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verstappenverse · 5 days ago

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Give Me a Chance

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max has always been a playboy, fast cars, faster flings. You’ve always been his best friend. Falling for him was risky… but loving him? That’s where it gets dangerous. Because what if you’re just the next chapter in a story that always ends the same?

12.1k words / Masterlist

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him.

In fact you had tried for most of your life really hard not to.

Because Max Verstappen was the kind of boy mothers warned you about, fast cars and faster flings, cocky grins and charming stories. He lived like he raced, pedal down, never looking back, always chasing the next high. Everyone knew what Max was like off-track. He was beautiful, reckless, magnetic. The kind of man who could have anyone, and often did.

The kind of man who didn’t pause to consider consequences, only cared about momentum. About the next thrill, the next win, the next warm body to fall asleep beside and leave before dawn.

There was always someone new.

Models, influencers, heiresses, you’d seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops, momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.

Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone who’d be labeled a “mystery woman” for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. “F1’s Wild Child.” “Heartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.” And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.

“Just friends,” he’d say. Or, “I don’t remember,” with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.

He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didn’t have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.

He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories they’d replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasn’t malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.

And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.

Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, “Can we go now?”

You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didn’t hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.

But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.

With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.

He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.

He laughed with you in a way he didn’t with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that would’ve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hardi question.

It happened slowly, then all at once.

One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy “goodnight” over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.

You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.

Lately however, it’s been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like he’s been watching you just as long, and he’s finally seeing it too.

Still, you don’t let yourself believe.

Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You don’t want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.

You want to matter, and that’s the scariest part of all.

It happens one rainy night in Monaco.

The rain taps gently against Max’s floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like it’s too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.

You’re curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.

Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when it’s late and you're the only person in the room. He doesn’t sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says, low and careful, like he’s easing into a conversation he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isn’t sure he’s brave enough to have.

You keep your eyes on the rain. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.

Then, flat and certain. “Bullshit.”

You blink. Look at him.

He’s already watching you with that frown he only gets when something’s wrong, but this one’s different, more confused.

You force a shrug, weak and defensive. “You’ve been busy too. With your… dates.”

It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.

You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.

“I haven’t been seeing anyone,” he says eventually, and there’s a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because they’re a lie, but because they’re heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “Since when?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but he’s not squirming or flinching. He’s just… still. He’s choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.

“For a while now.” He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. “Since I realised no one else is you.”

You blink.

“I don’t know the exact moment,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t one thing.”

He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.

“I think it started after that night in Austin,” he murmurs.

You blink. “What night?”

“You don’t remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and I—” He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. “I looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do… without even trying.”

He shakes his head, almost like he’s embarrassed. “Every room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had I’d compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.”

Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answer’s there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t do this, Max.”

“This isn’t a joke.” His voice is steady now. “I’m not drunk or confused. I’m just… done pretending.”

“You’ve always pretended,” you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasn’t moved an inch. “That’s your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted… for a night. For a weekend. And then it’s over.”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re good at it,” you add, voice brittle. “You don’t even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then it’s on to the next.”

You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. “I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but that’s what I’ve always seen.”

“That’s who I was,” he corrects, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. “I didn’t know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didn’t mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.”

Your voice shakes. “And what were you running from?”

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “You.”

Silence crackles between you like static.

“You’re it,” he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. “Every race. Every late-night call. And I—I never saw it until I couldn’t not see it. I didn’t know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.”

“I’ve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where I’d buried it. I told myself I didn’t need you like that. That I couldn’t afford to need anyone like that, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

“Max…” Your voice breaks on his name.

“I’m in love with you.”

He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time he’s let it out.

You meet his eyes and it’s a mistake, it always is, because he’s not guarded. Not this time. He’s wide open, bare, like he’s laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether he’s enough.

Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You think you do,” you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. “But this, this is just timing Max. It’s proximity, you’re lonely and I’m here, and we’re comfortable, and you’re—”

“No.” His voice cuts clean through your spiral. It’s sharp, but not cruel. “That’s not what this is.”

He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. He’s close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t push.

“Don’t do that,” he says, quieter now. “Don’t make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.”

You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.

You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. “You’ve never looked at a girl twice,” you murmur. “I can’t—I won’t be the next one you get bored of.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like you’ve struck something soft inside him.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.

You swallow. “No. It’s what I think of your history Max.”

And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words you’ve been biting down on for years.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldn’t remember. I’ve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. I’ve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.”

You shake your head. “So no it’s not just me being insecure. It’s me knowing exactly how this story ends.”

Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. “I was a fucking idiot alright? I didn’t know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so that’s what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didn’t care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasn’t fair to them. I know that. They didn’t deserve to be placeholders.” He shakes his head, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.”

Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly.

This time, it isn’t just a promise, it’s a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.

There’s no bravado in his voice, no charm.

You close your eyes. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I am sure,” he replies instantly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You open your eyes slowly.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” he continues. “I do. I need you like air, and I’m tired of suffocating.”

“I don’t want to be a phase,” you whisper, eyes burning. “I don’t want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, voice hoarse. “And you’ll never be a lesson.”

You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. He’s so close now, and yet everything in you feels like it’s bracing for impact.

“I’ve messed up a lot,” he continues, breath unsteady. “I’ve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You say nothing, but your silence isn’t empty. It’s heavy. It’s waiting.

Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.

“Give me a chance,” he breathes. “Please.”

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s quiet. Honest. The sound of a man who’s never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.

He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like he’s trying to soothe a bruise that hasn’t even formed.

“You’re it for me,” he says.

His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like he’s still surprised he got it out at all.

There’s a beat. A heartbeat.

Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him you’re not running. That the weight of everything he’s said hasn’t crushed you. That you’re still here.

Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything you’ve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love that’s been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.

For a moment, the world stills.

Even the rain outside seems to hush.

He doesn’t move at first stunned that you’re actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.

Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing he’s been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.

When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.

Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. “If you break my heart Max…”

He doesn't hesitate.

“I won’t,” he whispers.

In this moment you believe him, because this doesn’t feel like a game it feels like a beginning.

You don’t tell anyone at first.

Not because you’re hiding, but because there’s something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.

The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before you’re even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.

He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when you’re supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.

And he looks at you.

God, he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like he’s memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.

He’s softer with you now.

Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesn’t go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesn’t respond the way he wants it to, but when you’re nearby something in him eases.

It’s like you’re the only thing that quiets his engine.

You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though it’s chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure you’re covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.

One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.

You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.

“What?” you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.

He grins, slow and fond. “You drool.”

You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. “Asshole.”

But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Still cute though.”

That’s when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when it’s just him and you, and the warmth of something real.

Three weeks later and you’re perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesn’t mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.

He’s standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.

“Did you just flip that pancake with your fingers?” you ask, incredulous.

Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. “Hands of a champion.”

You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.

He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. “Thief.”

You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like you’re immune to consequences.

When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had breakfast with someone before you,” he says quietly.

You blink, looking up from your fork. “Seriously?”

He nods, eyes distant for a second. “They never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.”

“Oh,” you say, and it’s small, because you’ve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

The air stills, and you know he doesn’t just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didn’t come and go. You didn’t stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. You’re still here, you always were.

You look down, heart thudding. “Well… I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, there’s nothing left to doubt.

“I love you,” he says.

Your smile is soft. “Good, because I’m in love with you too.”

Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no one’s looking. It’s reckless and brief and completely perfect.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.

Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, “tyre strategy” with the panic of someone who’s just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. “You are the worst liar.”

“I panicked!”

“Am I gonna get you fined?” You tease, pulling him in again.

He grins, smug. “Worth it.”

You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. “Now go get that win.”

He winks over his shoulder. “See you at the podium.”

When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks for you.

Two months in and it’s raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.

“Let’s just stay in,” he mutters, stretching like a cat. “Order pizza, I’ll pretend to care about rom-coms.”

You snort. “You love rom-coms.”

He squints. “I tolerate rom-coms.”

“Max you cried during The Notebook.”

He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. You’re both laughing by the time you’ve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.

“I like this,” you whisper into the quiet. “Us.”

