. Simon expected to find you on your phone, scrolling away, but it is nowhere in sight. You have sat perfectly still, watching Johnny. It would almost be eerie if he didn’t appreciate it so goddamn much. 

“We need to talk about this arrangement,” you say, clasping your hands together. You’re shaking. 

“You want out.” 

“What? No!” You both glance toward the bedroom, but Johnny snores on, in the throes of morphine-fueled dreams. When you speak again, it is quieter: “I don’t mind helping, but I can only check my phone at certain times of the day.”

This is the part where Simon asks why. But the question sticks to the back of his tongue like something unsavory. A more important question: can he afford to care why beyond what it means for him and for Johnny? The bottom line is that there will be long stretches of time where you’re unavailable. He can live with that. He’s been living with it, hasn’t he? 

“I’ll only ever need you when he’s asleep. If he knew I was letting you watch over him, he’d blow his top. I mean that literally.” Simon stands. “You want tea?”

“Tea?” You blink at him like the word does not compute. “Yes, please. Thank you, I mean.” 

“Just tea, don’t get worked up over it,” he mutters, going to put the kettle on. He needs a minute to fucking think. 

This goes against everything he was ever taught. The foundation of his personality is self-reliance, and it has been since he was a boy, since he learned that he couldn’t rely on adults for anything resembling stability. Asking for help feels like tossing up the white flag, like admitting he’s in too deep and he can’t take it anymore. It feels like failing Johnny. 

But there’s construction going on inside him. Those pillars of his personality are being torn down, and in their place something more important is being formed: a shrine to the only person who’s ever loved him that wasn’t his mother. If it’s good for Johnny, Simon must do it, even if it feels strange, even if it goes against all the strategies that have kept him alive in the past. 

When he brings tea back to the table, you try to drink it right away, scalding your tongue. 

“Slow,” Simon says. He didn’t even get the chance to offer you any milk or sugar. 

Face warm as the tea, you drink slower, tongue likely numb. The silence between you grows, adds up, and he catches you more than once looking toward the digital clock inlaid on the stove, like you are nervous and counting down the moments until you can escape. Like Simon frightens you. Fifteen minutes pass and more. You drain your cup. 

“I should go,” you say at length.

“Alright.”

“Thank you for the tea.” 

“Don’t thank me.”

You just nod and slip out of the apartment, quietly shutting the door behind you. Simon sits there for a long time after you’re gone, thinking over the arrangement. Thinking over you. 

You’re in trouble. He just can’t decide if he can afford to take on any more trouble right now. 

His tea has cooled by the time Johnny stirs in the other room, calling out for more pills. 

-

It does get easier. Tooth and nail they fight for every peaceful moment until they are able to string two of those moments together, and then two becomes three. Johnny is back to his old self—often angry, still pained, but with glimmers of the man Simon used to know shining beneath it all like diamonds under dirt. 

Therapy starts again, and so do Johnny’s tasks. 

The tasks aren’t therapy. They’re Johnny’s idea: each few days he picks a task that he used to be able to do before the accident and commits himself to relearning it. 

Today that tasks is unlocking the front door. He stands with his forehead against the oak, knowing Simon is somewhere on the other side, having heard him turn the deadbolt. 

The door has three locks. There is the handle which is the only one the apartment building originally supplied them with. There is the sliding lock, which Simon had installed on day two in the new apartment. It is only ever locked at night when both of them are home, and it is easy enough for Johnny to guide the wide end into the slot. Then there is the deadbolt, also installed by Simon, and easily the trickiest lock of all. Usually it requires the strength of two hands to unlock comfortably—but Soap’s down a hand and short on patience. 

“Jesus, get me in this apartment. Amen,” he mutters.

The key shakes in his hand as he guides it to the lock. It takes some fumbling, but he gets it after just a few moments. Then he must twist while pulling outward at the same time. It uses muscles in his arms that have grown weak with disuse. The key catches for a moment but then slides out of the lock uselessly. He pulled too hard; he did not twist hard enough. 

It’s a delicate balance, one he had perfected without even trying months ago when they moved in. Now it seems like a cruel and unusual punishment. If he can’t get this fucking door open, he’ll sleep out here, undeserving of his own bed. In his mind, the voice of encouragement does not sound so much like the calm soothing tones of Andy—his physical rehabilitation therapist—but instead the borderline abusive dialect of his superiors during his time in the military, the ones who had only ever cared about results and not much about the bodies getting those results. 

Footsteps come from the open elevator, and Johnny casts an irritated glance only to see that it is you. You are dressed for exercise, clingy clothes with running shoes and a baggy top thrown on over everything, drooping off of one of your shoulders. At the sight of you, Johnny remembers the lengths you went to to help him light his cigarette and his heart throbs with fondness, some of his anger evaporating like fog burnt off by the morning sun. 

“Afternoon, lass.” 

“Hi, Johnny,” you murmur, voice near a whisper as you cast a glance toward your own door. Maybe you are thinking about running from him. “Are you having trouble?” 

Johnny’s good mood dissipates. “No,” he lies. “Yes. I don’t fucking know.” 

“Can I help?”

“No,” he snaps. “I have to do this myself.”

“Where’s Simon?” 

“Inside.” 

“He’s locked you out?”

“Aye.” 

Your face changes. He knows you so little that it takes a moment for him to identify the expression for what it is: apoplectic rage. Your hands have clenched into fists at your sides, brows drawn low over your eyes as you glare a hole through the door. You reach out and take Johnny’s hand. He’s so fucking surprised that he drops the damn key. 

“Johnny,” you say. “You can tell me. Are you in trouble?”

“What sort o’ trouble?” 

“Simon. Is he good to you?” 

“Bastard eats my cereal and leaves the empty box behind, but aye, he’s good to me. Better than good. What’s all this about, hen? Simon locking me out? I only asked him to, that’s all—let’s me practice with the key, so I can open it on my own again,” says Johnny, stroking his thumb along your knuckles. 

You let go of him like you’ve been burned, face mortified. “Oh, God. I’m sorry Johnny. I misunderstood. Let me just—”

You bend down and retrieve the key, handing it to him. You can barely look him in the eye as you mumble a goodbye and rush past him into your own apartment, shutting the door solidly behind you. 

Johnny stares after you for a long moment, key held limply in his hand, mind far from the door. At last, he puts the key back into the lock. 

Twist, pull. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

‘Having a softhearted partner’— headcanons/drabbles

a/n: @azrielhours yes I’m ashamed, appalled, and guilt-stricken at how humiliatingly long this took to write, but I also know you’re a kind soul so I’m banking on you not being perturbed or utterly furious with how late this is. (I’m hoping I can win some sentimental points here) 

I tried my best but I’m still not sure I really understand the concept of being softhearted, or a lover girl, but these are my fumbling attempts. I hope you enjoy them <3

warnings: Young adult batboys; surprise Elain appearance

Rhysand: Love Story

His fingers stutter, fumbling for a second as they catch on the lace at your back, but he swiftly liberates himself, easing in a steadying breath before sweeping you into the gentle waltz. You follow him effortlessly, familiar with the slow, patterned movements as feet step in time with one another, the skirts of your dress brushing against his finely tailored trousers. 

“Nervous?” You ask softly, gaze glancing shyly about the great hall, anxious of the other bodies swishing and swaying, their pathways interleaving with your own as you begin the slow rotation of the dance floor. 

“What is there to be nervous about?” Rhys replies, voice a touch fainter than a few moments ago when he’d invited you to dance with a hint of colour to his cheeks, subtly clearing the hoarseness from his throat. “I’ve grown up in this environment—I have nothing to be nervous about.” He swallows, glancing down at your slighter frame, keeping the tremble from his fingertips as they curve around your waist. “Are you nervous?” 

You flush, averting your gaze for a moment before returning your attention to him, head dipped a little. “Rather,” you answer quietly, “you aren’t thinking about what might happen if you misstep? Or bump into another set of partners?” He blinks, features pausing in consideration before surmising his thoughts. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. I’ll guide you correctly,” he assures, then, swallowing, adds a little softer, with that previous colour returning to his cheeks, “you look lovely, by the way.” 

A smile curves your lips, unsure where to look as warmth rises to your skin, almost certain he’ll be able to feel it from your proximity. “Thank you,” you reply, head still dipped, “I’m fairly certain my mother orchestrated the making of this dress so its details would blend more seamlessly with your own. So I suppose if you think I look pleasing, it’s thanks to your own fine tastes.” 

Carefully, he spins you beneath his arm, allowing you to twirl on your feet before gently pulling back to his chest, perhaps a little more firmly than would have been polite, but neither of you complain when it results in your proximity—his arms settling more securely around your waist, while you keep your hands splayed across the broad width of his shoulders.

“I forget how you excel at flattery,” he says in a hushed voice, unable to entirely help the way he lightly squeezes your waist as you turn. “Though do not mistake that for criticism—I quite enjoy receiving your compliments,” he adds, at last managing to pull that smile to his mouth that he knows has a charming effect on most women. He would very much like you to be included in that grouping. 

Warmth dances in your eyes and his breath hitches, having not anticipated the effect your own smile might have on him under the circumstances, acutely aware of the lightness of your step, trusting him to guide you right; the easy curve of your lips, content to openly enjoy his company. 

He swallows again, clearing his throat, but you speak before he has the chance to. 

“I was thinking,” you begin quietly, steadying your breaths as you glance up at him, “you’ve never visited our gardens during the summer, have you?” Rhys allows himself the space of a blink to recover, before nodding in confirmation, heart beating a little faster in his chest as he wonders at the direction of your speech. 

“Well, I was thinking, if your father is also okay with it, it might be nice for you to…visit. For a few weeks, or so. Not only could you see the gardens in bloom, but, as you know by now, the settlements surrounding our estate are occupied almost entirely by faeries. If your father might require persuasion, it would be a chance for you to also become more acquainted with the people who you will rule over, some day.” 

Rhys regards you quietly, his pulse increasing as he hears the invitation—spending a summer in your company would be nothing short of heaven. If he would be able to convince his father of his absence for that long. Maybe with the help of his mother, he might be able to escape to your estate for the weeks you suggested, temporarily freed from monotonous lectures with his sister and tiring training with his brothers. Lay with you in summery gardens, beneath blue skies and dappled shade, hidden beneath the lemon tree’s shadow you’ve told him so much about, it being a precious spot during your childhood that you’d kept to. 

He manages a nod, eyes softening further as he gazes upon you, soaking in the warm embrace you’re both wrapped in through the waltz. “I couldn’t imagine a more pleasant summer,” he replies, honestly, and your returning smile has his pulse fluttering unevenly. 

Yes, he will find a way to visit over the summer, even if it’s only for a fortnight. He’s already finding himself looking forward to it. 

Cassian: Fresh out the Slammer 

Your heart hitches as his deep laugh rumbles from the other side of the inn, one of the few set up in the relatively small war camp of Windhaven. Due to it being on the outskirts of Illyria, inns and trading stations are less frequently spotted, meaning they’re often more full too, with less choice for inhabitants of the camp to pick from. 

Turning to glance over to him, your heart drops when you see who he’s laughing with—he knows you and the other female don’t get along well. None of it has ever been so foolishly spoken directly, but she’s had more than a couple of unkind things to say about you, more than a few less-than-friendly looks sent your way and malicious whispers being passed between her and her companion’s mouths. 

He knows this—so why? 

“Something bothering you, sweetheart?” 

You blink away the habitual discomfort at hearing that name from a voice that doesn’t belong to Cassian. Attention returning to the male before you, you try to offer a believable smile, but their proximity is replaying in your mind—are you overreacting? You must be. He knows about that female, there’s no reason for him to be speaking with her. 

Glancing back helplessly, a spike of hurt pincers in your chest as you watch her slide her palm over the muscle of his forearm, and he leans closer. 

Liquid spills over as you set the glass down too roughly, almost dropping it as you forget about the male you’d been speaking with, standing from the seat and steadily making your way across the inn’s floor. You have no idea what you’ll say, just that you want him to stop, that he’s being unfair. Maybe the two of you aren’t officially together, but when he’d walked you back to your house one late night, when he’d shown you a couple of tips to keep yourself safe, when he’d gotten food in when you’d fallen sick over your cycle—that had been for a reason, hadn’t it? He’d been courting you, hadn’t he? 

Was it one-sided? Was he just a kind male? 

Is it unrequited again? 

It’s too late for you to second-guess yourself as you arrive at their table. 

Cassian casually glances over at you, and it’s only then the female’s sharp eyes narrow on you, hateful and disgusted at having her conversation interrupted. 

“Something wrong?” Cassian asks, and your brows dip a little, hurt undoubtedly blatant in your eyes. But you swallow, straightening your spine, trying to stand a little taller before both of them. “I was getting tired,” you manage to come up with. “I think I’ll be turning in now.” You swallow, waiting for him to get the hint, but he gives no reaction. You swallow again, raising your chin higher, to make up for the low. “I was hoping you…might walk me home, Cassian.” 

He looks over you, something shifting in his gaze that appears a lot like guilt, but it’s hidden too swiftly for you to be sure. “Sure,” Cassian answers slowly, nodding his head almost absently, standing upright from the raised table. “Sure, I’ll walk you home,” he repeats, more decidedly this time, keeping his attention on you as he settles his hand at the base of your spine, fingers hesitantly brushing the fabric, unsure of your mood, how to behave in such a civil environment. 

He had expected… Cassian blinks. 

He had expected you to act how everyone else had. 

The crisp Windhaven air nips at your throat, and you bring the shawl tighter over your shoulders, aware that while he’s close, he’s hesitating to step beside you to aid with warmth. Hot breath puffs out with each exhale, watching as it clouds against the cool temperature. You can’t feel your fingers. 

Cassian clears his throat, and you fight not to dip your head away as the conversation looms. You’re the one who has initiated this, it’ll do you no good to push it away, leaving it unresolved. You need clarity and confirmation. At least, if you want the chance for things to go further with him. Which you most definitely do. 

“Why were you speaking with her like that?” You ask, managing to glance at him, meeting his eyes as you ask the question for a fraction of a second. You don’t have time to worry at how jealous you sound—you are jealous. Jealous and upset he might choose to do something like that, knowing how it would make you feel. “I…you know how I feel about her.” 

“What about you?” He diverts, and you glance at him again with a furrowed brow, looking confusedly. “What about me?” 

Cassian scoffs, rolling his eyes before meeting your gaze again. “You asked what I was doing with her. I was doing the exact same thing you were with that male,” he replies, not minding the accusatory tone in his voice. He’s accustomed to wielding it in defence against these sort of malicious attacks; he’s been subjected to them enough times to know how this works. But your brows only furrow further. “He wasn’t,” —you flush— “He wasn’t caressing my arms or trying to seduce me.” 

“Sure he wasn’t,” Cassian replies, taking on a sardonic tone, looking away again. You flush with hurt at his assumption you would consciously and willingly continue speaking with a male who was trying to flatter you in that way while so obviously—… Obviously? Does he think otherwise? 

“Cassian…it isn’t fair to expect to find in me the same faults you’ve encountered in others,” you say softly. “And, it isn’t fair to compare your conscious reciprocation of her…intentions, to my situation. If he was being…inappropriate, I hadn’t noticed it. I wouldn’t have continued if I had known.” 

“And what does fairness have to do with any of this?” He asks cynically, not looking at you, powerful arms folded over his broad chest as he keeps a steady pace that has you hurrying a little to keep up. 

“Don’t you—” You fumble, glancing down before solidifying your resolve, gripping the sleeve of his upper arm to pull him to a stop. Cassian stiffens beneath your touch, glancing with surprise down to where you’re holding onto him, before meeting your eyes with some colour to his cheeks—probably the bite of cold.

You swallow, averting your gaze briefly but keeping hold of him. “I want things to be fair for you. To you,” you say softly. “Do you…do you not want the same for me?” 

He blinks, caught of guard by the sincerity of your expression, how earnest you sound in your question. And you’re right, he can’t just assume the worst of everyone, failing them before they even take a test. Maybe he did act brashly, a little unfairly toward you. 

He doesn’t like the hurt in your expression. 