He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. “Me too.”

Later that week you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.

He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.

“You know…” he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, “You can leave a toothbrush here… permanently I mean.”

You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. “You sure?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.

“I’m sure,” he says.

And when you smile at him, he smiles back like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.

You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that aren’t meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because he’s in them.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.

When he texts you ‘How you feeling?’ before every race, like you’re the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesn’t fully start until he hears from you.

When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. You’ll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because he’s making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.

You never knew this version of him existed.

Not fully.

The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising he’s doing it. A hand on your thigh while he’s on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.

That’s what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.

You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesn’t come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.

The first crack doesn’t shatter.

It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you don’t notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly it’s everywhere.

It starts after Silverstone.

Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.

He doesn’t text you goodnight after press. Doesn’t call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesn’t tell you he’s safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.

You only find out he’s home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.

Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if it’s just a two-minute check-in. Even if he’s exhausted.

You wait.

Tell yourself not to spiral. He’s probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.

But the second day passes.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Your texts go unread.

And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.

When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks… surprised.

Not angry.

Not guilty.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect you.”

You force a smile that feels too tight. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

The apartment is a mess.

Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.

Everything looks… unfinished.

You glance around. Then back at him.

He won’t meet your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

His jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”

You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you don’t belong in it anymore.

“I didn’t hear from you,” you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.

Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Yeah. I just… I needed some space.”

You don’t react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Okay.”

He still won’t look at you.

You glance down at your hands. “Do you not want me here?”

That finally makes him look up.

There’s something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You don’t know. You can’t tell anymore.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like it’s suddenly too heavy on his head. “I don’t know alright? It’s just been… a lot latley. The races. The press. Everything’s moving so fast, you, us…”

He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.

You flinch, chest tightening. “Do you regret it? Us?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. “God, no. I just… I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Feel like what?” you whisper.

Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.

“Like I could lose you.”

That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.

“So your solution to that is pushing me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “I know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just… I needed space to figures things out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Of course.”

“I’m scared,” he chokes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I panicked”

You stare at him, your throat raw. “I’m scared too,” you whisper. “But I didn’t run, I didn’t shut you out, I chose to trust you.”

Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. “I don’t know what to do. I just… I’m confused, I fucked it up.”

You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe that’s what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasn’t apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.

You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesn’t stop you from walking toward the door.

You try to move past it.

You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.

So you adjust.

You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.

You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself it’s working.

But things don’t go back to normal.

He doesn’t touch you the same way, doesn’t reach for your hand when you’re walking side by side. Doesn’t lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when you’re in his bed, but it feels different now.

He misses your cousin’s birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friend’s, someone who’s known him for years, he hesitates.

“Do I have to?”

You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you say slowly. “But I thought you’d want to.”

Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. “It’s just… a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.”

You frown. “What questions?”

He hesitates.

“You know people will assume things,” he says not looking up.

You blink. “Like what?”

“That we’re serious.” he says too quickly.

Your heart stutters. “We’re not?”

He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what he’s said dawn on his face.

“Fuck, that’s not. That’s not what I meant—”

“No,” you cut in, voice tight. “I think it is.”

You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.

“You love me,” you whisper. “But you don’t want people to know we’re serious?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just scared alright? I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been this with anyone. I don’t know the rules.”

“I’m not asking for rules,” you say, trying so hard not to cry. “I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.”

“You do matter—”

“Then why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.

“So what?” you ask, voice cracking. “I’m just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if I’m worth claiming in daylight?”

He flinches like the word physically hits him.

“That’s not fair—” he starts, voice rough, eyes red.

“And you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,” you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. “I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to be another girl you hurt.”

“You’re not—”

“But you are hurting me Max.” Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me. You promised you wouldn’t.”

He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You promised,” you cry. “You said, ‘I would never hurt you. Give me a chance.’ And I did. I gave you everything. And now you’re backing off because it’s real? Because it scares you?”

He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.

That’s all it takes to know.

“I need time,” he says again.

It sounds like a door clicking shut.

You nod, barely holding yourself together. “Then take it.”

You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.

He doesn’t stop you.

You don’t speak for two weeks.

When he finally texts, it’s short.

Can we talk?

You type three different responses before you settle on:

I don’t know what else there is to say.

No reply.

Two days later he shows up at your door and you’re still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.

You don’t open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,

“Please.”

You open it.

He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like he’s been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

He looks at you like he doesn’t deserve to be standing there and he knows it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “For what?”

“For freezing. For being a coward. For everything.”

You step aside, wordless, and let him in.

He paces at first, back and forth like he’s trying to burn off nerves he can’t outrun. You don’t speak.

“I didn’t know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,” he says finally. His voice is uneven.

You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. “You made me feel like I was too much.”

His eyes snap to yours. “You aren’t.”

“You aren’t,” he says again. “You’re everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance… if I didn’t let myself want it too much… then maybe it wouldn’t hurt if it ended.”

His voice breaks, just slightly. “I know the logic is messed up. I know it’s selfish. But I didn’t know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing I’ve ever had anyway.”

You turn your head slowly. “And what do we have now?”

Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“I guess it depends,” he says quietly.

“On what?”

He meets your eyes. “On if you can give me another chance.”

He’s not hiding now. There’s no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like he’s terrified of your answer.

“Max…” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I know—” he swallows hard, eyes glassy, “I know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. That’s on me. All of it.”

He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. “But you have to know it was never because I didn’t care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I felt—what I feel it’s real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.”

His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he can’t bear to see your face.

“I was wrong about everything. Because I can’t—” he looks back up, desperate now. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made any of this make sense.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself before the fall.

“I don’t deserve to ask I know that, but I’m asking anyway, because if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.”

Your heart splinters all over again.

Because it hurts to love someone who’s scared of loving you back properly.

Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.

And you don’t know if you can survive handing him your heart again.

“I can’t… at least not now… I need to think,” you say, voice cracking like glass.

He nods.

“I’ll wait,” he whispers. “As long as you need.”

Then he leaves and this time, you’re the one who doesn’t stop him.

The days bleed into weeks.

You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.

You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.

But you’re not living, you’re just existing.

Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.

He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like he’s testing the water. Then more. They’re never demanding. Never pushy. Just… him.

Hope you had a good day today.

I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.

You’d laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.

Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?

I miss you.

I miss us.

Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.

Still, he keeps trying.

He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.

Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because it’s romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Meanwhile, Max is not fine.

He tells the world he’s focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.

But the truth is uglier.

He doesn’t go out. Doesn’t answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.

He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didn’t.

He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll text him back.

Christian asks what’s wrong.

Lando asks if he’s dying.

Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."

He’s so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after he’s finally changed the sheets.

He’s tired of being without you.

Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.

The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How he’s changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.

“I think real connection can change the way you drive,” he says softly. “Makes you sharper. Calmer. When you’ve got something real to come home to.”

The quote goes viral.

People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.

Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.

You type a reply.

Delete it.

Type it again.

Delete it again.

In the end you say nothing because you’re still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, you’re learning, isn’t always enough.

Then it happens.

It gets worse before it gets better.

The photo.

You’re scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.

Blurry, looks like it’s been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didn’t realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.

You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.

She’s beautiful. Of course she is. She’s touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear she’s wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.

You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesn’t change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.

You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.

It’s all there.

The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesn’t need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but it’s him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.

Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

You don’t move to pick it up.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.

You just sit there.

Staring at nothing.

Frozen in place like your body doesn’t know how to function now that your heart’s short-circuited.

You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. “You’re it for me.” “I’d never hurt you.” “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t wait. Of course he didn’t. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.

When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.

Can I see you today? I’ve got something for you it’s stupid but I think you’ll smile.

You read it three times in disbelief.

You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers don’t hesitate.

Don’t bother. I saw the photos. You don’t have to lie. I don’t want to hear from you anymore.

There’s a full minute of silence.

Then—

What are you talking about?

Almost a minute passes.

Then a second message.

Please let me explain.

You can see the dots, he’s typing, but you don’t wait to read the rest.

You block his number.

And this time, you do cry.

Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down you’re terrified that you never really had him at all.

You don’t get out of bed for two days.

The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isn’t welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesn’t belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself you’ll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.

The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbour’s dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didn’t. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them you’re just “tired,” just “burned out,” that work’s been “crazy,” and no, you’re fine, you swear.

You don’t mention the photo. You don’t mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.

You try not to look at the tab you left open. “Max Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.”

You don’t click any links. You don’t read the comments. You don’t want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that won’t heal.

Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.

Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. You’re curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something you’re not even pretending to watch. You haven’t told her anything, but she just… knows.

“What happened?” she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t look at her either. You’re too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.

The photo.

The messages.

The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.

She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.

“Okay,” she says carefully, “but… this doesn’t make sense.”

You blink. “What?”

“I mean—I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up, I’m on your side. But this girl? I’ve seen her around. She’s one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the “hot-spots”. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.”

You shift on the couch. “So?”

“So… maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.”

You shake your head, heart pounding. “She was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.”

“And? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone else’s and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You don’t know.”

You sit up straighter. “But he didn’t deny it.”

She looks at you then. Really looks.

“To be fair,” she says slowly, “you blocked him before he could.”

You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.

“What if I didn’t want to hear his explanation?” you whisper.

She gives you a look that’s too knowing to be comfortable. “Then you have to ask yourself something.”

You already know what she’s going to say. You hear it before she even says it.

“Do you want to stay angry or do you still love him?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesn’t matter. That you’re done. That it’s too late.

But the truth is louder than your pride.

You still love him.

You always have.

Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.

“She blocked me,” he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. “She actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.”

Lando is sitting on the edge of Max’s sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone who’s been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. “Alright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?”

Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo that’s been circulating for the past few days. “That’s Julia,” he snaps. “She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.”

He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. “I didn’t even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, it’s the worst possible moment.”

Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. “Shit. These are… a lot.”

Max grabs the phone back. “She thinks I’m lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.”

“And do you blame her?” Daniel says carefully. “I mean, not to kick you when you’re already bleeding out here, but… you did disappear on her for a while.”

Max looks like he’s been slapped. “I know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and I’ve been trying to make it right ever since.”

Lando leans back on the couch. “So what now? You just sit around and mope?”

Max glares at him. “What do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.”

“Maybe,” Daniel says. “But she also needs to see that you care. That you’re not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.”

“I’ve been trying!” Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. “I’ve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Daniel tilts his head. “What about her best friend?”

Max looks up. “What about her?”

“Talk to her,” Daniel says. “Not to get the friend to do your dirty work, just… find out if there’s anything you can do that wouldn’t make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldn’t hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.”

Max hesitates.

Lando shrugs. “It’s better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.”

Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. “Alright I’ll try. I’m not giving up on this. On her.”

Daniel smirks. “Good. Because it’s about time you started acting like it.”

The next morning Max makes a call he’s been dreading. It’s awkward as hell, and the conversation doesn’t go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.

And somehow, it’s enough.

Because a day later he’s standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.

Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.

You don’t even know she’s done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like he’s not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, he’s standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.

“Before you slam the door,” he says, voice shaking, “just let me explain. Please.”

You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You don’t move, don’t speak, but you don’t close it.

So he keeps going.

“She’s not someone I’m seeing,” he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I barely know her. She’s my trainer’s girlfriend’s friend, I didn’t invite her, I didn’t ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didn’t even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacket—” He pauses, swallows hard. “She said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didn’t think. I just—” His voice cracks. “I was trying to be nice.”

You blink at him, vision going blurry. “Then why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come here earlier?”

“Because you blocked me, and I didn’t think you wanted to see me.” he says softly.

“I thought you gave up,” you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. “I thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.”

“I would never,” Max says, and it’s not a plea, it’s a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like he’s afraid to spook you. “You have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.”

“I did.”

“And I wanted to to give that to you,” he says. “But it’s been killing me.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s not holding it together anymore. Not even close.

“I didn’t want anyone else,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. You’re it. You always were.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I know.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. “I know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and I hate myself for it.”

He swallows hard. “But if you give me another shot… if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving I’m not the same coward who let you walk away. I’d show you what I should’ve from the beginning. That I’m in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.”

Max steps forward slightly, like he’s bracing for rejection but can’t help chasing hope anyway.

“I don’t know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, you’re everything, and I’ll take whatever version of us you’re willing to give me, even if it’s just the chance to try.”

His voice breaks completely then. “Please. Give me a chance.”

It breaks something in you.

Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when he’s near. But love isn’t enough, not when you’re still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.

“I can’t,” you say, and your voice shakes.

Max’s face crumples like he’d prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.

“I understand.”

He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravity’s working harder on him now.

“Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible. “I thought maybe I could earn it back.”

His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. “I knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hoped…”

He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight. “For everything.”

He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.

“I never stopped loving you.”

He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.

“Me neither.”

A pause. The kind that stretches forever.

“Not for a single second.”

Then he walks away, with the same realisation you’ve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.

It’s been two months since you closed the door on him.

Max hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once. He hasn’t tried to push, hasn’t knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, he’s respecting your boundaries. But it also means he’s gone.

And yet, he’s everywhere.

You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts you’re too tired to chase away. His name doesn’t appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.

You keep his shirt in the back of your drawer, forgotten, then remembered, then deliberately not moved. It still smells like his skin in a way that makes your knees weak. You pass the little café he loved and your heart stumbles over itself because you can see him leaning against the window, tapping the lid of your drink so the steam wouldn't burn your lips, eyes already crinkled in that half-smile he never gave to anyone else.

He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. He’s in your dreams when sleep forgets you’re supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. He’s in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, “Are you okay?” and you smile and nod and hope they don’t hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.

But today… today you can’t do it anymore.

You can’t keep carrying the silence like a shield when all it’s done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. You’ve tried the distance. You’ve tried the pretending. You’ve tried to be fine.

You don’t know what you’re going to say.

You don’t know if it’ll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if you’ll be able to speak at all when you see him again.

You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what might’ve happened if you’d just tried one more time. Maybe you’ll get hurt again. Maybe he’ll break your heart all over again. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? It’s worth the risk. It’s a chance you’re willing to take, for how special you were together. If there’s still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.

Because waiting might protect your heart.

But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this could’ve been.

That’s the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.

It’s late.

Almost midnight, Monaco is quiet, and rain is threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.

When you reach his door, you hesitate.

Then you knock.

It only takes a few seconds.

The door swings open.

He’s there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

You’re both frozen.

Then you whisper, “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Max says, voice wrecked.

His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep can’t fix. One hand grips the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“I didn’t think you’d ever—” He breaks off, breath catching. “I never thought…”

You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.

“You hurt me so badly, Max.”

His shoulders drop. “I know,” he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. “And I’ll never stop being sorry.”

You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. “I wasn’t asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasn’t easy. Especially then.”

“I know,” he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. “I thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.”

His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. “You were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didn’t deserve you.”

You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.

It still smells like him.

Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, “I told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldn’t come back.”

His breath catches.

“And I still don’t know what’s right,” you admit. “But I know this, waiting didn’t make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didn’t help, and maybe I’ll regret this. Maybe we’ll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just given you that second chance.”

Max is crying openly now, but he’s smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You still want this?” he asks hoarsely. “You still want me?”

You nod, stepping into his arms. “I want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.”

He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. “I choose you,” he breathes against your temple. “Forever. I swear to God, I’m all in. I don’t want a life where you’re not mine.”

Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.

There’s no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. You’re both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.

Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.

Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. “I missed you every fucking second,” he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like he’s been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.

Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you don’t care because it’s not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.

It’s real. It’s everything.

All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need you’ve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.

He kisses you like he’s starving.

Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.

When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still can’t believe you’re here.

“I’ll do it right this time,” he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. “Whatever it takes. I’m yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as you’ll have me.”

You don’t answer with words.

You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldn’t say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each other’s arms.

It’s steady.

Sure.

Home.

Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.

His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.

You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.

“It meant a lot that you waited,” you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.

Max looks down at you, and there’s something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy who’s made mistakes. A man who’s trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.

He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.