“Cassian, I…I enjoy your company. But if you aren’t sincere…if my feelings aren’t reciprocated, please don’t string me along.” Your grip lessens on him, worried you’re being too pushy with your feelings where they aren’t welcome. “I’m sorry I upset you by speaking with that male, I had no idea it might look different on the outside to what I thought was going on. I promise I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Cassian holds still, hot breath puffing between each of you, and he becomes aware of how cold your fingers are through the fabric of his shirt. How nervous you look as your eyes skip about, before anxiously rising to look upward at him. He swallows thickly, guilt tingling in his gut, regretting not acting like a damned adult and just speaking with you about his worries. He nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice heavy. “That was stupid. I wasn’t—…I didn’t think properly.” 

Your breath catches a little, pulse spiking with nerves. “So you,”—you clear your throat—“we’re okay? I mean, we’ve sorted things out? You…” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. 

Cassian’s cheeks warm, and he quietly takes your frozen hand in his much larger, much warmer one. “I enjoy your company, too.” 

Azriel: Young and Beautiful 

Full tears spill from gleaming eyes, reflecting the silver under the moonlight as you remain stood over the closed grave, shoulders shuddering under grief’s heavy cloak. The sight of you dressed in black, a thin veil over your face, brings back the lamenting groan of the organ, the somber melody that had been played before the coffin had been carried up onto the hillside, and buried upward at its crest, able to still watch the sun rise and fall each day. 

The downward tug of your lips is something he never wants to see again, the loss, the life that’s been stolen from all of them—never again. 

He walks forward silently, coming to a pause at your side, and his heart breaks further at the clarity of your sobs. Unashamed to shed tears over the departed, mourning her loss deeply, with feeling. He swallows thickly, attention resting on the burial, the life that was taken so cruelly. The life her brother had taken revenge for, having returned from Spring not even a full day ago. 

“You should come inside,” Azriel whispers, saying only what he should. You both know neither of you are yet ready to move on from this wound, and to rush it would be to dishonour the dead. But the wind does not grieve, makes no attempts to lessen its cruel bite, hot breath puffing from your lips with each stuttering exhale, and the familiar sting of sorrow cracks through his heart. “It’s cold,” he tries half-heartedly, “at least warm up a bit.”

His resolve disintegrates as you cast him a mournful look, your lids puffing from tears, eyes shining like glass beneath the cold night’s sky, swirling starlight reflecting in your irises. As if she’s already reached the heavens, and is waving goodbye. 

You don’t need to say anything to convey your sorrow; it’s one they’re all feeling. 

His throat rolls, and you turn back to the gravestone, quietening out of respect for his own grief, to offer him his own silence in which he’ll be able to mourn. 

Glancing up at the sky to cool the heat behind his eyes, Azriel inhales a slow, deep breath, allowing the cold, crisp night air to bring some clarity to his mind, sinking into his lungs as the clear night air disperses throughout his body, released in one exhale, as if breathing out his very soul. Azriel glances sidelong at you again, the obvious prickling of your skin against the cold. 

Closing his eyes briefly, he opens his wing, wrapping it delicately over your shoulder, cradling you in the only comfort he can offer. 

You lean into him without worry for appearances, hands clasping one another, your fingers like ice against his flame-scarred skin, pressing against his side as your head falls to his upper arm. 

It’s this small gesture that has his own walls cracking, lips tugging down as his brows pull together, hot tears sliding down his cheeks, making an effort to keep his breathing even so you don’t have to concern yourself with his own sorrow. 

You deserve the chance to grieve freely, without having to worry about the welfare of others. 

The least he can do is offer you that courtesy.

Eris: Golden Hour

Eris had encouraged you to rest when he’d pieced together your hunched frame and weakened legs, guiding you back to bed and setting you down in the mattress, taking infinite care not to jostle your body when he laid you down. ‘I’ll bring my work next door,’ he’d murmured, lips brushing your forehead, ‘Call if you need anything.’ 

Then he’d given a sharp whistle and all six of his hounds had leapt up onto the bed, a broad smile stretching your mouth as one nosed its way beneath your palm, squeezing itself under your arm, laying an elegant snout across your chest. Two more settled at your waist, heads lolling across your stomach, curling into your sides; another pair settling themselves around your legs, one between and another against your thigh; the last hound nestling into the pillows beside your head, taking Eris’ spot, likely picking up on the scent and taking it for comfort. 

The small beats of their tails excitedly thwacking the bedsheets as they nestled and nuzzled had your cheeks aching from smiles, fingers scratching behind ears and at the itchy parts of their napes, hind legs kicking with contentment before you all settled down. 

‘Are you sure? They’ll miss your company.’ You’d murmured, peering up at him from the shared bed, though you wouldn’t have been able to move even if you wanted to. Six large hounds piled atop and around one person is a surprisingly efficient way to keep someone still, you discovered.

But Eris had shook his head once, narrow lips softening at their edges, amber eyes twinkling as he took in the affectionate sight. ‘I’ll just be next door,’ he’d repeated. ‘I’ll come in to check on you in a while.’ 

‘Please don’t worry,’ you’d murmured, fingers brushing over his knuckles, lightly taking a hold of his hand. ‘I’ll be fine. You need your time to concentrate—I’ll manage.’ 

But Eris had just given you a look to tell you he knew better, before pressing another kiss to your forehead then departing. Leaving you feeling warm and fluffy despite the tension in your lower abdomen. 

Now it’s night and your husband returns, hounds eagerly padding at his feet, paws cleaned and dried after the muddy walk through the surrounding forest they take before bed. You slide your book shut and set it on the side table, directing your attention to him as he begins disrobing, clothes re-shelved if clean, and set in the wicker basket if not. 

After he’s finally washed and changed your smile widens, pulling back the covers for him to seat himself behind you, unable to even pull the duvet back over himself before you’re diving into his side, crawling beneath his arm and tucking yourself flush to his chest, arms tugging at his waist as you eagerly press your face to the crook of his neck, inhaling slowly, deeply. Treasuring every aspect of his feel: the clean, soapy scent intermingled with smoke and pine; smooth, hot skin beneath your touch, baby hairs curling at the nape of his neck; the silky soft brush of his nightwear against your cheek. The undeniable secure form of him that you’re able to wrap yourself around. 

“I missed you,” you mumble, pulling back to gaze up at him, forgetting the previously uncomfortable pressure between your hips, happy he’s back and by your side again. Warm and hot and strong and solid. Smelling divine, good enough to knock you out with a dozy smile on your lips. 

“You say that every time I don’t see you for a day,” Eris mumbles back, shifting beneath your grasp, hauling the duvet up as he settles down into the mattress. You squeeze yourself closer, leg inching across his hips as he whistles, allowing the hounds to leap up and scatter themselves in a close huddle around the two of you. “It’s because I miss you every time you leave me,” you whisper, kissing the underside of his jaw. “Even if it’s only for a day.” 

Eris rolls his eyes, faelights flickering out as he pulls you impossibly closer, tilting so he can nose at the crown of your head, lips grazing your skin. 

“I missed you too,” he whispers, softly, “now sleep. You were supposed to be resting today, not reading my hounds stories.” 

Lucien: amour plastique

Lucien’s lips are flushed red against the frost-filled cold, and for a moment you wish it was because of your teeth that they look so raw and bitten. 

The tip of his nose is rosey, cheeks pink while the rest of his skin is unusually pale, snow flakes catching on his lashes, eyes searing against the cool-toned blues of the snowy forest. 

He’s still only courting you, and yet this might be The Moment. 

Your heart flutters in your chest, mind and heart agreeing on one thing, for once. And that’s the male on top of you might be the last person you ever love. 

A slow, teasing smile spreads across Lucien’s fiery mouth, cupid’s bow stretching taut with the vulpine grin as his eyes twinkle with mischief. “Something on your mind, love?” He shifts on top of you, keeping you pinned in the ankle-deep carpet of snow, searing red hair sliding from over a broad shoulder, caressing your cheek and he has the audacity to flash his teeth in a feral smile as if he’d planned for you to feel as such. 

Maybe he had. 

“I’m thinking you’re acting quite the scoundrel, Lucien,” you reply, raising a brow while your heart pounds wildly in your chest. “Where did the charming gentlemale go who took my first dance last night?” 

“‘Gentlemale’?” Lucien drawls, the white of the snow making his teeth brighter—sharper—as they flash in a smile. He lowers himself closer, hair dragging lightly over the fluttering pulse at your throat. “You should have known my nature when you gave me that first dance, and I stole all your rest.” 

“‘Stole’?” You force a laugh, almost flinching when his eyes momentarily dip to your mouth. “You wouldn’t have received my first if I thought you were playing at some kind of deception.” 

“Then don’t pretend surprise when I keep you in the snow without offering a hand up,” Lucien whispers, close enough the mist of his breath caresses your mouth. 

You swallow, heart and mind aligning as the embers finally catch, a searing fire catching light in your stomach, burning as certain and blinding as the Day Court sun. “Without raising yourself up, either,” you reply, breathless. Amber eyes lock with your own; deep, and hungering for more than just flesh. “If anyone sees us…” You broach, gazes burning into one another as you trail off, seeing what he’ll do. 

Neither make an effort to move. 

“They’ll probably be correct in their assumptions,” Lucien murmurs, the intensity of his attention alone enough to keep the bite of ice at bay. Liquefying heat until it’s hot enough to fuel fire. 

Your brow narrows, head tilting as snow crunches beneath you. “That you’re taking me for a one-night roll?” Hands lift from your sides, settling on his shoulders, grip tight enough to suggest you’ll push him firmly away should he answer untruthfully. You weren’t made for a brief, singular apogee. You were made for everlasting; a ubiquitous kind of love.

Lucien’s heavy exhale might as well have been a hiss when he sees whatever’s in your eyes, strain contorting his muscles as his palms turn to fists in the snow. “If that’s all you’re seeking,” he growls, “tell me now, so I can salvage the little that’s left of me.”

Your breath hitches, staring up at the male on top of you, close enough to be sharing breath. 

Finally, your heart and mind sigh in unison. Finally a match who understands.  

Elain: We Fell In Love In October

The crystallised sugar of the plum is rough against your lips but her fingers are soft; pale and powdery; creamy-tipped nails curved and cared for, their pads skimming your mouth with a featherlight touch as she feeds you the sweet, your tongue catching her just before she pulls away. 

Your cheeks warm, thinking yourself too obvious. 

Elain’s cocoa brown eyes dilate, softening in the balmy heat, deep afternoon light glazing her in honey-gold that blazes on the pretty loops of her ringlets. Her fingers linger for a moment too long, then she’s retreating with the breeze. 

“It looks like it’s going to be a clear night,” you mumble with a palm over your mouth, neither quite looking at the other. The woollen blanket you’re sharing rustles as she shifts, dried grass rasping against its underside while another slow breath of air curls between you. 

Elain tilts her head, lovely hair spilling over one bare shoulder as she gazes up towards the pale blue skies. Already tinges of heat are beginning to warm the horizon while the sun prepares to dip into evening, then eventually leaving your side of the world until daybreak tomorrow morning. Plenty of time to admire the absence of such blinding light, the peace and relative quiet of the shadow-filled night, the whole world agreeing to share a single colour palette of darkest jade, midnight seas, and night-filled purple. 

You’ve both been waiting for a clear night for a while now, aching to lie beneath the pearly pattern of star shine, twinkling like slowly twirling diamonds, or moonstones. 

It’s only now, that you’re out here together, preparing to share a night and a blanket, that you realise you probably won’t get much of a chance to look at the stars. Not while Elain will be at your side, their light reflecting in her eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Elain murmurs, and you flush when you realise she’s peering at you, leaning her body across the blanket to face you. You fumble for an answer, eyes dipping away. “I was thinking how beautiful tonight is going to be,” you reply, glancing down to the small ceramic plate set between you, carrying sugared plums and powdered pastries, sweetened fruit slices resting atop glazed, fluffy bread. All offerings from Elain. 

Rosey lips soften at their edges as you peek back up at her. “The stars?” She murmurs, smiling quietly. You swallow, forcing yourself to nod, “the stars. And everything else.” 

Her eyes are twinkling now. “‘Everything else’…” 

Heat overtakes your cheeks beneath the intensity in her eyes, gaze darting elsewhere. But fingers dip beneath your chin, bringing your attention wholly back to her. “Tell me,” Elain whispers, close enough you can imagine how the words would feel across your mouth. 

“You.” The word is goaded from your throat by a golden thread, gently pulled and plied until it spilled across your tongue, reeled in to whisper in her ears. She smiles, and a weight lifts from your shoulders, “That makes me happy to hear.” 

Your heart pounds, pulse fluttering in your throat. She isn’t pushing you away. She doesn’t look disgusted. It makes her happy. 

Elain’s eyes seem to twinkle as she watches your frozen expression of shock, enjoying the confused flutter of your eyelashes as you blink, half curious, half awed. It makes her want to see the look on your face if she…“I want something sweet,” Elain whispers, leaning in close. “May I?” 

You blink back to life, lips fumbling as your eyes skate about the place. “They’re yours,” you murmur, breathless, “You don’t need to ask.” Why would she need to when she’s the one who brought them? Baked them and sweetened them? What delicacy will she choose, from the small plate?

A huff of laughter fans your mouth, her lips curving before she’s leaning closer, and- 

Your eyes widen, paralysed beneath her touch. The soft heat of her mouth. How can anything possibly feel so delicate?

For longer than you can think she holds her mouth to yours, lips tilting experimentally as they slope over your own set. Your fingers are trembling on the blanket, arms shaking while her touch remains calm and steady, as if she’s kissed you a million times before, and enjoys it just as much as she did the first. Elain deepens the intimate press, her head tilting as she angles your jaw, tongue slipping out to swipe across the sugared pillow of your lower lip, licking the powder away with slow, careful strokes. 

Calm, and completely in control of herself. 

You feel like your arms will disintegrate into a floury puff, body crumbling like shortbread then evaporating into a hot, sweet vapour for her to inhale. To bring into her lungs so you can be brought into her body and run your course. 

She leans closer and your arms melt like butter beneath her pressure, silky wisps of hair pooling over your collar bones as she lays you down, kissing deeper and you can’t help yourself, shaking hands rising from the blanket, sliding over her hips to settle around the pleasing curve of her waist. Elain’s spine slopes as your fingers trail along her arch, her own hands exploring through your hair and you wonder if she can hear the erratic pulse in your throat. Can feel it as she kisses you. 

You hope she can, if only so she’ll know your affection without the confusion of language getting in your way. An inevitable mistranslation between the beat of your heart and the useless words you possess. 

It would be impossible to express, so you kiss her back; kiss her longingly and tenderly, keeping your touch familiar and chaste in the hopes she’ll understand you desire her heart above all else. 

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[natsarrownecklacx]

Just One Chance

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count- 2,191

Summary- You desperately want Natasha to sit on your face, she’s definitely not apposed to the idea, but she does have her concerns.

Warnings- Smut, 18+ only Minors this is not a fic for you. Chubby, subby Nat (she’s so adorable pls I love her) face sitting, slight degradation kink, slight mommy kink, teasing, hand riding (?) talks on weight insecurities (Nat)

Based on this

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ

“Baby, please.” You plead with your girlfriend, not for the first time, for her to give into your desperation. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

Natsaha looks at you with eyes full of guilt and uncertainty. She knows you want her to do this, knows how desperately you crave her this way and honestly if you were asking for anything else she would have given it to you within a moment's notice, but this, she just can't.

She has a deep seeded fear that the chub around her thighs, tummy and waist will hurt you the second she puts her weight down on you.

She’s always declined your offer, your need, to pleasure her that way, despite your assurances that she wouldn’t hurt you, that you’d only ever feel blessed to be between her legs.

She’d be lying if she said she’d never thought about it. That she’d never cum with her fingers buried deep inside her with the thought of you underneath her, mouth on her cunt bringing her to the very edge of bliss before pulling her over and helping her fall.

“Nat.” You say seriously. “If you are genuinely uncomfortable with this I will drop it, but if the only thing holding you back is your fear of hurting me then I need you to hear me when I say you won’t, love. I’ll even have a safeword and action for if I need a break.”

You see it the moment Natasha’s shoulders slump, her body relaxing at the idea of you having a safe word, a way for her to ensure your comfort and safety.

You take the opportunity to close the distance between you, the slight chill in your shared bedroom dissipating the second her body is against yours, even with the both of you fully clothed.

You take her in your arms, pulling her toward you to place a kiss on her cheek. “Besides.” You add, teasingly, a smirk on your lips. “I’m not sure if I've ever mentioned this but my preferred way to go out is between your thighs, love.”

Natasha laughs, lightly swatting your shoulder, a teasing tone to her own voice as she answers. “You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

In your defense, it would be your preferred way to go, if it came down to it, you’d want to leave this life with her. Where else would you get a view like that?

Natasha takes a second to think it over, a steady heat pooling between her legs at the thought, ultimately leading her to the decision not to deprive either of you of this any longer.

“Okay.” Natasha says, so quietly you think you might have imagined it.

“Okay?” You ask, your voice filled with poorly covered hope.

“Yes.” Natasha says more confidently this time. “I’ll sit on your face.” She blushes as she says it, the crude words feeling heavy on her tongue.

You don’t even try to hide your excitement as you smile at her, sliding your hands down her body, stopping at her thighs to pick her up and throw her onto the bed.

“Strip, love.”

Your eyes darken as you stand at the foot of the bed, watching her remove her clothes one by one until she’s left in only her panties in front of you. “Leave those on.”

Natasha groans, knowing she’s about to be teased. “But-” She tries to protest, only for you to cut her off by crawling on top of her, caging her against the bed with your body. “But nothing, love. What I say goes and you know that. Don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She replies, letting her eyes drift to where your pointer finger is tracing over the skin of her stomach.

You draw a path over the skin of her abdomen, up through the valley of her breasts, across her collarbones and over her throat and jawline. You take her jaw in your grasp, making her move her gaze back to your face. Her pupils are dilated, submission and lust clear in her gaze.

You lean down to cover her lips with your own, simultaneously moving your finger back down between her breasts, down over her stomach and over her thighs.

You roughly palm the inside her thighs, causing a gasp to leave her lips and allowing you to slip your tongue into her mouth. The noise she releases is heavenly, somewhere between a needy whine and a moan and you have to keep your hips from bucking against her.

You bring your hand down to grope at her thighs, feeling the desperation roll off of her in waves, her hips rising off the bed in search of more.

Natasha pulls away, her head falling against the pillow below her with a dull thud. “Please.” She says, breathlessly.

“Please what?” You ask, feigning confusion.

Natasha only huffs at your act, her hips raising again trying to catch your attention. “Please, touch me.” She says, this time making sure to look you in the eye, knowing your weakness for her dark green orbs.

“I am touching you, love.” You tease further, groping the flesh of her inner thigh to prove your point.

“No.” She says confidently, making you raise a brow as takes your wrist in her hold, guiding your hand from her thigh to her heat. “I need you here. Please, y/n.”

Without saying anything, you press against the wet spot on her panties, delighting in the noise it draws from her. Her hips lift on instinct, pushing herself against your hand, head falling back at the pressure she’s rewarded with.

“Oh g-god.” She stutters out, rutting her hips against the flat of your hand, held firmly against her with her hand wrapped around your wrist.

You smirk down at her, a borderline predatory look in your eyes. “You gettin close, love?” You ask, feeling her pick up the pace of her hips, cute little moans falling from her lips as she nods.

“Yeah?” You tease, only to receive another nod in response. You bring your free hand up to wrap around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her head swim. “How about now?” You taunt, receiving only a whine and a breathy “f-fuck” in answer.

“Gonna come.” She says in warning and you can’t help but smile as you watch her tilt her head back, her back arching off the bed as she moans and a gush of arousal soaks her panties.

“Aww, honey.” You coo, fighting against a smirk when you see a bright red blush cover her cheeks, her head turning to the side, avoiding you’re gaze.

Keeping your hand on your throat loosely you lean in to whisper against her ear. “You came so hard your shaking and I didn’t even properly touch you.”

Natasha whines, moving forward to tuck her head into your neck. “None of that, sweetheart.” You say, moving away from her to capture her lips with yours.

She closes her eyes, enjoying the feel of you against her. You pull away and she tries to follow your lips, a chuckle leaving yours as you lean back, giving her some room to breathe.

It takes Natasha a minute to gather herself, her eyes drifting to your smile as soon as she’s calmed enough to meet your dark gaze.

You shift off of her, lying on the bed beside her and tapping her thigh.

“Come on, honey.” You say, moving your eyes slowly up her body until you meet her blown out pupils. “Sit your pretty self on my face and I’ll make you cum again.”

Natasha whimpers and clenches her thighs shut, the action drawing your attention, a smirk falling onto your face.

She moves to straddle your stomach, her hands flat against your chest as she stares down at you. The sight of you beneath her, eager to please her reminds her of her often thought of fantasies. Her hips grind down on you unintentionally, drawing a quiet moan from her.

You laugh quietly and take her jaw into your hand, forcing her too look you in the eye. “That’s right honey, I want you to make yourself feel good just like that. I just need to taste you while you do it.”

Natasha nods dumbly, moving off of you to remove her panties. She then moves herself to straddle over your face, her eyes full of hesitation as she lowers herself down, refusing to put any weight on you.

You allow her this moment of hesitation, looking to her for permission as you wrap your arms around her thighs, lifting your head between her legs.

You wait for her nod of approval, a timid smile on her lips as she does so, before you let your tongue come in contact with her cunt. You lick a strip up her and watch in fascination as her mouth drops open at the pleasure it causes her.

You move your tongue to her clit, circling the bundle of nerves and Natasha’s hands fly to the headboard to hold herself up as her thighs begin to tremble.

“Oh god.” She moans, fighting against herself to keep from grinding on your tongue. “Y/n.” She moans.

Natasha’s head tips back, whines and moans spilling from her lips. You look up at her, noticing the muscles in her arms tense, her thighs shaking on either side of your head and you know she’s holding back.

You use your hold on her to pull her down onto you fully. She looks down at you, alarm on her face for all of five seconds before you flatten your tongue under her clit and pull her forward on your tongue.

She moans loudly, hints of desperation laced in the pretty sound. Her hands to rest just above your head, her hips grinding against you with fever, drawing every ounce of pleasure she can from you.

You let her use your mouth to get herself off, her desperate movements, moans and cries of your name turn you on more than you can bear. Your thighs squeeze together, trying to release the building pressure.

“Oh god.” She cries out, her head falling forward. “Feels so good.” She moans, her hips stuttering against her tongue. The sound and the taste of her make you moan into her, causing her to cry out again.

You move your tongue away from her clit, her whine of protest bringing a smirk to your lips.

Natasha sits up, her back straight, her hands wresting on her thighs. She stares down at you through hooded eyes, her pupils blown out and a pout on her face. “Y/n.” She mumbles, as if she simply doesn’t have the energy to do any more.

“Yes baby.” You answer, giving short, gentle licks against her opening. “Nughhh. Oh god, y/n please.” She begs, trying to grind down onto your tongue.

You look up at her with mischievous eyes, her eyes widening as she sees them. “What are you- fuck!” She cries out, feeling your tongue slide inside of her.

You thrust your tongue in and out of her, using your grip on her thigh to pull her more onto your mouth.

Her walls flutter around you as she weaves her fingers into your hair, tugging lightly on the strands.

You brush your nose against her clit as you thrust inside her, causing her head to fly back and a loud cry of “mommy” to fall from her lips. Her thighs shake and threaten to close as she comes apart on your face, the orgasm hitting her harder than ever before.

You continue to thrust into her, drawing out her pleasure as she rides out her high on your tongue.

You only pull away from her when she whines from overstimulation, her hand pushing you away from her as her whole body slumps forward.

She takes all of five seconds to catch her breath before she registers her position, the amount of her weight she let you bare.

In a state of panic she lifts herself from your mouth. A panicked jumble of apologies and words of concern leave her lips so fast you can barely understand what she’s saying.

You simply lift your hand to cover her mouth, her eyes immediately snapping to yours, the panic all but evaporating from them when she sees the adoration and bliss in yours.

She gasps when she meets your eyes, the sight of you covered in her so contently causing the heat in her stomach to reignite

You kiss the inside of each of her thighs, relishing in the shaky breath she releases as you do so, a mumbled “you're so beautiful” falling from your lips and you watch as a blush covers her cheeks and she looks away shyly.

“So.” You tease, causing Natasha to look back at you. “Mommy, huh?”

Natasha’s eyes widen again, suddenly remembering what she’d said in her state of pure arousal.

You feel it against her hand when she goes to apologize, but you keep her mouth firmly shut, pushing your hand against her.

“Shh, baby. Just let mommy taste you again.”

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ

A/n - I’m not entirely happy with this one but the wip list is so long I just wanted it done and honestly if I don’t post it rn there’s a 50/50 on it never being posted. Hope ye like it anyways

[americanwh0rerstory]

Jack off [tate langdon] P.2

Summery: whilst trying to get off for the umpteenth time that day, Y/N walks in and catches him

A/N: thanks for all the support on part 1, somebody suggested a part two but i cant remember who it is. but whoever it was, here you go :)

content warnings: use of panties to get off, repeated use of Y/N, m!masturbation, guilt tripping, Dub-con, unprotected p in v, choking, cumming over tits, gentle aftercare

MDNI. SMUT BELOW THE CUT. CONSUMPTION IS YOUR CHOICE

“shit” tate groans as he rubs your panties against his cock, the lacy material sliding up and down his shaft at lightning speed. he bucked into his hand as he sped up, his eyes fluttering shut when that familiar feeling of euphoria began to course through his veins. he was close.

“Y/N… oh fuck Y/N” he whimpered, speeding up his pace yet again. his breathing was laboured, coming out in shaky and ragged breaths in between the whines of pleasure that escaped from between his parted lips. he was so close, fucking your panties like there was no tomorrow, when he was interrupted.

“tate?” you say with confusion, seeing your ghostly companion sprawled onto your bed and fucking your panties like a god damn perv. your eyebrows knitted in confusion as you look over at him from the doorway,

he stayed silent when he saw you, the panties still wrapped around his cock but now not moving at all. he was just caught like a deer in headlights, staring at you with wide eyes as if he expected you to reprimand him.

“i-i’m sorry” he stammered hurriedly whilst trying to control his breathing. he quickly tucked himself away back into his jeans out of embarrassment, the last thing he wanted was for you to hate him. “do you hate me? are you mad? i’ll go if you want me too, i’ll never bother you again if that’s what you want”

you stare back at him, not knowing what to say. there was billions of words you could say yet none of them would come to mind. you felt guilty for walking in on him and making him feel like you hated him, you didn’t want him to think that you hated him because it was far from it. the guilt was sickening and only one thing came to mind. so with a gentle tone you uttered only 2 words that seemed right: “don’t go”

he looked up at you from the bed when he heard that, the tiniest glimmer of hope in his eyes. it was the hope that you didn’t hate him, the hope that maybe he gets to fuck you, the tiniest slither of hope for anything out of you.

“do you… wanna help me out?” he asked with hesitance, trying to mask his happiness over the fact that you was in no position to refuse. surely the guilt would make you accept, right?

“you won’t need to do much, im close already. just this quick one, please?” he begs, looking up at you through his lashes with a look of desperation written over his face. “it doesn’t matter that i’m a ghost, we can still fuck” he adds on the end

with a gentle nod of your head you gave him the sign he was looking for, and he wasted no time whatsoever. within seconds he was sliding his pants and boxers down to his ankles and standing at the foot of the bed. you took that as your cue to lay back so once you had stripped down to absolutely nothing, you lay down and looked up at tate for what he’s planning on doing next

he pumped into his hand a few times, working a bead of precum over his shaft as a small bit of lubricant. he did that before dragging his tip along your already soaked slit, teasing you a little before he did anything. it didn’t take long for him to push into your waiting hole, slowly sliding his length into you

“so much better than i thought” he murmurs with a satisfied groan, already getting pussy drunk before he had even began. he gave you few moments to adjust before he pushed you into a mating press and began to thrust, his heavy balls slapping against your own skin with every deep thrust tate made.

he used one hand to choke you whilst he thrusted, the lack of oxygen made you feel dizzy but also made it pleasurable, your head spinning whilst the only noises you could make were whines and moans of sheer pleasure. each thrust hit your g-spot, causing you to choke a little on the loud moan that attempted to escape your throat. his thrusts were lazy but deep and rough at the same time, each thrust bringing you more pleasure than you had ever felt.

the repeated hits of your g-spot made you begin to feel that knot in your stomach, that familiar feeling akin to a volcanic eruption in the sense that you too was going to burst at any given second. through the garbled moans, you managed to stammer out that you was close to cumming, looking up at tate with pleading doe eyes.

“cum f’ me” he moans out as he pumped faster into you, bringing himself closer and closer as he pounded into you. the entire bed was rocking and shaking but it didn’t deter him from the act, not in the slightest. when on the brink of orgasm, he pulled out and sprayed his load all over your perky breasts and hardened nipples. the sight of you covered in his seed caused him to smirk in between groans of pleasure. after so long yearning for you, he finally got you.

you too also came. your cunt clenched around nothing whilst your back arched and you saw stars. the knot in your stomach coming undone in one big messy orgasm. it left you shaking, breathless, and coated in tate’s cum.

Once the pair of you came down from your joint orgasms, he grabbed a warm towel and wiped you clean, an almost caring look in his eyes. when he finished that, he lay beside you and cuddled into your warm body; a stark contrast to his ghostly cold one.

“you was great, you did great. maybe later we can go do something else? once we’ve had time to relax of course” he mumbled against your neck, a gentle reassurance that he didn’t want you just for sex, he genuinely likes you.

[chasingwhitebunnies]

I feel a bit silly writing this because I’m sure other people must have but I’ve not seen anything about it

(SPOILERS - I’ll also tag)

I really love how we see Coriolanus’s character descent into who he becomes through each of his kills

His first kill is Bobbin. It was self-defence, kill-or-be-killed. If he hadn’t done it, he probably would have been killed himself, but this sticks with him. Coriolanus is horrified when he realises he took someone’s life. He thinks about it for a long time.

His next kill is Mayfair Lipp, the mayor’s daughter. It’s not self-defence, but he sees it that way. In a way, he’s got a point. She would have reported him, and he would have been hanged. So would Lucy Gray, so he shot her. This time, however, he had a choice. Maybe not much choice, but it was there. He chose to shoot her, but it doesn’t affect him anywhere near as much as Bobbin’s death

The third is the hardest. He doesn’t pull the trigger or tie the noose, but he might as well have. He betrays Sejanus. Sejanus who loves him like a brother. Sejanus who he has known since they were children. He made the decision in a moment and he questions himself afterwards, but he still made that choice. He reasons to himself internally that it was necessary and Sejanus was bound to get himself in trouble, anyway, right? Right? So it’s okay. But it’s not okay. The blood is on his hands and he keeps thinking of the moments they spent together before the betrayal. He benefits from his death and is rewarded for his loyalty. How ironic

Next is Lucy Gray. Possibly. For argument’s sake, let’s say he did kill her. He calls out for her, his gun slung over his shoulder. He realises how she might be scared, the gun sending the wrong message… but he doesn’t put it back. He brings it with him, not to use it, he tells himself. He would never use it, definitely not. He just… wants to talk some sense into her. As soon as the snake bites him, he abandons all pretence. Even though he admitted moments ago he understood why she would be scared, now she’s the enemy. Now she has to pay. How dare she. Not even an hour ago, he had plans to run away with her. He claimed he loved her. They were going to be together. Now, he’s chasing her through the trees with a gun in his hands and he’s screaming for her to show herself. He shoots a lot. When he thinks he finally got her, he’s pleased. It was her own fault, he tells himself, for the snake trick. Even afterwards, when he finds out that the snake wasn’t venomous - which Lucy Gray definitely would have known and therefore was only intended to slow him down - he doesn’t have a single moment of regret. The only thing he regrets is falling for her in the first place and he swears he’ll never do it again. His heart is stone. Frozen like snow.