“I hoped every day you’d walk through that door,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only truth he knows. “I swore I didn’t care if it was weeks, or years… or never… I would’ve still waited.”

You don’t speak. You just kiss him.

It’s hope.

It’s trust.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, that this will last.

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy

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andersonsgf · 3 months ago

Text

PAST TENSE

summary: when vi is let out of jail, everything is up in the air as she moves through zaun and life without purpose, until you. but is she built for a life of no fighting? (alternate au). word count: 6.8k

warnings: minors dni (18+), canon typical violence but not really, smut, soft!top!vi (writing her so gentle), alcohol no no's

vi masterlist

It was all different: the people, the buildings, the food, the drink, even the floor she was walking on. Seven years in prison. Seven years, and she hadn't gotten a single whiff of how Zaun had changed whilst she was behind bars. Not a single soul had bothered to tell her that the undercity was now a safe place, that people didn't starve anymore, that her family had been keeping well without her.

Her jaw clenched painfully, hands shoved into the pockets of her mismatched clothes that no longer fit in with everyone else as she grieved how much she'd missed, and realised that the home she was longing for no longer felt like home. It was too clean, she could breathe clearly, the people around her looked... happy. All Vi could do was huff whilst walking in the opposite direction of The Last Drop in what was basically a tantrum.

Away from the confusing reunion she'd had with her family. Ecstatic to see them, but not knowing who they were anymore. No longer was her family rough around the edges, no, Vander now had a thriving business that didn't have criminal activity at the heart and centre, Powder was well educated, terrifyingly smart and working with Piltovan scientific communities, and her two idiot brothers -who frankly, she thought would never amount to anything in the streets of Zaun without her leadership- had honest jobs, earning good money. Her family didn't make sense to her anymore, and she didn't make sense to them.

To top it all off, the plan was to move back into the basement under the last drop, in the room she grew up in, this time all alone, jobless, friendless. So much for being the most successful sibling, now she was nothing in this new world. A fighter with nothing to fight.

This whole safe world was because of her too, she had come to learn during the catchup at the bar that was serving juice to people too often for her liking. Why was no one drinking the hard stuff anymore? Probably because everyone's happy, her mind grumbled to her as she kicked a stone through an alley, headed to the docks, the old factory now up and running, providing thriving business and jobs for the everyday worker.

Vi huffed for the nth time, plonking herself down on the edge of the dock, annoyed that her old quiet space now had raging noises of machinery in the background. All of this because she'd nearly gotten killed by some glowing blue gem thing across the bridge. The last job she did with her siblings, and one that was an epic fail. They'd nearly made it out until the explosion.

After the enforcers checked her over after being nearly decimated, she'd been thrown into Stillwater Hold of all places, for breaking and entering and other such accusations. The younger ones got off with a warning, the eyes of the law stating that they didn't know what they were doing, that they were just following the words of the pink haired kid who had been spotted sleuthing through people's things in Piltover time and time again. A repeat offender.

The light waves of the water brushed against her shoes as she considered that day. How that explosion and being caught had cost her seven years of her life, time with her family. Seven years of going insane in that tiny cell. But it had also made topside and bottom work together when they nearly lost a child from each side during the accident -which turned out to be an unauthorised scientific experiment of some kind.

When Councillor Kiramman found out that the explosion had wounded her daughter and a zaunite child, nearly killing them, she was on a warpath to finally create safety for all of the citizens under the council's care, which was now why Vi was breathing in fresh air instead of smog.

She just didn't know what to do. Now that Zaun was this new-fangled modern world, how was she, someone with a criminal record, going to earn money. It wouldn't have been a problem back in the day, but apparently reputations within the workplace were a thing now. She was gonna be stuck working at the bar for the rest of her life, she just knew it. It wouldn't be a bad arrangement if it wasn't her dad handing out the job, she wanted to earn a place somewhere, just like her brothers and sisters had. It was unlikely, though. For a few years at least.

For now, all she could do was mope around and relearn how to live outside of a cell. The world was too big, too overwhelming. "It'll take time", Vander tried to reassure her after a week of her release when she had come home completely shitfaced when it all got too much. When the bright colours everyone seemed to wear paired with the bright sky and bustling noises of active vendors and buyers on the street had made her want to lose all of her senses.

She'd completely lost her mind when she saw a group of Piltovan and Zaunite enforcers seeming all jolly and high-fiving adoring kids in the street. People looked up to these monsters now? Zaunites had joined their ranks and made a city-wide police force? She required some whiskey to get her head around that. A lot of it.

Hopped up on that much whiskey is when she spotted you for the first time, pouring a clean glass of water from the tap behind Vander, a pitying expression on your face. 'Well fuck you', she thought to herself, calling you every Piltie slur under the sun as you handed the water to Vander who in turn handed it to the seething woman slumped at his bar. That was until she reminded herself that she couldn't tell the difference between Zaunites and Pilties anymore because apparently no one gave a shit about their multi-hundred year long feud and abominable oppressive behaviours from topside.

"You need to get ahold of yourself, kid", the brawny man who had been everything to her said, wiping some glasses down with a cloth whilst you made yourself busy around the bar, preparing it for closing. Her eyes shakily followed your movements as she pushed the water back towards Vander who hastily shoved it back towards her. "Drink, and stop staring at my hires".

Vi scoffed but took a tentative sip, her hands moving to push it back again after just to prove a point. "I'm not staring at your hires. I'm staring at that hire".

Vander sighed, his cloth flopping down as he leaned his gigantic arms on the bar. "Look, I know everything's different, and it must feel like you've woken up in some kind of dream-".

A scoff, "Well, obviously-".

His expression went sharper, interrupting before any more snark could come out of her mouth, "We all love you, and have been fighting to get you out for years, but this isn't a place you can just rock up to sloshed out of your mind anymore", Vander's face shifted to try and be more understanding. Vi may not be his technically, but he'd known her since she was a baby, taught her her first punch, raised her in the latter years. This was his baby sitting in front of him, and she was hurting.

"It feels like I can't do anything right here anymore", her voice slurred and she slumped down a little, side eyeing you as you said an awkward goodbye to Vander to clock out. The big man gave you a bit of an exasperated smile goodbye, still trying to be friendly to his staff. You were always a sweetheart after all.

Vi seemed to think otherwise, a vendetta against you after the heinous act of offering her water. "What's her problem?", she grumbled as Vander picked her up like she weighed nothing, treading down the wooden steps to the basement and gently laying her down in a bed that she used to be much smaller in. The scrape of a wooden chair broke the silence, Vander sitting next to her, making sure she didn't die from choking on her own vomit or something.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now", Vi croaked out, angling her face away.

Vander's eyes took her all in, her eyes were so sad, her cheeks reddening, the wraps on her hands slightly bloody. He breathed out, a hand reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. "You give it time, then you live".

You cradled a drink in your own hand, taking in the atmosphere of the bar on your afternoon off. It was much easier to appreciate the environment of a busy bar when you weren't working at the busy bar. The job wasn't too stressful, most of the customers were friendly, and any that weren't always had Vander to deal with, but still, it always left you with sore ankles and a headache at the end of the night.

"You entered another science thing?", Mylo's voice brought you back to the moment, you were spending the afternoon with Vander's kids, well, all but Vi.

Powder quirked a brow and tilted her head, "Science thing? Do you even know what I do for a living?", her voice teased.

"Uhh... you know... science stuff with metal and tools and such forth", Mylo tried to recover with a snobby little hand wave to make up for the fact he did not use any actual terminology. You smiled behind your pint glass as the siblings began to bicker. Hanging out with these three always hurt your eyes, what with all the eye rolling and everything.

A flash of pink made your head swivel back to the bar, the conversation again becoming rough murmurs in the background as you spotted Vi taking advantage of Vander and Benzo having a heated debate about something probably as boring as what kind of glue is best to use on wood. The woman was sneaking out a whiskey bottle from behind the bar. Your eyebrows scrunched, scratch that, two bottles.

In her defence she was being rather sneaky, it seemed to be only you who had spotted her stealing from her own father and hurrying back down the basement stairs. Your feet moved before you could think, hesitating at the top of the staircase. It felt like a violation of sorts, your boss lived down there after all.