Finally, his last kill (before the ones that take place once this book ends) is Dean Highbottom. This is the first kill that is not made in a split-second. This is premeditated. He carefully adds just enough rat poison to the morphling, sure to wear gloves, and sets his plan in motion. He has every opportunity to change his mind, to not resort to violent means. Not only does he not regret it, he feels proud. Excited, even. He hopes Dean Highbottom will know it was him that killed him

By the epilogue, Snow has gotten over (or buried deep enough) what guilt he had over Sejanus enough to use the Plinths’ grief to his advantage without any conflicting feelings. He’s convinced himself Lucy Gray was the villain who played him, when she was just a sixteen-year-old girl who was forced into a terrible situation. As we know, he goes on to directly and indirectly kill thousands between TBOSAS and THG, too many. I doubt he remembers most of them, just nameless, faceless children. He doesn’t care anymore, not like he did the first time

The whole world is his Arena. Snow lands on top until it melts

[okay-j-hannah]

Part 7: The Summer Filter

Teen Wolf : Multishot

Stiles Stilinski x Reader

Word Count: 11.3k

Warnings: series rewrite, season 1 {aka 2011}, slow burn, friends to lovers, Stiles pining, usual teen wolf levels of violence and gore, heart conditions, talk of scars {good and bad}, character death, CPR, hospitals/surgeries, ANGSTY AS HELL

Request: This just came from my own head 😊  

A/N: I may or may not be sorry for this

Part 6: Orange Cream and Peachy Sugar

Part 7: The Summer Filter {You Are Here}

Part 8: The Favor

It was the night of the dance. You were in your room sliding on sandals with thick black straps; they sparkle as you admire the inky polish on your toes. Standing in front of your long mirror, you inspect the outfit.

Still as starry and beautiful as you remember – little dazzling specks of light against a deep navy sky. The heart-shaped neckline gave your chest shape while revealing your battle scars. You didn’t feel the need to put concealer on the discoloration of them.

This was the real you.

Your hair was pinned up in an elegant bun with a few curled strands framing your face. It might’ve taken you fifteen minutes, but you were finally able to put eyeliner on the way you like. Other than that, your makeup was relatively minimal.

It was time to show your parents and wait for Scott to come pick you up.

Since he wasn’t telling parents that he was banned from the dance, he was free to escort you without suspicion. Once at the dance, you’d have to find other friends to mingle with.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your dad says at the bottom of the stairs, “You look amazing.” He looks proud as your mom appears with a camera.

She snaps a picture, “Ah, you are stunning!” she takes another picture of you laughing. “I love everything about the dress.”

Your mom pulls you aside for a posed picture next to the front door before she gives you a hug. One of her hands lingers on your shoulder, her thumb grazing the edge of your 3-inch incision scar.

“You are so beautiful,” she whispers, “And so brave.”

“We’re proud of you, sweetheart,” Tom says next to his wife. “You’re right – a girl needs to go to at least one high school dance in her lifetime.”

You snicker, “Even if I am going with just friends.”

“Remember to take breaks if it feels too overwhelming,” Angela frets, “Get some water and sit down for a few minutes.”

“And you have friends and teachers there that can help you,” Tom adds, “Don’t be all stoic and pretend you’re fine.”

You wave them off as you hear a car pull into the driveway. “Don’t worry, everything will be great.”

You suddenly have an inkling of the fear Stiles must feel with his dad. Your parents don’t know about the target on your back from a bloodthirsty supernatural creature. They don’t know how in danger you actually are. And if anything were to happen, you would feel immense guilt at keeping them in the dark as they fret and worry.

Scott knocks on the door and you open it to reveal him holding three large daisy flowers. “Hello. Oh, wow…” he looks you over, “You look amazing.”

Your cheeks go pink, “Thank you, Scott. I’m loving you in a suit.” You give him a hug and he presents the flowers.

“At least one of these is from Stiles because he’s upset I didn’t give him a chance to contribute,” he laughs, “I know they’re not much, but…”

“I love them. They’re a wonderful surprise.” You take the flowers from him, and your dad takes them quietly while your mom takes a few pictures. “Mom!”

“Just a few pictures for the album,” she says, “I want you to make sure you get more with your friends tonight.”

Scott feels a little tense standing next to you, a gentle hand on your lower back as you smile. “I’ll have her back before two.”

“One,” Tom says, still holding the flowers.

“One,” Scott agrees, “We’ll send you pictures.”

Angela beams, “Perfect, have fun you two!”

The walk to the car was full of tense giggles. Scott holds the door open for you and he clambers into his seat a few moments later.

“Thank you for driving me,” you smile, “I know tonight is going to be a little stressful.”

“I’d rather drive you and make sure you’re safe than just appear on the roof somewhere,” he shrugs, his knuckles pale where they grip the steering wheel. “You are one of the main targets tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” you say, “Stiles was still bummed when I said he couldn’t drive me.”

“He’ll get over it.”

You smile, “I’m sorry you couldn’t take Allison.”

He’s quiet for a second, “Me too. But she’s not alone either. And it would be harder for me to explain why I wanted to drive with them when I’m not allowed at the school dance.”

“Well, I’m grateful anyways,” you say, “I didn’t realize how nervous I would be.”

“About the Alpha?”

“About the dance,” you laugh, “Is that ridiculous? There’s a psycho werewolf terrorizing us and instead I’m nervous about who I’m going to dance with and how I’ll look compared to everyone else.”

Scott smiles, “Those are the things you should be worried about. And you really do look amazing – I don’t think you have to worry about that one.”

The drive there feels quick with nerves fluttering in your stomach. Your heart rate is elevated, but you focus to keep a handle on it.

Ironically, the front of the school is decorated with stars, just like your dress. Blue and white balloons stand like statues on either side of the front doors while projections and strands of light wind around railings and stairs. You’re dazzled as you watch hordes of students make their way inside.

Scott looks guilty as he says, “I can’t be seen on the grounds.”

“I know,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt, “I’ll walk the rest of the way. Good luck trying to get in,” you laugh.

Crossing the parking lot was like a never-ending runway. You feel many eyes on you, whispers being said about your scars or your outfit, you weren’t sure. You suddenly wish you brought a purse so at least there’d be something for your hands to hold. Right now they were clenching and unclenching at your sides.

Your heart was starting to beat a little faster as you near the entry table. All these eyes, dozens of people, loud music and strobing lights, and…

“(Y/N)!”

You whip around to see Stiles tripping over the sidewalk curb. He has on a crinkled suit with a black plaid tie. He looks rosy as he straightens himself in front of you, “I, uh… woah.” His eyes are stuck on you – your dress, your chest, your face. His mouth hangs open; he is completely speechless.

You pull him into a hug, “You look handsome in a suit.”

He giggles awkwardly, still choking on words as he looks you up and down. “I – I um… you look…” He looks into your eyes, very warm and sincere when he says, “You look beautiful.”

You try to hide your smile, “See, that’s why we don’t invite boys to go dress shopping. Their reactions are so much better at the dance.”

He shakes his head, acknowledging your rightness, and extending his elbow. “Might I escort you inside?”

“Sure,” you smile, holding onto the crook of his arm.

The inside of the gym was loud and boisterous. Hanging chandeliers and blankets of shimmery star fabric hang from the ceiling. Lights of pink and purple fly around the room, complimenting the live band in the back center.

Your hand tightens around Stiles’ arm, and he stops instantly.

“Too loud?”

You try to take a deep breath, “I just need a second to adjust.”

“Let’s sit down then,” he guides you to one of the round tables and pulls a chair out for you. “I’ll get you a drink,” he says as he tucks you in.

You smile your thanks, trying to relax enough to breathe steadily. You take the time to look for friends around the room. It didn’t take long to find Jackson huddled with Danny and other lacrosse players. He was pouring something clear from a glass bottle into the punch cups. You roll your eyes – well he was coping in his own unique way.

You continue to people watch, seeing your classmates and the dates they came with. Behind you is Scott hiding next to the bleachers. You pinpoint where Coach is and decide that there’s enough distance between the two.

Allison comes sulkily to your table, sitting down and groaning, “I told you I had a feeling Jackson would be a shit date.”

“He’s not in the mood, is he?” you grimace, watching him across the gym drinking straight from the glass bottle. “We could report him.”

“Let him be stupid,” she sighs, leaning back in the folding chair, “He’ll regret it enough in the morning.”

You grab her hand and squeeze, “Did you see that Scott is here?”

Her eyes light up, “I saw him sneaking in through the roof.”

“A flair for the dramatic,” you huff, “I bet you anything he’ll try to dance with you even with Finstock watching.”

“If not, we can just dance together,” she laughs, “As long as I get to lead.”

You hold up your hands, “Whatever you say.” You nod your head across the gym, “Did you see Lydia and Ben?”

Lydia was aggressively dancing with Ben Manley, the pair of them treating the school dance like a nightclub. Allison shakes her head, “She’s trying to get over Jackson.”

“She can’t hide that she’s hurt forever,” you say, “Jackson isn’t going to care that she’s grinding on some other guy at a dance.”

“We’ll be there for her when she needs it.”

Stiles reappears with two cups of punch, “Oh, hi Allison. You look nice.” He hands you a cup.

“Are you sure these aren’t spiked?” you say comically, “Jackson has been passing around the bottle.”

“Of course he has,” Stiles grumbles, “You okay, Allison?”

“We’re waiting for Scott to make his move,” she says. But a loud commotion in the crowd has caught your attention, “Or maybe he is right now?”

You hear Coach yelling a few things in the center of the crowd that you can’t make out. The audience and band go quiet for a second as he yells for everyone to keep dancing. The band picks up with a soft slow dance song and Scott appears a little out of breath but smiling from ear to ear.

“How did you manage that?” you ask.

He only has eyes for Allison as she says, “Yes, I would love to dance with you.”

Scott looks like a lovestruck puppy as Allison drags him onto the dance floor. You smile after them, happy that they’re reconciling. You don’t even notice how long Stiles has been looking at you until he asks:

“How’s your heart?”

“Still a little elevated,” you sigh, “But nothing I can’t handle.”

He nods, looking afraid and hopeful when he asks, “Do you wanna dance?”

You turn to him with warm eyes. You are completely endeared by him again. “Sure.”

His smile comes on quick and fast, standing and letting his chair topple to the ground. You accept his outstretched hand, laughing, and follow him to the dance floor. It was full of couples slowly dancing with their arms wrapped around each other.

The quieter music and lack of raving students was easier on your nerves. Stiles was timid in how he puts his hands on your waist, waiting for you to make the deciding move.

When you wrap your arms around his shoulders and force him to stoop so you can reach, he finally sinks into you. His head rests beside yours, pulling you close by the waist and swaying to match the rhythm.

You have to tilt your head up so you weren’t smothered into his shoulder. “This is better.”

His fingers twitch on your sides, “Slow dancing?”

“It’s less chaotic,” you agree, “It feels… safer. For my heart.”

He leans his head into yours, “I’m glad you still came, (Y/N).”

“Me too.” You put a hand up his neck, grazing the edge of his hairline, “Let’s just forget all the werewolf business tonight.”

“We can until something happens,” he agrees, “I just… I like holding you like this.”

Your brow puckers, face shadowed by pink and purple light. Something warm enters your chest and dribbles to your stomach. “What else?”

Stiles grips your sides, “I like… being this close to you. And smelling that wonderful fruity stuff on you.”

Nervous butterflies were fluttering in your stomach, teasing your lungs with their wingbeats. “You’ve said that before.”

He smiles, “I like you in this dress. I like that your scars are out. I like the fact you came without a date because I get to dance with you like this. And I like knowing you’re smiling right now without me needing to look because I can feel it against my cheek.” He pulls away to see proof of that smile. “I like you, (Y/N). Like a lot.” You giggle and it eggs him on, “Like a lot a lot.”

You smile and shake your head, “I think I’m a little late to the game. Everyone seems to know that but me.”

His expression starts to dip. He wants to hear a similar confession from you. But you don’t have a real answer yet. “You’re not surprised?”

“I think I’ve been in denial,” you say, still swaying to the music but getting lost in the motion. It was making you feel dizzy. The decorations on the gym walls were blurring behind Stiles’ head. “I think I…”

Stiles looks like he’s on the edge of desperation. His cheeks are flushed with oncoming embarrassment, and you can see the hurt behind his eyes. You move a hand to his cheek, feeling the heat there, “I think I feel… faint.” And your head falls to his chest, still conscious but on the verge of passing out.

Stiles holds you tightly to him, still swaying despite your limp legs, “I’ve got you.” He holds you up by the waist, a hand going for your neck to check your pulse. “I got you – I won’t let you fall.”

You dance like this for the remainder of the song, you breathing in his sweet woodsy smell and grounding yourself in his hold. He carries you gently, running his free hand in soft patterns along your back and arms. It was incredibly soothing and if your head wasn’t pounding like you were about to faint, you would’ve fallen asleep.

The song ends and you’re still swaying with Stiles. It takes everything in him not to force a word out of you. It was killing him waiting for you to speak.

You were in the throes of dissecting your feelings. How did you feel about Stiles? You remember the sleepover. The blue handprints on the car battery. The fries in the hospital cafeteria. The mac and cheese with the Sheriff. The suit jacket searching the woods. The garden trellis and rocks thrown on the tulips. The peachy light of your room and Ollie asleep between you two. The way he bandaged your shoulder. The panic in his voice from the video store call. The hugs when you cried. The truth about his mother. The gas station candy in the parking lot. The lessons in kissing.

You feel warm all over, blood still trickling to your legs and leaving your head heavy with cotton. You finally push him away, “I need to sit down.”

He’s compliant, “Okay,” guiding you by the hand and waist to the round tables. “Um… I’ll get you something to drink. Do you want to find a place to lie down?”

You put a hand to your temples, shading your eyes, “Let’s try the drink first.”

He swallows hard. His question about if you reciprocate any feelings for him left in the air. It’s eating him alive. But he leaves to navigate the boisterous dancing crowd to find the punch bowl and maybe something for you to snack on.

You’re left in your sticky feelings about Stiles. You had promised yourself no serious relationships. It would hurt less when you inevitably had to leave them. Therefore, there had to be no serious feelings.

But what you felt around Stiles. It was safe and warm and natural. And after the kissing in the jeep? Puzzle pieces were falling into place everywhere.

It was going to be dangerous liking him back. You would have to be honest with him about your prognosis. You would have to tell him why it wouldn’t work. It would cause him more grief than joy.

You pinch the bridge of your nose – would you allow yourself to like Stiles back?

Your phone in your dress pocket dings with a message from Lydia.

“I can’t find Jackson.”

You whip your head around to find Ben Manley sulking on the bleachers. Of course Lydia couldn’t let Jackson go. She still cares about him.

“He was crazy drunk last I saw him,” you reply, “He might’ve left to blow off some steam.”

“I’ll check the lacrosse field,” she says.

You feel a tinge of panic, “No, you shouldn’t go out there alone. Come back and we’ll think of something together.”

Lydia doesn’t reply and you feel that panic grow. She was on her way to being the most vulnerable pack member tonight. You stand up and will the shakiness from your drained limbs. Scott and Allison are still dancing, Jackson is missing, and Stiles is swarmed with thirsty students at the refreshments.

You were wasting time trying to get backup. If Lydia had at least one more person with her, she’d be safer.

You are quick to leave the gym and find a path to the lacrosse field. All the stadium lights are on and call to you like lighthouse beacons. You decide sending a text to both Scott and Stiles was the safe course of action.

“Lydia ran off to the field. No time. I’m going to get her.”

The grass was damp and uneven. You were grateful for wearing sandals beneath the long dress. Even more grateful when you notice a limp figure on the ground and another towering over her.

“Lydia?!” you cry, running for the pair in the center of the field.

There was blood painting her pale skin, a horrible contrast in the stadium light. Peter Hale was crouched over her, a trickle of blood running from his lips.

“Ah, (Y/N),” he says with his sinister smile, “I was wondering who would show up. Turns out it was the masterpiece coming to the rescue.” He stands and wipes at his lip, “Now, gauging the relationship between pack members, I do believe you are the more invaluable one.”

He speaks with a calm tone, but the blood on his face and the hunting nature of his eyes was unsettling. Your bare arms erupt in goosebumps, and you watch him take a sniff in your direction.

He grins, “Your fear is delicious.”

“Others are coming,” you squeak, blood pumping in your ears. Your eyes keep flickering to Lydia, searching for her chest moving with air. “A fight will break out.”

“We don’t want that on your special night,” he says in a terrifying coo, “I just need to find Derek.”

Your face scrunches, “And how would we know the answer to that?”

“One of you does,” he smirks, “And I’m going to make sure there is plenty of incentive.” He walks over Lydia and in your direction.

In a split second Peter is swiping at you, sending you flying to the ground in a mass of shimmering blue fabric. A thrill of pain like nothing else explodes in your side and you know his claws are out.

You gasp in pain, too sharp to cry out.

“I can hear the unevenness of your heart,” he growls, fangs lengthening in his mouth, “I can smell the sickly symptoms of death.” He bows to take hold of your neck, the tips of his claws digging into the soft skin there, “Let me speed up the process.”

And he lifts you into the air, his nails sinking further into you. This time you cry out, hitting him pathetically with your arms. He throws you back into the ground and pins you beneath his body. His jaws are inches from your jugular when a frantic voice screams across the field.

“(Y/N)!”

Peter lifts his head and watches as Stiles sprints across the grass like his life depends on it. He slides the last few feet, getting on your level. His hand rises to touch you, but Peter growls at him – protective of his prey.

“Don’t kill her,” Stiles says in a shaky voice. His eyes stay on you, avoiding the gaze of the Alpha. “Please.”

Peter hums, “I might find it in me to spare her; if you tell me how to find Derek.”

Stiles stammers, “What?”

A clawed hand grips into your already damaged side and a sharp cry of pain comes out of you. “Tell me how to find Derek Hale.”

Stiles is losing control of his breathing, digging his fingers into the grass to stop himself from getting killed. “I don’t know that. How would I know that? Leave her alone!”

Peter removes his claws, each dipped in the dark red of your blood. “You’re the clever one, aren’t you? And deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles. Tell me the truth or I will rip her apart.”

You feel weak and faint as Peter trails his fingers along your bare skin. Tears are streaming from your eyes and into your hair. The tears to your side are searing with pain; with every breath you’re hurting.

One of your ribs must be broken.

Stiles was panicking, unsure of how to help you. “Okay, look… I think he knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Derek, I think he knew he was gonna be caught.”

“By the Argents?” Peter was staring at him with a hunters mark.

Stiles struggles to look between him and you bleeding on the ground. “Yeah, and when they were shot, he and Scotty… I think he took Scott’s phone.” You wince in pain and he pounds a fist into the grass.

“Why?” Peter asks lowly.

“They all have GPS now. So if he still has it and if it’s still on… you can find him.”

“Then lets go.”

Stiles is still frantic, fingers in the grass and tears of frustration burning his eyes. You were writhing on the ground in clear agony.

“No, I’m not just letting you leave them here.”

“You don’t have a choice Stiles; you’re coming with me.” Peter bends down to fish in your dress pocket, producing your cell phone, “Here ‘Lydia is hurt on the field,’ happy now? Sent it to a friend chat.”

“What about (Y/N)?”

Peter searches his pockets for a handkerchief, “She’ll be coming with us.” He wipes superiorly at his chin. Stiles begs from his place on the ground.

“You can’t drag her around with us! She’s bleeding out; she needs a doctor!”

“Then I suggest you don’t waste my time trying to find Derek,” he straightens his leather coat, “Because the longer you take… the longer she suffers.”

“She has a bad heart,” Stiles pleads, those frustration tears building in the corners of his eyes. “Any more stress could kill her.”

Peter squats beside you, making you whimper. “Then don’t cause her any more stress by fighting me.” He sinks his claws under your arm and drags you effortlessly across the field.

You cry out in pain, your legs too weak to flail. Blood leaves a trail behind you, Stiles scrambling to his feet, “Stop it! That’s hurting her too much. Her heart will give out before we find Derek – and there goes my incentive.” He yells the last part, “I won’t care after that!”

Peter grumbles and wraps his arms around your waist and legs, carrying you the rest of the way to Stiles’ jeep. You’re placed in the back, panting and hissing with pain as Peter and Stiles sit in the front.

You try to think of a way to prolong your consciousness. You gather the extra fabric from your dress and apply pressure to your side. The punctures to your neck and arm are less of a concern. At least he didn’t bite you.

“I forget how long it takes for humans to heal,” Peter huffs a laugh, “You’d be perfectly fine by now if you were a werewolf, (Y/N).”

Stiles sets his face as he drives away from the school. He keeps checking his rearview mirror to see how you’re coping.

You elevate your legs, take deep breaths, and keep pressure on your largest wound.

“Don’t feel bad,” Peter says, “If Lydia lives, she’ll become a werewolf. She’ll be incredibly powerful.”

Lydia had been bitten, you realize horribly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says sarcastically, “And once a month she’ll go out of her freaking mind and try to tear people apart.”

“Oh, the bite isn’t so bad,” Peter laughs, “It might actually save (Y/N)’s life if she can’t surpass her own wounds.” He directs Stiles to a parking garage further into town, “I could grant her a bite.”

“And make her a raging monster every month? No, thank you.”

Peter smiles wickedly, “Not even to save her life?”

It was quiet after that, the jeep making its way into the hospital parking garage and to a certain level. They park near a small gray car and leave you there.

The wounds to your side were pulsating with rhythmic pain and heat. Blood continues to soak through the fabric you keep bunching over it. You can hear Stiles being frantic and you can’t imagine how he must be feeling.

The longer he takes the more you suffer.

He was probably going out of his mind with worry. But you know instantly that you would forgive him for however long it’ll take to appease Peter.

There’s a loud bang and the back of the jeep is torn open. You tumble out at the momentum, crashing to the asphalt in a painful heap. You gasp at the cascading amounts of aching hurt.

Peter grips you by the hair and lifts you from the ground effortlessly. You scream, bundles of bloody fabric leaving your hands to claw at Peter’s hand.

“I can be very persuasive, Stiles. Don’t make me persuade you.”

“Okay, okay!” Stiles yells, “Put her down!”

You sob on the asphalt, the effort to breathe between cries is putting strain on your heart. It doesn’t take long for you to fall into a limbo between pain and unconsciousness. Stiles began to frantically type on a laptop. You couldn’t understand what they were saying.

The hurt was too loud.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp.

Peter goes to stand over you, urging Stiles to focus on the computer, “I’d suggest typing faster there, Stiles.”

“God. Fuck. Shit. God. Damn,” Stiles keeps messing up the keys and needing to refresh, meanwhile hearing you gasp for air behind him. “Wait! Here, look… they’re keeping him… at the Hale House.”

Peter gives you a good kick to the back as he steps over you, “Not at it. Under it. I know exactly where that is.” His ears perk up, “And I’m not the only one. Give me your keys.”

Stiles is practically bouncing on his toes to get to your struggling figure. “Careful, she grinds in second.” But his keys are returned bent and unusable. “What… how am I supposed to get her to the front of the hospital?!”

“You have a cell phone,” he says, “Now, because you did me a favor, Stiles. I’m going to offer this only once… do you want me to give her the bite?”

“The what?” Stiles is unable to focus with you quieting behind him.

“Does she want the bite?” Peter asks more clearly, “This is her one chance to get a cure all for her wounds. Of course it might kill her either way, but… that’s a risk you’d have to take.”

Stiles is at a loss, quiet as he considers. “No. She wouldn’t want that.”

“Very well,” Peter slides into his car without another word.

Stiles’ dress shoes squeak as he reaches your side, ignoring the way Peter speeds out of the parking garage. He kneels at your head, terrified that your lips were going purple. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, “(Y/N)? (Y/N), can you hear me?”

Your eyes barely flutter open before closing again, unable to breathe. He puts his head to your chest, one hand on your neck, searching for a pulse. Your heart was giving out.

“No,” he says, “No way. Not today. You’re not supposed to faint when you’re not breathing.” He pulls out his phone and puts 911 on speaker. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” He brushes the hair out of your face, revealing road rash from where you fell from the trunk.

911 instructs him to start CPR and wait for personnel to pick you up. Being in the hospital parking garage meant that help would be there soon. Stiles has his hands over the scars on your chest, smeared with blood from your side. He tries to keep his arms straight as he attempts to pump life back into your body.

He gives you a kiss of life, two breaths that would hopefully keep oxygen moving throughout your body. This was not how he envisioned your next kiss. Your lips were lifeless and soft. They were still purple.

You couldn’t die now – not when he still needs to apologize. Not when it would be his fault for not getting you help sooner.

Not when he had just confessed having feelings for you.

~~~

Stiles sits in the hospital hallway, legs bouncing and arms shaking with the movement as he leans on them. His head is bowed as the Sheriff comes speeding towards him.

“You know what?” Noah says as he approaches, “It’s good that we’re in a hospital because I’m gonna kill you!” He speaks firmly, “It has been a madhouse trying to find all you kids.”

Stiles finally looks up and the Sheriff stills.

His son is red-faced from crying. He rubs at his eyes, sniffling loudly as he tries to speak past the lump in his throat. “Is she going to be okay?”

The Sheriff looks behind them at Lydia, “They don’t know, partially because they don’t know what happened.”

“No… I mean, is (Y/N) going to be okay?”

Noah looks at the sorrow in his sons face. “You haven’t gotten an update?”

“No,” Stiles says in despair, “She went back there not breathing and I don’t know if they’ve gotten her back!”

“Listen,” Noah sits beside him, resting a hand on his back, “Let’s handle what we can control first. Now, these girls were attacked by the same thing, right? Did you see anything? I mean, do you have any idea who or what attacked them?”

Stiles licks his lips, hesitant in the truth. He still needs to protect his dad. “No,” he says, “No, I have no idea.”

“But why was (Y/N) with you and Lydia with Jackson?”

“(Y/N) was dragged off the field by whatever attacked them,” Stiles lies through his teeth, “We split up to protect them both. (Y/N) was closer to my jeep.”

Noah clenches his jaw, unsure of how to help his son. “And she was still breathing when you made your way over here?”

“It wasn’t until we reached the parking lot,” Stiles mutters. He runs his hands over the short length of his hair. “God, dad… what if I was too late?”

The Sheriff looks disheartened. “You did everything you could.”

The wait was agony. Agony that only gets worse as Chris Argent comes to interrogate him and Jackson. He’s barely able to keep it together long enough to help create some Molotov cocktails. He instructs Jackson to take them to the Hale House and help.

Your parents appear a few minutes later.

“Oh my god, Stiles,” Angela cries, as red in the face as Stiles was half an hour ago. “Have they said anything?”

“No,” he says, “I’ve been waiting here for nearly an hour.”

Tom runs for the nurses station, “Maybe they’ll give her parents the news.” Angela follows with Stiles on her heels.

A nurse was trying to calm Tom down, “Sir, I understand – let me call into the OR and check.” She makes a call to a different part of the hospital and speaks quietly.

Stiles stays a foot away, not wanting to intrude but needing to hear the news just as badly. Angela was stifling sobs as Tom holds her close to him.

“Okay,” the nurse replies, placing the phone back on the receiver. “She’s currently in surgery.”

“So she’s breathing,” Stiles says loudly.

“Yes,” the nurse continues, “The lacerations to her side are being stitched and some were deep enough to puncture the abdominal wall. There’s been lots of damage and blood loss. So far so good, though,” she consoles. “She did come into the ER not breathing and spent a lot of time without oxygen. But they were able to restart her heart.”

Angela continues to sob into Tom as he says, “Thank you. Please tell the doctor her parents are here waiting for updates.”

They walk back to the waiting room, sitting on the hard cushioned seats. Stiles was slow to follow them, unsure of how to be included in their fretful waiting. It was his fault you were kept from help for so long.

“Stiles,” Angela says, her voice thick with emotion. “Your dad said you were with her when it happened.”

He scratches the back of his head, afraid to look them in the eyes. “I found her after the attack. I tried to get her here as quick as I could.” He licks his lips, “She… she couldn’t breathe as we parked.”

Tears continue to leave Angela’s eyes, “Her heart?”

“It just… gave out,” Stiles breathes, upset that he felt like crying again. “I g-gave her CPR… in the parking lot um – while the doctors came for us.”

Tom is getting teary too as he listens. He leans his elbows on his knees and covers his face. Angela looks horribly between being grateful and being resigned. Like she knew this would be her daughter’s fate, but glad you weren’t alone.

“Thank you for helping her, Stiles,” she pats the seat beside her and he sits. “She wouldn’t have made it to surgery without you.”

He gives her a painful smile. Yes, he got you to the hospital. But he could’ve gotten you here in better shape.

She puts a hand on his arm and rubs soothing circles with her thumb. The burning in Stiles’ eyes was quickly making them water again. He sniffs and leans into his hands like Tom. Angela moves her hand to his back, rubbing the expanse between his shoulders.

They sit like that for another hour before a doctor appears, “Westbrook?”

The trio stand eagerly.

“How is she?” Tom asks. He hadn’t said a word the entire hour.

“She’s stable,” the doctor says calmly. “We were able to repair the lacerations to her side and a few punctures elsewhere. We did have to restart her heart once at her arrival and once during the surgery.”

Angela swallows hard, eyes red but out of tears, “Can we see her?”

“They’re setting her up in a room now. Give it another twenty minutes.” He looks uncomfortable as he prepares himself to say something more. “(Y/N) went without oxygen for over five minutes. When the brain goes without oxygen for that long it results in the death of brain cells. We call it an anoxic brain injury.”

“What does that mean?” Tom crosses his arms, “What would that do to her?”

The doctor clears his throat, “We won’t know for sure until she wakes up. She may be comatose for a few hours or a few days. She may experience some coordination issues, communication problems, amnesia, or other impairments.”

“Oh my god,” Angela whispers, covering her mouth, “Could all that be permanent?”

“It depends on the severity of her brain injury. All minor impairments can be corrected over time,” he gives them all his reassurances.

Not soon after your parents were called back into your room. Stiles stays behind, bouncing his legs and waiting for something – anything – to happen. Everyone he loves is in some kind of danger and he has no idea where they all are.

He’s trying to get comfortable in the hard plastic chairs when Scott and Allison appear. They’re holding hands and running into the waiting room.

“How are Lydia and (Y/N)?” Allison asks.

Stiles slides off the chairs and awkwardly straightens himself. “Lydia is going to be okay,” he nods to the middle room with windows, “Her wounds…”

Scott squeezes Allison’s hand. “Allison knows. She knows everything.”

“Alrighty then,” Stiles hums, “She was bit, but the bite hasn’t fully healed, and she isn’t dead so… whatever that means.”

“And (Y/N)?” Scott asks, looking at every sign that his best friend has been crying.

Stiles swallows, “I don’t know. Her heart gave out and she went without oxygen for a long time.” He licks his lips, rubbing hard at his eyes, “The surgery went well, but we don’t know how bad her brain damage will be until she wakes up.”

Allison, already having lost much that night, was exhausted by the news. She leans into Scott who holds her tightly. Stiles watches it with a pang in his chest.

They talk about the events of the night. How the cocktails Jackson brought weakened the Alpha and Derek delivered the final killing blow. He was now the Alpha. Kate was dead and the Sheriff was at the crime scene. It was a distraction that Stiles was grateful for. It made the time pass quicker than just stewing in his own guilt.

“If it weren’t for you I think Peter would’ve killed a lot more,” Scott says as a way to cheer his friend.

“Jackson’s the one who delivered,” he replies.

Allison looks worried at the obvious disregard of his contribution. “Stiles… you have been a hero tonight.” She shakes her head, “A lot of people are alive because you helped.”

“At what cost,” he mumbles, thinking of your brain injury. “I don’t know.”

“How about we go home,” Scott suggests, “You need some sleep and the Westbrooks would call with updates.”

“No,” Stiles chews on his lips, “I’m not leaving until she wakes up.”

Scott looks at his friend seriously, “Are you sure? That could be a long time.”

“I’m sure,” he waves them off, “I’ll wait for my dad.”

They leave with plans that sound a lot like ‘rooftop cuddling,’ and Stiles is again left to wonder the ‘what ifs’ of the night. What would have happened if he had never left your side to get that drink? What if he hadn’t found Scott’s location in time? What were you going to say about his confession of feelings?

It hurt too much to think.