It wasn't as though you'd never been down there before, being close with the others, but heading down there of your own accord felt weird. But you shrugged and headed down two steps at a time, eyes taking in how messy the living area had gotten since you were last down there. Jackets were everywhere, empty glasses, cushions dumped on the floor. Either Vander was on a cleaning strike, or his eldest daughter had set a bomb off.

Your eyes darted to the clanking behind a closed door. You paused before slowly opening it, taking in the sight of Vi's head tipped back as she gulped down the brown liquid. She was beautiful, you couldn't deny that - in a rugged way. She was broad, large muscles, sharp features, you couldn't describe her as anything but beautiful.

Though you quickly schooled your gawking expression when her steely eyes bore into yours. Wasted, yet so focused. "The fuck are you doing here?".

Your lungs took in a deep breath, composing yourself as you gently clicked the door shut. "You know... when I do an inventory take and come up short two bottles I'll have to answer to Vander, right?", you moved forward slowly, almost innocently, trying to make sure she didn't pounce on you and toss you out of the door.

A giggle nearly escaped you when she looked at you suspiciously, the alcohol exaggerating every expression she made. You were sure that those giant hands wrapped around the bottle could do you some serious damage if she so wished, but right now? With those big eyes locked in a squint and her head tilted forward? She looked like a cat who hadn't been fed yet.

"Don't do an inventory check then", she grunted slightly and kicked her feet out into more of a manspread, taking another large gulp that had you sighing.

"Kinda my job".

She still looked pissed, "Look, I dunno what you want from me-", Vi stood finally, her stature looking intimidating as she stepped forward and sized you up. Your hands went up, a foot stepping back, "I just wanted to check in, with everything".

"Everything?".

"Yeah, you know... the changes and the people".

Vi scoffed, moving across the creaky floor to perch back down on the old bed, it seemed she didn't deem you a threat. Didn't mean she was any less pissed off, murmuring a few expletives at your expense as she slumped down, facing away from you. It really was sad, how quickly she conked out, her heavy breath evening out, spiky hair flattened against the pillow.

Someone so lost was always hard to see. Your head shook, exhaling a heavy breath whilst picking up the bottles. One was nearly empty, the other still full. Eyes bigger than her stomach you supposed, sighing again before heading upstairs, trying to figure out a way of not getting Vi into shit with her stealing stock.

Vi tried to throw herself into the happiness of being around her family again, she really did. Seven years of not seeing them, not knowing if they were okay. Every time Powder hugged her she just wanted to break down, her baby sister all grown up. She never got to see it.

She participated in the family gatherings, tried to keep up in the conversations her siblings had. 50% of the time her contributions were asking who they were talking about, what that inside joke meant, what the hell the activity was they were talking about, and the other 50% was her just sitting there silently, ears red as her fists clenched and unclenched. They all had things. Jobs, friends, love interests, hobbies, even just junk they decorated their house with. What she would give for some shitty trinkets she could pay for herself.

She needed coins, needed to escape living in this awkward shadow she'd been in the last couple of months since being free. Feeling trapped in a different way.

Your hums filled the bar during closing time again, the responsibility solely on your shoulders with Vander and Benzo out on some little trip for a few days. It was nice, the flicker of the candles, their lives running out shortly, marking the time for you to go, the jukebox playing in the corner, forcing your head to bop lightly as you worked at a stubborn patch of sticky juice on the countertop.

The serenity was shortly pummelled as blue and pink flew through the door. "The pits, Vi?", Powder's croaky voice overpowered the jukebox and made you jump out of your skin.

"I don't get what your problem is", the other, covered in bruises and somewhat tipsy stumbled in after her and slammed the door, eyes burning into you when she realised that your eyes were darting between the two.

"My problem is you're beaten to a pulp, and the pits are illegal now, Violet", Powder was exasperated, making swift work of moving behind the bar, grabbing cloths and vodka before forcing her much larger sister down onto a stool and dabbing her wounds clean. Through all of Powder's anguish, her chewed up lips revealed her worry. Vi had been on a downward spiral and none of the family knew how to help.

Your cheeks puffed out slightly, the awkwardness radiating off of you could warm a small cabin over winter. Shuffling awkwardly away, you reached the jukebox andturned the music off, collecting the coins earned through the course of the night.

Vi's eyes darted to you yet again, before her attention was dragged away. She winced as the cloth touched a particularly deep eyebrow gash, "I'm good at fighting and it's good money-".

"Not worth it", Powder punctuated with another cloth dab.

"I don't get this", her face scrunched up, "Me fighting is how we survived and how you aren't a little pulp on the ground! We fought and fought for everything-".

"We used to", Powder interrupts bluntly, deflating as she tossed the bloodied cloths over the bar and into the bin. The burning silence forced you to busy yourself even further away, sweeping a corner with no dust in as Powder told her sister to get some sleep, pecking her temple before vacating home.

"You can quit acting", Vi looked over at you, breathing in heavy through her nose before she moved over to the jukebox, staring down at it, fiddling with a coin.

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, moving a little closer, broom in hand. "Don't know which song to play?".

"I know", Vi spoke simply, not elaborating. Her jaw was tense, the pace she was playing with the coin sped up, along with the rise and fall of her chest. A beat later, "This is my first properly earned coin", she breathed out and pushed it through the gap in the machine.

The familiar soft beat of "Our Love" thrummed through the bar after a click of a button. It was a late night favourite amongst the customers, and for some reason it always got Vander to be a little quiet.

"Good choice", you spoke quietly, trying not to anger the woman on edge, who swallowed thickly and nodded. "Was my mom's favourite", she choked out a little, steeling herself by gripping the edges of the jukebox.

You stayed silent, letting Vi have her moment, playing her mothers favourite song with her first legitimately earned cash. You'd all lost people one way or another down in the undercity before it became a place of prosperity. You missed your own mother too.

"My mom used to say music talks to us in a language we don't understand", you sat on a barstool, leaning against the broomstick slightly.

You watched her eyes glance at you from the side before settling on the jukebox again, talking only when the song finished, her voice a croaked whisper, "I think they hate me".

Your heart throbbed, "They don't, they hate seeing you hurt".

"I don't get why you keep... talking to me", her voice picked up again, her tone frustrated, gripping the jukebox harder. "Even Powder treats me like I'm one wrong word away from snapping", she finally looked directly at you, her cheek swollen with a purple tint, small gashed littered across her face.

Your teeth found your bottom lip, nibbling as you tried to think of what to say with Vi's expectant eyes on you. "I think... maybe you remind them of a time they'd rather forget? But I'm sure it'll level out at some point, they still love you. We're all just... still figuring this new world out, right?".

"Right", she deadpanned.

"I keep talking to you because I was angry too, when it all changed". For the first time since you met her, her eyes softened slightly, the powder blue eyes catching you by surprise, your lungs catching in your chest.

"None of it seemed fair", you continued, "How we all were expected to just... move on. Get along with everyone, find a place in a world that for hundreds of years didn't want us. I wanted my mom to live in a world that felt safe too but she never got to have that. I was still furious at Piltover, furious at all the little rebellion groups that went domestic and joined the enforcers. It took years before I could just... breathe", and as if to emphasise your point, your lungs exhaled deeply, your throat tight.

"I thought you were a Piltie when I first saw you", Vi tested the waters and moved to sit next to you at the bar. You swivelled to face her, an amused smile on your face that seemed to catch her off guard, her eyes blinking a few times rapidly. She looked almost terrified of you, like she was the one worried about scaring you off now.

"Why?".

She shrugged, "You just looked too perfect, I guess".

Vi frequented your little studio apartment quite frequently now. She avoided the place like the plague for a while, but when she 'broke the seal' and stopped by for a visit after one of your shifts, she was there non-stop. Might as well live there, especially when you handed her a spare key.

Quite often you'd find her sprawled on the tiny couch in your one-roomed place, her favourite place because it was in a corner. Vi loved corners. Your chest would soar when she stopped by unexpectedly; it was nice to see her relying on someone. Especially with her pit fights - that she still hadn't stopped, even with her family and you telling her to get another job. Vander relentlessly offered her shifts at the bar, but she was stubborn. Didn't want handouts.