~~~

Sheriff Stilinski had spent the majority of the night managing the crime scene at the Hale House. The bodies of Kate Argent and Peter Hale were removed, and the property was taped off while forensics worked.

It was nearly daybreak when he left to pass out on his living room couch.

Several hours later he awoke for a finger of whiskey and a sandwich. He was just layering the turkey and cheese when he yelled for Stiles to come down for a talk.

When there was no reply, the sheriff went searching the house, turkey in hand. Stiles was nowhere to be seen.

“Damnit,” he curses, “That complete…” He searches for his phone, dialing and forgetting about his sandwich. “Tom?”

“Yeah, Sheriff, is everything okay?”

“Fine, fine. I just can’t find Stiles. Is he still at the hospital?”

There’s a pause where Tom has a breathy laugh, “Yeah, the kid’s still here.”

“Thank god,” Noah sighs, “I’m sorry, Tom – has he been pestering you guys?”

“No, he’s… well he’s actually just been stuck in the waiting room this whole time.” Tom sounds exhausted. “The times I’ve gone out for drinks he’s been there waiting for an update. I just tell him (Y/N)’s still comatose.”

“God, I’m sorry,” Noah rubs at his eyes, “She still hasn’t woken up yet?”

“Not at all,” Tom swallows, “Not even a twitch.”

The sheriff searches for his keys, “Well, I’ll come grab my son. He needs a shower and some sleep at least.”

“Sure, and Sheriff, we would call you if she woke up,” Tom adds softly, “I know she… she cares about you and Stiles.”

An unexpected twinge of sadness envelopes him, “Thank you, Tom. She’s a special girl.” He clears his throat, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

It takes him another twenty minutes to get to the hospital. On the right floor, he finds Stiles slumped in a hard cushioned chair with his feet propped on a coffee table. He has several magazines open and covering him like makeshift blankets.

His face looks swollen from frequent tears and his eyes look irritated from wiping at them so much. Noah looks at him with a quickly softening heart. The last time he had seen his son cry this much at a hospital…

“Stiles…”

The boy turns his eyes to his father, hidden beneath the blanket of magazines.

“Read anything good?”

He gives a half-hearted smile, “No, but this Victory magazine is actually thick enough to help retain my body warmth.”

“I see you’ve found ways to entertain yourself.”

“I got tired of being stuck in my thoughts,” he sighs, scratching at his head. “You should see the towels the nurses let me fold.”

Noah’s eyebrows raise, “Man, you must’ve been really bored. Did you not sleep at all?”

Stiles shakes his head, “I was afraid of missing when she woke up.”

“And how’s the Martin girl?”

Stiles shrugs, “She’s been able to get up and down with some help. But she’s been sleeping a lot. Her parents are taking turns sitting with her. You know… tension with the divorce.”

“You should get some sleep too.”

“I don’t think I can,” Stiles says, shifting until a few magazines fell to the floor. “I can’t sleep knowing that (Y/N) could still be seriously hurt.”

“And she could be seriously fine.”

Stiles scoffs, “And it’d be all my fault.”

“Hey,” the sheriff goes to sit by his son, knocking a few magazines off his chest. “None of this is your fault. You had nothing to do with the attack.”

“… but I could’ve kept them inside the school. I could’ve stopped them before anything bad happened.”

Sadness creeps into the sheriff, “Let’s get you home. You need to get cleaned up and have a rest.”

“No,” Stiles was quick to reply, “I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay.”

“The doc said it could be days, Stiles. You’re not going to be able to stay awake for days.”

“I can try.”

Noah stands, “No. You’re going to come home for a few hours. I’m gonna be honest, son, you look terrible. And I know you don’t want your little reunion with (Y/N) to be memorable because you smell like musty teenager and look like you’ve got a head cold.” He waits for a few seconds while Stiles pouts like a child. “After you get some sleep I’ll let you stay at the hospital as long as you want.”

A silent battle rages between the two. It takes only one more nudge for Stiles to stand from his uncomfortable chair. “Stiles, you’re not the only one who’s worried about her,” the sheriff gives him another look of concern.

“You have to wake me if I sleep through a call from the Westbrooks.”

“Deal,” Noah claps a hand around his son, leading him to the front doors. “God, do you even own a deodorant stick?”

Stiles jabs his father in the side, “And an antiperspirant spray, jackass.”

Noah slaps the back of his head, “You need to actually use them for them to work, smart alec.”

The entire car ride back has Stiles nodding off against the window. There’s a wet, foggy mark where his mouth rests open. He stumbles into the house and starts stripping as he climbs the stairs.

Noah follows and gathers the clothes, catching the bent ring of keys as they fall from a pocket. It makes him sigh, memories of his wife handling those same jeep keys… then he saw the random sets that had to belong to places Stiles shouldn’t be.

A key to the police station, to the school, to a few neighbor houses.

He would arrange to have the proper keys fixed, and the others confiscated.

Stiles stands in the shower for longer than usual. He lets the hot water run down his head and work at the knots in his shoulders. He feels cramped from being stuck in an uncomfortable hospital chair for nearly twelve hours.

It takes the thought of seeing you again to make him scrub himself clean. His father was right, he wants you to see him fresh and sane. And right now he was anything but.

It feels good to be in a pair of pajama pants and a simple black shirt. He collapses on his bed without much thought. He was more desperate for sleep than he realized.

He drifts into dreams – dreams that he will hold onto in the days to come.

~~~

He walks along the path of a lake, grand berry bushes grow wildly there. Large, tart blackberries and deep, rich blueberries bloom along the leaves. Bushels of ripe berries are everywhere, halfway picked with plenty more to go. He picks a handful of plump raspberries and delights in their sweetness.

The trees overhead protect him from the sun, welcoming him with their shimmering leaves and singing birds. The berries leave sticky sweet juice on his fingers, each delicious as he sucks on them.

Ahead is the path leading to the boardwalk atop the lake. He grins as the summer sunshine appears to warm his skin. He admires the shiny red strawberries growing in twisted strands near the picnic tables. A cutting board is laden with freshly cut lemons and red berries – a pitcher containing sour pink lemonade beside them.

All the colors seem brighter, like a summer filter overlay everything. Stiles picks up an already prepared glass, ice cubes clinking and submerged in the pink drink. After a sip he promptly eats a few cut strawberries, smelling them with an air of familiarity.

He loves the smell of strawberries and summer fruits.

In an open cooler beside the table, half-buried in chunks of melting ice, are bright orange creamsicles and bubbly sodas. A candy tray holds caramel chocolate, sugary peach rings, and sticky gummy worms.

He was quick to sample everything, his attention catching something floating in the lake. A girl was lounging in a large nectarine orange floatie, sunglasses on her face and sunscreen on her shoulders.

Stiles smiles wide, running for the boardwalk. It was all so vibrant and warm. The red of the berries, the lemon yellow, bright orange creamies, shimmering green trees, sparkling pink lemonade, and the brilliant blue of the lake water.

It smelt of sugar and sun warmed earth and fresh berries. It smelt like (Y/N).

He stops on the edge of the boardwalk, shading his eyes to see you lounging in the floatie. “(Y/N)!” he calls to you.

You look up at him, cheeks peachy pink from the sun, “Stiles?” You sit up, swimsuit beautiful with lavender purples and sage stems. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “But I’m glad to see you.”

You float closer to the boardwalk, moving the sunglasses to your hair. “Do you even own a swimsuit?”

He laughs, “Probably buried beneath a few camp shirts.”

“Figures,” you smile, lifting a hand bangled in rose gold, “Help me up?”

He swallows, “Yeah, sure.” He bows to take a hold of your hand, but there’s resistance. You yank on his arm and manage to flop him onto your floatie. He flails as you try to balance the giant inflatable.

It makes you laugh to see him so frantic, “You’re going to tip us!” He lands on you, your hands wrapping around him in a fit of giggles.

He holds onto your sun warmed skin, pulling you too close to the edge. Side heavy, the floatie tips over with a scream from your lips. A splash makes the water ripple as you tread to the surface, spluttering water.

“I told you to calm down,” you laugh, splashing at Stiles.

He splutters more, making ridiculous faces as he wipes the lake water from his eyes. “It was getting hot anyways.” He splashes at you next, causing you to squeal with laughter.

The splash battle was short and intense, Stiles mimicking his favorite water benders in sending waves your way. You dive for the ladder at the boardwalk, scaling it to make a quick getaway.

Stiles curses, following your dripping figure. “Get back here!” he runs across the boardwalk to meet you at the picnic table.

You are eating a plump strawberry, tossing one at his head for good measure. He ducks and gives you a sly smile, opening his mouth like a target. You promptly aim a large berry, laughing hysterically as he jumps and catches it in his mouth.

Both his arms go in the air, triumphant, “Did you see that?” he cries between loud chews. He runs to you, tickled by your laughter. He wraps you up in his arms and soaks you in.

This is you. You remind him of summertime. The vibrant colors of life. The sweet berries that grow wild. The sun that warms whatever it touches. The water cooling sunburnt skin.

The orange cream and peachy sugar.

He spins you once and sets you down, still inches from you. The pair of you are laughing like summer will never end.

Then you lock eyes.

The laughter dies slower, smiles never leaving your faces. But your eyes are entirely too warm to be just mirth. He’s looking at you like the sun itself. He was embracing the embodiment of color and sweetness and warmth.

He looks down to your berry stained lips.

With one second of hesitance he leans down to your mouth. He devours the sticky sweetness of your berry lips. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, like it was the one and only time he’d be able to kiss you.

You respond with holding his face, fingertips digging into his cheeks. His hands drift down your sides to the backs of your thighs. In an upward motion he picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist.

A sigh of surprise escapes you, taller than him momentarily so you have to angle his face up to yours. He groans in delight as he carries you to the picnic table. He sets you on top of it, moving his hands to your thighs, searching for that moan of satisfaction from your mouth.

He nips at your lips, loving every sound you make. He nuzzles into your neck, finding that sweet spot to kiss. He has to pull back to take a breath.

You look tired. Your lips are purplish-blue. His brow knits. “(Y/N) you’re…” He lifts a hand to your chin and finds that it’s coated in bright blood. Brighter than those red berries. “Oh my god!” He pulls back to see a fresh wound to your side, soaking the lavender swimsuit in rich blood. “Oh my god, (Y/N) – what do I…”

Your chest stutters and choking sounds come from your throat. A strained redness enters your eyes as you reach for him, puncture marks along your neck. Stiles is frantic at your absence of words, “What’s happening?” he yells, “What did I do?”

You fall back onto the table, dull lemonade spilling and mixing with your bright blood. Berries and lemons roll to the ground. You choke and flail as Stiles cries his panic.

And he sits straight up in bed, sheets tangled between his legs and pillows on the floor. He’s sweating and cold, the sun setting outside as he scrambles for breath. He throws his legs over and bows over his knees.

~~~

With no word from the Westbrooks, Stiles finds himself wandering the neighborhoods until he finds your house. He looks longingly at your window, dark as it was with the recent sunset, he could just make out the cat staring back at him.

“Oliver,” he whispers, finding something else to distract himself with. He goes for the front door, hoping that in the commotion of getting to the hospital, your parents left it unlocked. He was right.

The cat was there to greet him, mewling loudly and rubbing his head against Stiles’ legs.

“You hungry, little buddy?” he closes the door and makes his way to the kitchen. Inside the pantry he finds a container of dry food shaped like little fish. “I would think (Y/N) made you gourmet cat food.”

Ollie stands on his back legs and stretches his front paws up Stiles’ leg. It was super cute. “I guess maybe just for special occasions, huh?” he sighs, taking a scoop and pouring it in the food bowl by the back door.

The cat purrs and flicks his floofy tail as Stiles sits at the dining table to watch him. It must’ve been ten minutes when the front door opens again.

There was Melissa and Scott, holding keys and a duffel bag embroidered with the hospital logo.

“Oh! Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“Um, I… well, I knew Ollie needed to be fed.”

Scott shuts the door while Melissa continues to look discontented, “Who’s Ollie?”

“The cat,” Stiles gestures to the fluffy animal, “(Y/N) would kill me if he went without food for this long.”

“You broke into the house to feed the cat?” Scott smirks, hands in his pockets.

Stiles lifts his arms, “No! The door was unlocked.”

Melissa laughs, “Still strange, Stiles. You still entered without permission.” She walks to the stairs with the duffel bag; Scott makes his way to the dining table.

“What are you guys doing here?” Stiles asks in a low voice.

Scott slumps into a chair, “The Westbrooks need clothes and stuff, so mom volunteered to pack a bag.”

Stiles crinkles his brow, “Did you do something with your hair?”

“Maybe,” he wipes a hand up and catches the gelled back fringe, “I’m trying something new.”

“I didn’t realize you had a forehead,” Stiles smirks.

Scott mumbles a retort. “I thought you were going to camp out at the hospital.”

“I was until my dad decided to drag my ass out,” he grumbles, “But there hasn’t been any news that she’s awake, so…” He plays with the hem of his shirt, feeling a little empty of conversation. “How are you and Allison?”

“Great,” Scott smiles an idiot smile, “Until her dad hunted us down and nearly killed me.”

“You’re kidding,” Stiles grimaces, “After everything that’s just happened?”

Scott shrugs, “I’m still a werewolf, I guess. He let me live, but I have to stay away from Allison.” His smile grows more subtle, eyes on the floor, “At least, I have to pretend to.”

“Great plan, Scott. Let’s remember how this guy hunts and murders the supernatural for a living. He has a literal collection of the best weapons money could buy, with – let me add – special werewolf ammunition that can work around your little healing superpower.”

“Yeah, but I still get to see Allison.”

Stiles slumps a little further down his chair, Oliver snacking on his dinner in the background. “You’re impossible.”

“I could say the same about you,” Scott retorts, “You’re just as hopeless.”

“You know I told her how I feel about her…” Stiles speaks quietly, avoiding his friends gaze.

Scott measures the rhythm of his friends heart, “And?”

“And she got faint…”

“Made her weak at the knees, did you?”

“And she ran off to be attacked by the Alpha.”

“Ouch,” Scott hisses, “No return confession?”

Stiles clears his throat, “There wasn’t time for her to.”

“Then I guess there’s still a chance that she does,” Scott says softly, “It could be the first thing she says when she wakes up.”

Melissa comes down the stairs with a heavy duffel bag full of clothes and toiletries. She huffs at the boys, “You two coming?”

“Back to the hospital?” Stiles asks, standing quickly.

“Yeah, we’re going to drop off the supplies and maybe grab a late dinner.”