So, more often than not, she snuck into your apartment late at night, knuckles bloody, face purple, and body sprawled out on the small chair. Even whilst drunk and injured she could get in without getting caught. It was when she fell asleep that was the problem.

Your eyes blinked open, arms still snuggled up to the corner of your duvet. It sounded like a thunderstorm raging outside in your sleep-addled brain, your fists rubbing your eyes open before peeking through the curtain gap. Clear skies?

You flinched when another bout of "thunder" started, eyes blinking at the mound in the corner of the apartment. A sigh, and another snore.

Vi.

Your eyes rolled whilst your feet planted onto the floor, lazily padding over to the lightswitch. Her snore turned into more of a gargled pig noise as she woke up and whined. Both adrenaline and alcohol were not in her system anymore, and frankly, she was in agony.

"It's the middle of the night", she grumbled and strained to sit herself up properly, rubbing her face before wincing.

She really was a sight for sore eyes. "Your snoring woke me up again", you spoke simply, once again moving to get some rubbing alcohol. "Why do you do this to yourself?".

She shrugged, face scrunching and staring at the floor, "Takes my mind off things".

"It worries me", you knelt between her legs, tilting her chin to look at you. Her eyes were droopy, sad. She looked guilty, her eyes not able to hold your stare for more than a few seconds.

"'M sorry, sweetheart", her words slurred, and your heart stopped, brain rebooting as you focused on the task at hand, teeth worrying at your bottom lip as you began to clean her up.

Your throat was tight every time she seemed in pain, like you could feel it too. It was stupid, she'd only been in your life for a few months, but she'd melted herself down and squeezed herself into every crack in your soul.

Next were her hands. With gently, practiced movements you unwrapped the bandages, fingers skimming over her swollen knuckles, fighting the urge to bring them up to your lips as you dabbed some ice on them.

"At least stop doing this every night?", your voice pleaded, looking up at her through your eyelashes. She was clearly conflicted, but at this point, she'd move the earth for you, so she nodded. Barely. But you could still see it. The corners of your lips twitched up, pressing your forehead to her knee before standing and packing up.

Vi swallowed harshly, shaking her head a few times when your back was turned to her before sprawling out on the small chair again.

"Nuh uh". She jumped at your voice as you walked quickly and smoothly over to your bed and patted it. "You can't expect for your limbs to feel all better and not-stiff if you crumple yourself up".

She watched in bewilderment when you curled up in your usual corner of the bed and opened the duvet up for her. Her eyebrows fluttered as she slowly moved herself to be upright. "What?".

"Get comfortable", you reiterated and patted the bed again before drooping your head down into the squishy pillow, knowing she'd do as you say and join you in a moment, even if she has to think it over first.

Lo and behold, behind your eyelids you saw the light go off, and felt her creeping into your bed like it was haunted. You opened yours to find hers wide and staring right at you. It scared the shit out of you, but you did a good job at hiding it, not wanting to spook her and have her sprint out of your apartment.

You hummed sleepily, "You okay?".

Vi exhaled deeply, smushing her face into the pillow, "I hung out with Vander and Claggor this evening".

"Before or after the pit?".

"Before".

"How'd that go?", you chewed your lip again, adjusting yourself on the mattress, the early hours of the morning getting to you, even with Vi being a distraction. Vi itched the shaved part of her head before tugging on the longer hairs on the base of her neck a little, pushing through her own drowsiness.

"It's going okay. I'm adjusting to Vander being different, Claggor's kinda the same. I'm just really struggling with Powder", she murmured, fingers twitching slightly and scooting closer to your position on the mattress.

You scanned her face, "What's different with Powder?".

Her nose scrunched, tongue running across her teeth before she just deflated. "She's everything I hoped she'd grow up into, I'd still fucking die for her, y'know? It's just... Pow likes to fix things, always has done. But ever since I got out, I dunno... just feels like she keeps trying to fix me".

"I don't think you need fixing", you muttered back, lips barely moving as you locked eye contact again. Fuck, she was really beautiful.

"Mm", she hummed, "I dunno about that".

"You're the reason we aren't living in the dirt anymore, think a few war wounds are valid for like, people to accept. You did time for all of us".

She sunk further into the pillowy mattress, her body getting limper and limper the more you made her feel better about herself. "You're sweet". Her voice could barely be heard as she finally passed out, no snoring to be heard thanks to her not being crumpled up on a small piece of furniture. You watched as her worry lines faded away, as peace took over her features. You hoped she was dreaming about nice things.

Just as she took over your apartment, she had taken over your bed after that night. Instead of sneaking in at 1am after a fight and curling up into a ball on the couch, she snuck under your duvet like a stray little poro. On multiple occasions, you woke up to her spooning you from behind, then grumbling and rolling away in the morning.

She relied on you for a lot now. She wouldn't admit it, and neither would you, but she had basically moved in. She rarely slept in the basement in the last drop anymore, only ate at either yours, or takeout from Jericho's, which was now a proper restaurant, and you always patched her up after her fights.

It was no surprise that your little crush on her grew. You loved taking care of her, and having her protective instincts aimed on you in return. On her days off from the pit she would always walk you home, it didn't feel natural to her that the streets were pretty safe.

Her hand was on your lower back as you walked through your apartment door, happy to have Vi here so early, and not sneaking in with a busted face. Her hands were so soft as she helped you out of your jacket, her eyes taking in the familiar surroundings of what was basically her home.

Her own jackets hung up next to yours, space on the shoe rack, her bundled up bandage wraps poking out through the bedside cabinet. She'd well and truly wormed her way into the domestic life, ignoring her participation in an illegal fighting ring three nights a week - keeping to her promise of not doing it every day.

On her nights off, she hung out at the bar, keeping you company as you worked, glaring at any that showed interest in the pretty bartender. On nights you both had off, she'd come food shopping with you, or help you cook, catch up on some books she missed, even go on little hikes alone if she needed the space.

She huffed out a breath as she scanned the apartment. This is never where she thought she'd be. She didn't even know if this was sustainable for her. In her eyes you were perfect, kind, innocent in what had been a cruel world. She was holding her breath, biding her time before she inevitably blew it up.

"You good?".

She shuffled awkardly on the spot, hanging up her own jacket, leaving her in her grey tank top, muscles and tattoos on display that always caught your eye. "Yeah, let's just make dinner", she dismissed and moved past you.

Lips quirked to the side, you watched as she moved into the kitchen. Instead, you perched on the edge of the bed. Thanks to it being a studio, the kitchen was just in the opposite corner, Vi still in sight. "What are you doing?".

You shrugged every so slightly in response, ankles locking over each other. "You seem off, wondered if you wanted to talk".

"Not particularly?".

Another shrug, "You still seem off".

You could sense the frustration radiating off of her, she never liked being questioned. "It's nothing". You stayed quiet, unlocking your ankles to kick them back and forth slightly. It took a moment of a staring contest, but she eventually rolled hers and relented. "Life is quiet now".

"You don't like it?", you seemed a little put out, hurt.

"No I love it", she interjected quickly and shook her head as she sat next to you, "Which means it'll hurt more when it goes away".

"Who said it's going away?".

Vi looked at you like you were stupid, her eye twitching, "It will, it always does".

"Doesn't have to anymore", your eyes bore into hers, your breathing in synch. Both looking so vulnerable. Tentatively, you flexed your fingers before placing your hand over hers. Vi's throat bobbed, blue eyes slowly looking down at the connected skin.

"I'm not good at this... being gentle thing", she croaked out.

That didn't seem right. "You're always gentle with me", you pointed out, heart fluttering as she instead placed her hand on top of yours to interlock your fingers.

"I just- I think I really like you, and I don't know how to do this".

You couldn't help but smile, your soul had let out the biggest sigh of relief. She liked you back? She scoffed, "Don't look so happy about it, not exactly a good luck charm, sweetheart".

"Could you quit moping? We're having a moment", you teased, squeezing her hand.

"...Right", she mumbled, her other hand lifting up a little, trying to figure out where to put it. She settled for your cheek, relishing in how you leaned into it, thumb rubbing up and down your cheekbone.

"See? You're gentle".

"Still scared I'm gonna break you".

"You won't", you whispered as she got oh so close. Her breath touched yours, the bruising from previous fights were fading, she looked worn out, but so alive for you.

Her tongue wet her lips, taking her sweet time to move forward more, body trembling. Her eyes were even more beautiful up close, you thought to yourself as you looked back up, unable to think much else of it before she planted her lips on yours, scooting even closer. My god did you think you were going to just pass away as your eyes fluttered shut, soul leaving your body.

That was it now, Vi couldn't keep her hands off you. The last few weeks she had been stuck to you like a little leech, not just waking up with her spooning you, but going to sleep that way too. Sweet little touches, her lips on yours, murmurs into your ear when she gets home from the pit, mumbling about how she thinks you're beautiful, how you've saved her.

She was still terrfied of you though. When she was sober, she dreaded being too rough with you. 'Soft' had not been in her vocabulary for many years, but you were so precious to her, her worst fear was hurting you. And thus, you hadn't made the last step yet. Or more like, she hadn't made the last step yet.

She kept initiating it almost, hands moving to your belt mid-makeout, sneaking a hand into your jeans just moments later. Your breath would hitch as her fingers smoothed over the waistband of your underwear, before they were abruptly removed. She got scared, backing out.

It was okay of course. You didn't mind, and would never pressure. But if she really did want to do it you didn't want her to feel scared of doing it. Her name fell from your lips the next time her hand found its way to your belt, big eyes looking up to yours, teeth worrying on her bottom lip.

"I keep trying", she whispered, nose nudging under your jaw, lips pecking a mark she had already made.

Your hand carded its way through her hair, "What's stopping you?".

The smallest of grunts left her lips, "Only ever done quickies, wanna be able to treat you good".

"Whenever you're ready". Vi blinked, lifting her head up to stare down at you, analysing your expression. You could see her throat tightening, how she swallowed thickly, her eyes hardening as they stared at your belt buckle, softening again when your hand gripped onto her shoulder.

"It's okay", your breath hit her cheek, and she slowly leant down, capturing your lips with hers, slowly, softly, her fingers deftly dealing with your belt.

Your hips raised a little, helping her drag your clothing down. Her pupils blew, taking in your legs for the first time, making the tiniest little whine as her hands squeezed the flesh of your thighs. "You're so fucking beautiful".

Your chest rose and fell rapidly when she stood off of you, removing her own clothes, her boxers cupping her so well in the right places, the wraps she had around her chest looking oh so hot. Your teeth found your bottom lip, hands reaching out to grab at her muscular back when she lifted you up, peeling away your shirt before gently laying you back down.

Fuck, she was soft.

She kissed you again, one hand rubbing the side of your thigh, one hand coming up to your tits, fingers running up your sternum before she picked a side, both of you moaning when she finally smoothed a hand over your breast and squeezed lightly.

"Fucking hell", she croaked against you, moving to suckle against your throat, distracting you as she slotted one of her defined thighs against your centre.

Oh, the friction was so sweet, it took no time at all for you to be whimpering, hips chasing her leg. It didn't take long for her to feel the damp patch against her bare skin, her lips smirking against your throat before pulling back, laughing breathlessly as she looked down. "Oh baby... already?", she teased lightly, the hand on your thigh moving to rub up and down your clothed centre.

You were so fucking screwed, already seeing stars and she hadn't even got your underwear off yet, but when her thumb managed to rub over your clit and her mouth moved to your nipple, you couldn't help the needy whine you let out.

Violet was oh so smug, not even realising that she'd started to grind against the mattress until she let out her own noise, panting as her hand rubbing your centre got greedier and tugged at your underwear.

She took the chance when your hips bucked again, practically drooling as your wetness came into view. "Oh, fuck, sweetheart", she breathed out, enamoured, "You sure this is okay? I don't wanna- don't wanna do this wrong-".

You squirmed, trying to come back to your senses, desperate for her to touch you again. "I'm sure, I trust you". Her lips formed a soft smile, taking you in again when your hand reached for her bruised one.

"Gonna make you feel so good, I swear", she rushed out nervously, shifting herself lower, staring right at your most intimate place as she got herself comfortable, propping the back of your thighs over her shoulders.

Immediately, your hands went to her short hair, knowing you'd need something to cling to, and you were so right. Her nose nudged your clit before her lips wrapped around it. Your muscles went taut, mouth flying open simultaneously as your hands gripped her hair almost painfully.

She didn't mind. It felt angelic, and she was so lost in the taste of you. To make matters worse, two fingers were already prodding against your entrance, feeling no resistance. "God", she mumbled against you, tongue licking a stripe up your centre before looking up at you.

She took in how gone you looked, how overwhelmed with sensations. How beautiful you looked as she slowly fucked her fingers into you, creating a nice rhythm that made your heels dig into her back, your entire body attempting to swallow her whole.

"I-", you tried to talk, breath catching in your throat when Vi looked to the side and began sucking little marks into your thigh, smoothing her tongue over them after.

It was too much, the way her fingers scissored inside of you and rubbed against that spot that made you allergic to oxygen. Her forehead nestled into the side of your leg before she felt you clench down on her fingers like a vice.

She moved her head back down again, "You're looking real pretty, always looking real pretty", her mouth mumbled against your clit, vibrating through your entire core before she took you into her mouth again.

Your vision blurred hands tugging her hair even tighter somehow as she pushed you over the edge, the hand not working you through your climax rubbed over your hip, holding you down in place as she felt you calming.

"Holy fucking shit", you panted, hands leaving her hair to cover your face, breath hitching as she pulled out.

"You okay?", she sat up, gently moving your legs back down onto the bed, moving to lie next to you, eyes big, vulnerable, when you let out a tired chuckle and ran your hands down your face.

"Felt real good", you rolled over, fingers reaching up to fiddle with the edge of the wraps on her chest. One day she might feel comfortable taking them off, but it's okay that today was not that day.

She looped a thigh over your hip, curling you into her, "You promise? Didn't hurt or anything?", her hand smoothed over your ribs.

"Promise", you spoke softly but resolutely, taking in her flushed expression, and tasting yourself on her lips when she kissed you.

It was quite the celebration when Vi announced she was quitting the pits. Her hands moved animatedly, sitting on the edge of the bed as she told you about how someone was willing to take her on as an assistant at their engineering place.

It was exciting, you were beaming as you congratulated her, so happy to never have to see her all busted up again. Your sweet Vi didn't deserve any of that pain.

Her family was happy to hear the news too, the tension of wanting to keep Vi safe but not wanting to overwhelm her was all but gone, the group having some alone time with some soft drinks after the bar had closed.

It was concerning when she didn't come back home though, you instantly thought the worst. Maybe she'd gotten into a stash of whiskey and ended up at the pits again.

You got all hot and bothered as you hurried to the bar, heavily breathing and ignoring the stitch in your side, pushing the door of the empty bar open, expecting to see no one. Expecting to have to run halfway across town and drag Vi back home before she broke her jaw or something.

But no, your sweet girl was alone at the bar, sipping some fruit juice through a straw, and humming to her mother's favourite song on the jukebox.

She heard the hinges creak and she looked at you with a raised eyebrow, a slow smile forming when she saw it was you.

When your eyes met hers, and she tilted her head for you to come and join her, her expression glowing, you knew you'd both be okay. Your girl was home.

chain divider creds: cafekitsune

#vi x reader #vi arcane x reader #vi smut #wlw #vi arcane smut #vi fluff #vi angst #pitfighter vi #lesbian

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captainkirkk · 1 month ago

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✩ MONTHLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

The fics I’ve read and enjoyed for the month of May. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Fandoms included this month:

DC (Batman)

The Goblin Emperor

Star Wars Prequels/ Clone Wars

Conclave (2024)

Stranger Things

beep beep!! by CreamofTomatoSoup

There’s not really a point in owning a car, especially with the cost of insurance. With the threat of student debt looming overhead like a cloud, Bernard can’t afford to buy a car without help, and there’s no way he’ll ever ask Tim. So Bernard doesn’t really drive. He’s happy to let his weirdly specific driving skills get swept under the rug, because the thing he has with Tim still feels delicate and new, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing up that his uncle was in a gang and hey, he just happened to teach Bernard how to drive. Bernard wants to avoid any kind of conversation around crime in Gotham, actually. Especially after what happened in high school. It’s not like he’s ever going to need to drive a getaway car, anyway. As far as Bernard is concerned, it’ll never come up.