“Count me in,” he replies, scratching Ollie behind the ears in goodbye.

~~~

Stiles had been wandering the hospital hallways all night, refusing any sleeping aide from Melissa as she left. She’d be back for her day shift in a couple hours.

In a pathetic attempt to see you, he creeps past the night nurse to stand awkwardly at your window. The blinds are drawn and he wails silently, upset that it’s been so long since he last saw you.

He falls to the ground and slumps against the wall. Past the point of tears, he just melts into the floor. Until he hears a sneaker against the tile.

His eyes fly to the door to see Angela standing there with dark circles under her eyes. “Hello, Stiles.”

He clambers to his feet, rubbing his shaved hair flat against his head, “H-Hi front desk Westbrook.”

She smiles at that, “Have you been here the whole day?” she leans against the door frame as if she were hiding whatever was inside.

“No, my dad made me go home for a nap.”

“That’s good,” she says, “Um… Tom is asleep on the couch, but if you want to see her…”

“Yes, please!” he says entirely too loud.

She shushes him, “Again – her dad is asleep. Let’s try not to wake him; it’s the first sleep he’s gotten since the accident.”

Stiles nods vigorously, straightening his jacket and pulling on his hoodie strings. “Yep, I got you. Roger that.”

She refrains from rolling her eyes, endeared by him much like her daughter was at times. “She hasn’t moved an inch, but if you hold her hand long enough I swear she squeezes back.”

They step into the darkened room, only a lamp in the corner providing some light on the machines at work. You lay stone cold on the hospital bed. Dressed in a white gown and layered beneath a scratchy cotton blanket, you would look asleep if it weren’t for the numerous machines tracking your vitals.

Stiles goes into shock for a second, standing rigid by the door while Angela goes for her usual chair by the couch. She gestures for him to move, afraid speaking would wake her snoring husband.

With shuffling steps, Stiles makes for the chair beside your bed. Many stickers were on your chest, each connected to wires that lead to a machine. A thin yellow tube goes into your nose and is taped at your cheek. A monitor is attached to your index finger and the back of your hand has an IV stuck there.

He can see little stiches beneath your chin where Peter stuck his claws, and he knew your side was heavily bandaged with surgical tape. The right side of your face, the side that fell onto the asphalt as you tumbled out of the trunk, had road rash. Bloody scrapes were at your forehead and on that cheekbone. They were both covered with a shiny ointment.

“You can sit down,” Angela whispers, nodding to the chair, “She won’t bite.”

Stiles gives her a stiff smile, sitting in the chair. It was much more plush than the ones in the waiting room. He scoots closer to your bed and ponders your face. You look peaceful – not at all how you looked right before losing the ability to breathe.

It was making his dry eyes burn. Your lips weren’t purple anymore. They had the soft pink color he saw in his dreams.

“Hi, (Y/N),” he says softly. It put a lump in his throat “I – I’m… god…” He bows his head and finds that the warmth that usually took hold of him when he saw you… it ached and burned in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches for your left hand, closest to him. It was free of wires and tubes, but it had hospital tags around your wrist. Your fingers are cold, and he wraps both his hands around them.

Angela tries to mind her own business, pulling a book from the side table to read. Or at least give her eyes something to look at.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles continues, he holds the mess of hands to his mouth, “I’m sorry for everything.” He tries to compose himself, tired of crying. “Um… don’t worry I fed Oliver before I came over.”

He misses the smile that Angela has on her face.

“And I’m pretty sure he deserves some fancy gourmet fish cake for the trouble,” Stiles deflects, rubbing his thumbs across the back of your hand. “He was worried sick about… about not eating.”

Angela huffs a laugh behind her book.

“That’s why dogs are better, you know. They freak out when their owner is sick. Cats just freak out when they can’t find their next meal.” He tries to swallow past the lump, “I was… I was freaking out there for a second.”

His fingers become light and lazy like they were the night on the preserve when you got drunk. “I felt hopeless again, seeing you like that.” He sniffles and clears his throat, “Which would make it super awesome if you would wake up soon,” he laughs sadly, “Please wake up soon. Please be alright.”

He holds your hand for another half hour, searching for that squeeze that Angela mentioned. Until Tom stirs on the couch and Stiles stands abruptly, suddenly afraid of his intrusion on a family matter.

He waves goodbye to a saddened Angela before returning to his hallway wandering. He walks and walks until the shift changes and the sun begins to rise again. His eyes feel dry and droopy, like he was in need of another emergency nap.

He slumps against the nurses station as Melissa appears in her scrubs, “You hanging in there, kiddo?” She rubs across his shoulders and he groans. “You didn’t sleep last night?”

“I napped all afternoon,” he says into the station counter, “(Y/N) still isn’t awake.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” she sympathizes, “She’s a part of my rounds today. I’ll make sure to give you updates, alright?”

He gives her a silly smile where his face was squashed into the counter, “Thanks, McCall.”

He wanders until he finds the gift shop open. There he buys a foil balloon covered in smiley faces and says, ‘Get well!’ It stays tied to his wrist as he makes his way back to the waiting room by your door.

Getting as comfortable as he could across three hospital chairs, he starts to fall asleep. It only takes five minutes for him to be lightly snoring, chair arms digging into his shoulders and lower back.

He fidgets there, balloon bobbing above him as he fights the stiffness of the chairs. He’s so exhausted that it doesn’t even wake him from the dreams he was diving into. Dreams similar to the summer day at the lake with you.

Ones where he got to hold you and kiss you again.

Melissa checks your chart by the door before sneaking a look at the snoozing boy.

“Oh, just like that. No, no – you first,” he mumbles, “Me first?” he drools in his sleep.

Melissa shakes her head and smiles, returning the chart and being startled by Tom walking out of your room. “Oh, Mr. Westbrook, you scared me.”

“Sorry, Melissa. And it’s Tom, please.” He stretches his arms, looking at the same thing she was moments ago. Stiles is stretched out across the chairs making kissing noises at the thin air. “Has he been here all night?”

“He’s been here all weekend,” Melissa folds her arms.

“That’s… concerning.”

Melissa pats his arm, “He’s one of the good ones.”

“You sure about that?” Tom winces at the dream kissing, “He seems like a load of trouble.”

“Oh, he’s plenty that,” Melissa laughs, “But he’s got a good heart. He cares a lot about your (Y/N).”

Tom folds his arms, “Speaking of which, she was twitching a bit in her sleep just an hour ago. Would you mind checking on her? See if she wakes to some stimulus or something.”

“Of course,” Melissa says, following his lead into your patient room.

Stiles wakes as the custodial service empties a garbage can by his head. Rudely woken at a really good part in his dream, he groggily smacks the balloon tied to his wrist. It floats back to hit him in the face and he falls out of the hospital chairs.

“Oh my god!” a muffled voice yells from your patient room.

Stiles flies to his feet, throat bobbing as he listens for something else. “(Y/N)?” He walks to your windows, blinds open now that the sun was out. His knees wobble at seeing your eyes open and mouth smiling.

He jumps to the door, creaking it open slowly as to not disturb the sudden commotion inside.

“Okay, lets run through basics,” Melissa says, “Cover one eye for me.” She measures your sight, dilating pupils, and your depth perception. “So far so good. Lift both arms for me and smile.” She checks for any signs of one sided weakness, but you pass with flying colors.

“Is she fine?” Angela holds onto her husband, “Is anything wrong?”

“Okay, (Y/N) – I need you to wiggle your toes. Good. And can you feel this?” Melissa checks for any numbness in your extremities. “Perfect. Now can you repeat this for me? Sally sells seashells…”

You lick your lips, “Sally sells seashells.”

“Amazing,” Melissa claps. There wasn’t an immediate speech impediment. “Alright, now tell me your name.”

“(Y/N) Westbrook.”

She nods, “And do you have any pets?”

“I have a gray cat named Oliver.”

“Where were you born?”

“In Palo Alto,” you say, still with confusion in your brow. “What’s going on?”

Melissa holds up her hands, “We’re just checking for any brain injuries. What surgery did you get last summer?”

“I had a device put near my heart,” you point to the 3-inch incision on your chest. “What the hell?” You move your left sleeve to look at the claw marks on your shoulder.

“And where do you go to school?” Melissa asks.

You shake your head, touching the scars, “Um… I go to school at home, I guess. I’m homeschooled.”

The room goes silent.

Melissa tries to maintain the calm, “(Y/N), do you know why you’re in the hospital?”

“I’m assuming because of this,” you point at the claw marks, “Cause I have no idea where they came from.” You scoff and find a hitch in your chest – a pain in your side, “Or maybe there’s another thing by my ribs. That actually hurts a lot.”

“Oh my god, she doesn’t remember,” Angela whispers, terrified.

Tom rubs a hand down her arm, “Just give them a minute.”

“Do you know who these people are?” Melissa points to your parents.

It makes you laugh, “Yeah, that’s my mom and dad.”

“And what about me?”

You lick your lips again, “You’re Melissa McCall. You always help when I’m in the hospital.”

She looks stiff, contemplating the next move. She looks behind her to see Stiles standing frozen at the door, balloon stuck behind him. Melissa grabs him by the sleeve and drags him into your view, “Do you know who this is?”

Stiles gives an awkward wave, balloon bouncing along with his hand. “Hi, (Y/N).”

You squint your eyes, a frown growing, “No, I’m sorry, who are you?” You miss the way the room steels over with fright. “How do you know my name?”

~~~

Taglist: @assassinsasha23 @tasty-book-fans @lovelybaka @the-fandom-queen @runs-with-sciss0rs @iamaslytherin0 @n3muru @bethsvrse @taylorbrooke-0912 @iloveyou2mia @everrrsincenewyork @gisellesprettylies @dullypully @taylordaughter @greenoliveslover @nataliambc @anehkael

[btsugarush]

GANGSTA | myg - 002

summary: rough sex, blood money, drugs, and gang related activity; four things you never predicted to experience in your simple life. not until you opened your mouth and caught his attention

pairings: gang leader!yoongi x f!reader

warnings: smut, gunplay, drugs, drug addiction, dark!yoongi, drug lord!yoongi, strong language, gang violence, blood and gore, murder, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behavior, abuse, cheating, angst, fluff, dubcon, implied noncon (not from yoongi but within his gang with his knowledge), 18+, minors dni

word count: 3K

author’s note: sorry if you asked to be on the taglist and didn’t make it. i’ve reached over 50 and couldn’t add anymore people. i’ll add more of you in the comments.

“I’m glad you’re okay after all of that,” Jungkook says on the other end of your phone; you had just spilled about the chaotic situation at Makoto as it was still weighing heavily on your mind. You couldn’t shake what Jimin had said about that Yoongi guy killing someone, though it could have just been a rumor. If he had actually taken someone’s life there would be no way they would allow him to walk the streets. He’d be too much of a flight risk.

“You should really be careful in the future. I know you like to stand up for people that can’t stand up for themselves, but Yoongi is bad news. There’s no telling what he would’ve done to you on the wrong day.”

“So you know him too?” You quiz. It seemed as though everyone knew who this guy was besides you. Maybe you don’t get out enough. Or maybe you were just good at staying away from trouble– until this afternoon at least. “I know of him, but not personally. He came to the shop once like five months ago with the same tall guy you were talking about. He told my coworker Si-Woo to step outside, and the next thing you know he's pistol-whipping him nearly to death. Rumor around the shop was that Si-Woo sold drugs for Yoongi, and owed him a lot of money.”

“Really?” Your mouth drops in shock. “What did Si-Woo say about it?”

“He never talked about it, ended up quitting the next day, and told us ‘not to get the police involved because it wouldn’t be of any help and it was all just a misunderstanding’.” He quoted. “Well, three days later Si-Woo’s body was found hacked to pieces and stuffed in a suitcase behind an alley on Gongdan lane.”

You heard about that case on the news some time ago, but had no clue that Jungkook knew the victim on an intimate level. It honestly made you shiver a bit. Imagine being the one to discover the body, and how gruesome the sight must have been. Stuff like that was common in slum areas though. Crime was especially high in Gongdan lane of all places, which is why you made sure to never venture in that area. “You think Yoongi had something to do with his murder?”

Jungkook scoffed. “The guy was viciously pistol-whipping him three days before his body was identified. I know he had something to do with it, but none of us were willing to risk going to the cops, so we just moved on like it didn’t happen.” Jungkook pauses for a moment before he speaks again. “You know… sometimes I think that maybe we could’ve saved his life if we did report the incident. Sometimes I still look at his station and feel like he’s there, tattooing.” He sighs heavily, like it was a great weight lifted from his shoulders to even tell you.

“You did what you felt was necessary. As fucked up as it may seem, you had to think about what was best for you.” You try your best to comfort him as he seemed to hold on to a lot of guilt regarding Si-Woo’s death, and reminiscing didn’t help. To have the man who could have potentially murdered your friend roaming free to terrorize all of Daegu couldn’t be a great feeling. You felt for him.

“I know. It’s just fucked to know he went through such a fucked up death. I don’t even want to imagine how scared he must’ve been,” you could hear clanking on the other end, as though he was biting down on his lip piercing. “I don’t even like the thought of knowing you tangled with them. He seems the type to hold grudges, and I don’t want you to get hurt. I’d lose my shit and go after him myself.”

You smile softly. “And I just know you’d kick his ass, my tough Kookie.” You both laugh at the nickname, which is one of many you had with the word ‘cookie’ in it. You could be so cheesy sometimes, but Jungkook loved everything about it. “You don’t have to worry though, apparently he likes me so maybe I’m in the clear?” You say unsuringly, still not understanding what he meant by it. It was very abrupt and cryptic. “Well whatever he meant, he’s out of luck because you’re spoken for.”

“As if he’d ever had a chance to begin with, I don’t think I’d mesh well with a criminal,” You chuckled. “I’m more into sweet, sensitive guys with tattoos and piercings.”

“Yeah? I think I know someone like that.” You could tell that he’s cheesing on the other end, which made you cheese. Everything always felt so natural with Jungkook. Him being your best friend in high school really played hand in hand with that. He was no different from a lover than he was a best friend. You two were absolutely the same and you loved it.

“You should probably get some sleep now, Angel. You don��t want to go to work exhausted, and I don’t wanna be blamed for you oversleeping again.” You simply roll your eyes in a playful manner, but agree nonetheless. You couldn’t chance being up so late, Mr. Kim was very strict about being on time.

“I guess you’re right,” you pout. “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I get off work.”

“Okay, Angel. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kookie cake.” You pull your phone from your ear, ending the call before you get up from your bed to switch off your bedroom lights. You crawl back onto the mattress, pulling your blanket over your body. Picking your phone back up again, you swipe through your apps until you locate the clock app. You set your alarm to wake you up at 12:00 PM on the dot. Just as you were about to place your phone down on your nightstand, something overcame you and you got the urge to search Yoongi’s name on Google.

When you type in his name, you are shocked to see so many results come up effortlessly. Several different mugshots from several different instances, all dating from when he was a teenager to one that seemed recent. You click on the one that looks most recent, letting it redirect you to the Daegu booking website.

Name: Min Yoongi

Age: 30

BOOKING DETAIL

Status: Released

Building: Public Safety Building

Area: Maledorm

Booking number: 575857

Booking date: 3/26/2023 11:56:00 pm

ARRESTS

Arrest number: 680071205

Arrest date: 3/26/2023 10:06:00 pm

Arresting agency: Daegu Police Department

Agency case number: 25-18056

ASSAULT WITH A DEADLY WEAPON

ATTEMPTED FIRST-DEGREE MURDER

POSSESSION WITH INTENT TO SELL

You read over the arrests in shock, completely dumbfounded by how a man of his caliber could be released from jail and not behind bars rotting for the rest of his life. He practically lived in jail anyway, why not just keep him there? You eye his mugshot, his intense stare giving you the chills. You didn’t need to wonder how the officer taking the photo must’ve felt considering you too have felt those daggers looking into the depths of your soul.

You pull your sight away from the photo, swiping away the page. You didn’t want to spend any more time on Yoongi. What happened at Makoto is behind you now. You just wanted to forget about the situation, and never run into Yoongi– or Joon for that matter, again. You plug your phone to your charger, sitting the device on your nightstand before you drift off to sleep.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.” Mr. Kim looks surprised as you step into the kitchen, taking an apron from the hook on the wall. “Why wouldn’t I show up?” You quirk a brow, tying the black fabric around your waist. “Because I thought you would’ve been too scared to show your face after going toe to toe with the devil’s minions the other day.”

You click your tongue, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You couldn’t believe people were still on that. Just as you walked in you overheard a customer whispering ‘she’s still alive?’ to her friend. It’s absurd at this point. “I think everyone is blowing what happened yesterday way out of proportion.” You shake your head, grabbing a notepad and pen from the pencil holder.

“I’d like to say we are, kid, but you got lucky. That Yoongi is no joke to be played with. The guy is a menace. Some people say the only reason he’s not in jail is because he has affiliations within the police unit, and I wouldn’t doubt if it’s true. Our system is corrupt.” The older man sighs. ‘Oh great, here he goes with politics and corruption again…’ you thought. You had better get out on the floor before you’re caught in a whirlwind of it.

You leave him to discuss the topic with himself as you step out onto the floor, and start taking customer orders. “Hey, you’re that crazy girl from yesterday.” A man says as you approach his table. You frown, already knowing what he was referring to, so you avoid it at all cost. “What can I get you?” You redirect the conversation.

“Oh! Uhhh,” he picks up the menu from his table, skimming through it. “I’ll have the Jajangmyeon.” He answers quickly. You scribble down his order. “Anything to drink?” You ask. “Ginseng tea, thank you.” He places the menu back on the table. You nod, taking down his drink. “Okay, I’ll be right back with that tea.” You smile kindly before heading back to the kitchen. You rip the orders from the notepad, clipping them to the ticket holder.

“Hey, kid. We’ve got a delivery order for dumplings.” Mr. Kim informs you as you’re preparing tea for the customer. The older gentleman approaches you, the order already made and secured in a brown bag. You take the bag from him, looking at the order ticket attached to it.

As you read over the address on the ticket, your eyes practically bulge out of your skull. ‘2357 Gongdan Lane’. “Um… Mr. Kim, this location is in the slums of Daegu.” You look at him with concern. “I know.” The man simply nods, taking the tickets you set from the holder. “Yeah, well, I can’t go to Gongdan lane. It’s dangerous, especially for me as a woman.”

“Look kid, I’m sorry. If Jimin was here I’d have him go but he doesn’t work on Saturdays and you’re my only worker.”

“Exactly. I’m the only worker, you need me to be at the shop taking orders.” You knew that wasn’t going to go over as it was a slow day, and there were hardly any customers in the shop to begin with. “I can handle the customers and cook the ramen until you get back.”

You couldn’t believe this. Just as you had prided yourself in never stepping foot in Gongdan, here was this old dirty bastard making you go. On top of that, the restaurant didn’t even own a company car for deliveries so you had to ride a bike. You read over the ticket again, noticing that there wasn’t even a name on the order. “There’s no name on the order, this could be a trick that ends with me getting robbed for free food.”

“All this time wasted on talking about it could be used on getting the delivery done. Stop complaining and do what you’re paid to do. The faster you get it done, the faster you can come back.”

You wanted to stomp your foot like a child and continue to protest, but you couldn’t risk your job by not listening so you did the only sensible thing you could do. Your job. You grab a plastic bag, shoving the brown one inside of it before leaving through the back exit in the kitchen. You spot the red delivery bike lying on the ground, and pick it up, looping the plastic bag around the bike handle.

As you mount the bicycle, you pull out your phone to use your GPS. The ride was about 12 minutes away. If you ride fast you could undoubtedly make it at least an 8 minute ride. You kick back the breaks and set off on your journey. During the ride as you make it into the slum area, you could truly see the separation from Sangsu-dong to Gongdan lane. The sidewalks were cracked and unpaved, the buildings looked more rundown, and homeless people laid out in sleeping bags.

You got an uneasy feeling as you noticed a group of men smoking weed on a corner and intensely watching you go by. You probably stood out like a sore thumb, riding through Daegu’s slummiest on a red bike. You swallowed the lump in your throat, keeping your eyes forward as you paid them no mind. As you continue going, you notice the streets become more isolated. Your GPS directs you to turn, which you follow only to come upon a big warehouse that looked abandoned. ‘You’ve arrived’, your GPS says. You furrow your brows, confusion written over your face.

“Stupid thing must’ve sent me to the wrong location.” You grab the bag of dumplings from the bike handle, circling around the warehouse just in case you were mistaken. You find a door on the other end, cameras surrounding it like it was a government building. You inspect the door, seeing that there was a red button of some sort on it.

You scope the perimeter, making sure no one was trying to sneak attack you. The whole thing seemed completely sketchy. You take a deep breath before pressing down on the button, a loud buzz coming from it. You take a step back, waiting for someone to come open the door. You stood there for about two minutes, not wanting to wait around any longer. You knew this was a scam. You should’ve just gone home and pretended like you delivered the food. It would’ve saved you the trouble. As you turn to walk back to the bike, the door suddenly opens with a loud creaking sound.

You direct your attention back to the door, locking eyes with an individual that you dreaded to ever see again. “Oh my god… i-it’s you…” you stutter in shock, seeing Yoongi stand in the doorway with a smirk plastered on his face. “Wonder Woman, we meet again.”

You’re silent, not really saying a word as you feel too stunned to speak. “You got something for me, sweetheart?” His eyes darted to the bag in your hand. You snap from your fearful trance, remembering why you were there in the first place. “Uh… yeah. Here’s your order.” You stretch out your arm to hand him the bag, not wanting to come any closer. The raven reaches forward, his hand brushing yours as he takes the bag from you. You quickly turn away, rushing back over to your bike.

“Hey, I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself yesterday.” He says, following behind you. “I already know who you are.” You mumble as you mount the red two wheeler. “Really? You didn’t seem to know who I was yesterday. If you did, you wouldn’t have shot your pretty mouth off like that,”

He grabs the handles of your bike, preventing you from leaving. “You look scared. Guess my reputation precedes me.” He says almost too proudly. “Not in a way that a decent human being should want it to, but I guess decency isn’t what you’re aiming for.” you say slickly, which causes the raven to smile. “There goes that smart mouth again,” he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, giving you the same predatory stare from yesterday. “Normally I wouldn’t tolerate anyone getting slick at the mouth with me, but from you it’s kind of a turn on.”

You scowl, ignoring his sexual advance. “Can you let go of my bike? I need to get back to work.”

“How about you let me drive you?” he offers, but you quickly decline. You’d be an idiot to get in the car with a proclaimed murderer. “I’ll take my chances on the bike, thank you.” The raven lets go of the handles, taking a step back to allow you to be on your way. “Be my guest, sweetheart.”

You kick back the break, not wanting to waste any more of your time in Gongdan speaking to this thug. You back away from him, turning the bike to ride down the path you came. “I hope to see you again, Y/N.” He calls out. You come to an abrupt stop, looking back at the raven. How did he know your name? “I don’t remember telling you my name.”

“You didn’t need to. I have my sources and connections, Princess. Whatever I need or want, I get.”

You cringe at the nickname ‘princess’. Jungkook doesn’t even call you that, with all the cheesy nicknames he does use. Him knowing your name suddenly made you question how coincidental this whole encounter was. You were starting to wonder how much about you he knew. As if he read your mind, he starts to read you like an autobiography. “You were born in Busan and raised right here in Daegu, you’re an ex nursing student, an only child, both your parents passed away in a tragic car accident, your best friend is Sang Mina, and your boyfriend is… Jeon Jungkook? Am I right?”

Your heart pounds against your chest as he spoke information that only people close to you would know. You felt sick, creeped out even, but you tried not to display that on your face. “So, I guess you know my work schedule then. You set this little encounter up knowing that I was the only worker today, didn’t you?” the raven simply shrugged like he couldn’t answer whether that was true or not, but you knew that it was. “I don’t know what your deal is, but just stay away from me, okay?”

Yoongi sneered, as he turned on his heels, heading back to the door from once he came. The raven makes sure he gets the last word though.

“I can’t make you any promises, sweetheart. Like I said, whatever I want, I get.”

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[lunaviee]

can i request where reader cant go to their match and they got angry which makes them say the word "i shouldve invite *ex's name*, she wouldve come." and reader reaction can be up to you! with rin and maybe chigiri? thank you so much and please stay hydrate! sending loves <33

OHHH MYYY GODDD ANONNN……..

the way i gasped so loud when i saw this OMGOMG

okay so, idk if you’re wanting PURE ANGST for this but like i’ll add fluff at the end anyway bc the more the merrier😇😁😁

OKAY SO UMM..i’m a procrastinator, it’s no secret. so uhh chigiris will be posted when i remember to work on it, sorry😭

“are you serious?” “you’re..kidding, right?”

chigiri hyoma and rin itoshi x reader (seperate) click here for chigiri’s

tags/warnings: angst to comfort, swearing, arguing, NOT PROOFREAD…

synopsis: if he’s so insistent on you being there to support him, why doesn’t he do the same?

a/n: i am SO SORRY this took so long </3 i got busy but this request is soo..chefs kiss i hope i did it justice😓

RIN ITOSHI—

the faint mumbles from the tv filled rin’s apartment as you made a quick snack to eat, knowing your boyfriend should be home any minute. you sat down on the couch to eat, turning the tv volume up as background noise while you looked out the window. it faced a gorgeous view of your city, along with a nice view of the sunset.

after some time, you were back in the kitchen to clean up a bit.

*click*

the jingling of keys indicated rin was home, a tad later that usual but you payed no mind to it.

“hey,” you smiled, “welcome home, how was practice?” arms wrapping around his neck as he set his bag down, taking his shoes off. his arm snaked around your waist to pull you closer to him, planting a kiss on your temple.

“eh, same as always. those lukewarm lunatics don’t know what they’re doing”

you hummed in response, rin pulling away from you to look you in the eye. he spoke again. “we have a game in a few days. you’re going, right?” it sounded more like a demand than a question.

“oh uh about that” you broke eye contact, a twinge of nervousness tainted your face. “i was given an extra shift at work so i’ll be swamped, i don’t think i’ll be able to make it, sorry”

his before softened gaze now pierced right through you, full of annoyance. “really? i thought you’d want to come to my games.” his arms left your torso and flopped to his side, lower back resting on the counter.

“i do! i always do..rin you know this, i go to your games when i can but lately i’ve just been more busy an-” you rambled.

he cut you off, “quit the excuses.”

“excuse me?” you replied, shocked at how his silver tongue was so quick to interrupt you.

“i get it. you’re busy. you don’t have to make up these half-baked excuses and try to make me feel better.” he moved from the counter, straightening his back and showing his full height, looking down on you as if you were less than him at that moment.

“excuses? rin, what the hell are you talking about? i’m being serious.” confusion swirled in your mind, what was up with him??

“you know, i never had these problems with *ex’s name*. she was always happy to come to my games. no excuses, no lies. every game, she was there. why can’t you be like that?” rin’s venom stained words singed into your brain, glints of annoyance pooled in his eyes. a twinge of guilt settled in his gut the minute those words spilled out of his mouth, but he payed no mind to it.

“what?” your eyes widened in disbelief, “are you fucking serious?”

how could he say that? sure, rin was petty and used bitter language when he was upset, but comparing you to his ex? that was a new low, even for him. after all of the crap you two talked about when mentioning both of your exes in the past, you’d assume he’d want absolutely nothing to do with her. right?

“why wouldn’t i be?” not once did his gaze leave your figure, was he serious? “she actually took my career seriously.”

you were beyond shocked, eyes narrowing as your brows knitted together. “invite her then.” you retorted. “maybe i will, maybe then i’ll have someone who actually supports me there.” he scoffed.

his words made your blood boil, eye twitching before you spoke again, “get out.” you gritted through your teeth, fingers fiddling with the hem of your (his) sweater as to not lose your cool.

“what?” he scoffed, not expecting such a response (he really should have, what was he thinking??)

“did i fucking stutter? or is your skull too thick to hear what i have to say. get. out.”

the strikers face further scrunched, yet not moving an inch. “this is my apartment. if you’re upset, then leave.” he brushed past you without a single regret as to what he had said, not entirely believing you’d actually leave, where else did you have to go?

“fine then.” you slipped your shoes on while dialing a number on your phone before slamming the door, leaving the rin to sit with his thoughts. you had much, much more to say, but the thought of having to stay in the same vicinity as you made your stomach churn.

who did you call? why, your best friend of course, who else would you trust with this information. sure, rin’s teammates weren’t bad people to open up to, but you needed someone who could understand your feelings through angry sobs and incoherent mumbles.

it was only a matter of time before you were sat on yours friends bed, angry tears burning your cheeks as you rambled on about how dumb your boyfriend was.

“break up with him” your friend mumbled, only half joking. “me personally, i wouldn’t stay with a man, nah, a BOY who brings up his ex when he’s mad..”

you lifted your head from the tear stained pillow to meet your friend’s gaze. “yeah but……ugh i hate when you’re right” your sentence ending with a laugh

“i’m kidding..kind of” she sneered “either way, screw him, ghost his ass until he comes crying at your doorstep”

“what??” you shot up from your position, now almost on top of your friend. she was faced you, a more serious expression painting her face

“seriously though, you shouldn’t have to deal with that shit [n/n], he has the be the one to apologize.” you nodded in response, good thing your friend had a bit more common sense than you did in that moment.

“yeah, you’re right, thanks”

“any time, now do you wanna stay here or are you good to go home?”

“i’ll stay here and bug you more”

“okay then” she laughed out, the two of you now laying on the bed on your backs, staring at the ceiling

• { time skip - two days later } •

the radio silence that came from rin was like torture, did he not care? not a single text or phone call, not even a message given from one of his teammates. it was hard to stay positive.

sure, he deserved the silent treatment, but he was your boyfriend. his company single-handedly made your days better. being separated because of a fight that he didn’t want to resolve was stupid.

your friend tried taking you out today to get your mind off of the situation. it was going well, up until you walked into your favorite cafe.

you were met with a face you were too familiar with. rin’s. his eyes widened in disbelief and he twitched, almost as if he was about to run after you. and so you and your friend took one good look at him and immediately left. if the argument was going to be resolved, it wasn’t going to be in a public cafe.

your friend pushed you by the shoulders as you both shuffled out of the doors, you pulling out your phone to find another place to go to at the same time.

“shit.” was the only thing that rin had managed to mutter out as he saw the two of you running away from the cafe. it’s not that he wanted to avoid you. it’s that he was ashamed. he was scared that nothing he would say would amount to enough of an apology for what he said.

rin was scared that this was the end of you two. his worst fears of losing the one person he knew loved and understood him were coming true and is was his fault. the past few days were filled with doubt and regret, his teammates even noticing his practices were depleting.

the rest of the day came and went, your friend dropped you off back at your apartment where you collapsed on the couch, left with your thoughts once again. you were about to just pass out on your couch and ditch work the next morning, like you have been for the past few days.

that was until you heard a frantic knock on your door, jolting you awake. your worried expression dropped to one of annoyance and bitterness; it was rin. but, he looked different. his usually blank expression was now one of exhaustion and hurt.

he’d been..crying?

your eyes widened in confusion, you opened your mouth to tell him to leave before he cut you off.

“i’m sorry” he blurted out

he was looking down to you, except it was much different than before. rin looked desperate, his eye contact only further confirmed it.

he reached his hand out to place it on your shoulder, hesitating. you opened the door to let him in, sitting on the edge of your couch next to each other.

“i’m so sorry [name].”

“i know.”

“it was stupid, you mean so much to me and i..i ruined it.”

“i know.”

“please, you don’t need to forgive me now i just…”

he paused. rin’s head moved to look at the ground.

“i just need to know you won’t leave me. you can ignore me for as long as you’d like and i’d understand. but just…please i need you back” he begged, small tears brimming at his eyes, what a rare sight to see.

silence fell between the two of you, but it wasn’t like the comfortable silences you’ve shared before. it was tense and awkward.

“okay” your voice was barely above a whisper, “i won’t leave you, i think we both know that” you say with a smile.

rin looked back up at you, eyes wide, full of hope and relief.

“but listen i…” the moonlight only further highlighted just how much the two of you had been crying

“it’s gonna take some time. that was really fucked up, you know that?”

“yeah..yeah i know. i’m sorry. you’re nothing like her i-”

“i know.”

the two of you were now looking at each other, faces flushed from crying and relief. the silence was comfortable again.

“let’s just..go to sleep, yeah? we can talk about it in the morning, i think we both could discuss better afterwards” you offered, leaning closer to the armrest of your couch as you were too tired to go to your bed

rin hummed back in response, laying on your chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist. your hands found their way to his hair, heartbeats practically synchronizing.

“you know..i’m still not going to your game” you whispered, peeking one eye open to watch your boyfriend. he smiled, “i know” a laugh spilled out of his mouth before you both fell asleep.