Bernard learned to drive from his henchman uncle. The last place he expects to use this skill is at a dinner with his boyfriend's family.

The Goblin Emperor

moderation by astardanced

“Aha!” Csethiro sat up, displacing him somewhat abruptly. “Thou dost admit it, then!” “Admit what?” said Maia bewilderedly, trying to sit up— “That ‘tis my job to hate people on thy behalf,” said Csethiro magnificently, with a rather intense look in her eye that Maia did not entirely trust, even if he did rather like it. “I did not… quite say that…” “Let me deal with Mer Abrevar, husband,” said Csethiro— in a tone she obviously thought was measured, because she looked proud of herself. It was not measured. It was immense.

The 'starsabovethemarshes' Incident by peredain

The following is as close to the full story as I can recover of the Tumblr blog starsabovethemarshes, or, as most people will know it, "that one time someone on Tumblr tried to impersonate Edrehasivar VII".

There isn't much information about the blog still available on the internet, but by compiling screenshots, doing some of my own internet sleuthing, and reaching out to people who were following the blog when it was active, I've been able to construct a general story of what went down.

The Architects by jouissant

In the twentieth year of Edrehasivar VII’s reign, Lord Berenar announced his retirement as Lord Chancellor, and Maia Drazhar fell into a private crisis.

Clone Wars

Ties That Bind by Imagined

Commander Cody cleared his throat subtly. “Erm, may I ask, sir… how old is he?” “I’m nine,” Anakin said. “But really, I promise I won’t be in the way while you fight, Master Obi-Wan. Maybe I can help in a starfighter!” “Sir,” Commander Cody said. He sounded strangled.

Or: The Clone Wars start a week after Qui-Gon dies and Anakin becomes Obi-Wan's Padawan. Burdened with doubts, new responsibilities, and a former slave child to take care of, a twenty-year-old Obi-Wan finds himself adopted by an army of clones. The clones take care of their own, after all—but then again, so does Obi-Wan.

The war is over (we are beginning) by K_R_Closson

The Jedi have been slaughtered, Anakin has turned dark side, and Obi-Wan is being hunted by his former apprentice. When Yoda tells him he needs to fake his death, Obi-Wan agrees. It isn't as though this is new to him. Obi-Wan, Cody, and Rex are put into a deep Force sleep, and Yoda promises to wake them when the galaxy needs them again.

But it isn't Yoda who wakes them. It's a small voice, calling out to a Jedi for help. Obi-Wan wakes up to a quiet head, both Yoda and Anakin are dead. And then he learns thirty years have passed while he's been asleep. With the Jedi Order gone, with Mandalore glassed, with a Empire that has risen and fallen, Obi-Wan, Cody, and Rex must decide what their place is in this new galaxy.

But first, there is a child who needs help. The only clue Obi-Wan has is a Mandalorian in shiny beskar'gam. If they can find one, they can find the other.

Hands Off by Icannotthinkofapenname

Anakin was really enjoying his first few months at the temple. It was safe and peaceful, and all the jedi he'd met were really nice!

And then Quinlan Vos slapped his master's ass.

Iviin’hiibi te Tuur by whitchry9

Part 3 of Iviin’hiibi te Tuur

Obi Wan has never resented the seizures he's experienced, not exactly, but he wasn't particularly fond of them either.

(And then they save the galaxy.)

squeeze it apart, that’s fine by Anonymous

Ventress was right when she said that General Kenobi would never assume Cody’s position beneath her malevolent hands, but her reasoning had been wrong. Cody would never give the General the opportunity to take his place. One of the few comforts that he had allowed himself - the true vow he had permitted himself to make - was that he would never outlive his Jedi.

He’d endure a thousand tortures and a thousand deaths before he subjected himself to a galaxy without General Kenobi in it.

“You’re going to hurt him, Commander Cody,” Ventress whispered, and Cody startled at the sound of his name on her tongue. He did not realise that she even knew it. “I want to pity you. Martyring yourself for a Jedi who wouldn’t take your place. For a Jedi who, once you are done with him, will wish for nothing more than your death.”

Or: Obi-Wan and the 212th are held hostage by Ventress, who contrives of a unique way to torment the Jedi General by pitting his own biology against him. Locked in a cell with his alpha Commander, Obi-Wan Kenobi has to find an escape before his heat takes control.

Do You Want To Meet All My Monsters? by c_m_li (+ podfic)

Part 1 of Dark Star

Obi-Wan Kenobi has been hiding his species all his life. When he is forced to disclose that he isn't even Near-Human, he doesn't get the reaction from the Clone Troopers that he was expecting.

violence in reconstruction by Serie11

“Do you know what I think?” Cody asks, and doesn’t wait for Obi-Wan to reply. “I think that you haven’t slept in forty hours. I think you’ve been using too many stims, even though Bones tries to limit your access to them. I think that you’re currently drunk. I think,” he says, louder, over the top of Obi-Wan’s sound of protest. “That you’re self aware enough to be thinking about the darkness in the Force, and that you’re scared of going too far into it, because you’re good at waging war. You’re very good at it, and you hate that about yourself.”

Obi-Wan makes a small, broken noise, and Cody closes his eyes as if that will stop him from hearing it.

Conclave

life on earth could be heaven by ShowMeAHero

Pope Innocent XIV and Cardinal Thomas Lawrence share a unique relationship.

Vincent and Thomas share something even greater.

or: vincent and thomas fall in love, find their way, and are witnessed by the world in doing so.

this is hungry work by ShowMeAHero

“I know this is difficult. I know you do not like this. But you are starving yourself, Thomas, and God would not see you starved. I would not see you starved.”

Thomas wonders what it says about him that one of those means more than the other— and what it means that this does not bother him as it should, this blasphemous thought, this sacrilegious reprioritization.

“I do not wish to argue with you, my dear Vincent,” Thomas says, voice quiet. “Your concern is kind, but— I am afraid this is only how I am.”

Vincent squeezes his hands.

“You are not your punishments,” Vincent tells him, firm, warm, insistent. “You are not your denial. You are not your sacrifice, Thomas, nor your hunger. You are not your starvation.” His hands shake Thomas’s, a rattle to keep his attention. “You are Thomas. You are human, and you are starving, and you should not be.”

Stranger Things

True Colors by brightloveee

Eddie expects Steve Harrington, who he’s started hooking up with on the down-low, to be a douchey, spoiled jerk. So he pre-empts him. Only, Steve isn’t a jerk. But guess who is.

OR 5 Times Eddie is a Shitty Boyfriend and 5 Times He Gets Better

#i fell deep deep into the codywan this month #more than usual and that's saying something for me #my posts #fic recs #monthly fic round up #sw recs #dc recs #tge recs #conclave recs #stranger things recs #misc recs

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angelesca · 6 months ago

Text

over and over, you read the sign outside a small agency, rolling the name in your head and flipping it up and down: teyvat's sleuth operatives, sleuth operatives... sounds tacky and lame...

it is only when a brown-haired someone approaches you, that your doubts are erased. their uniform neat, mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, amber eyes unexpecting your early arrival. “you must be the new recruit, why don’t you come inside?”

edit: i think my tumblr is finally working again, hopefully this post works(-ω-、) w.c. ~3.5k / content: modern au! private investigators (PI) au! [not canon, slight ooc?] bulletpoints and scenarios, writing out of my arse again, lil' crack, another gang of idiots, total braincells: 8.88 (a high score!!), surprisingly they co-exist pretty well, zhongli doesn't know what a waffle maker is, you and childe watch a traumatic talent show, alhaitham's love lang is bickering with you, and wrio has a depressing backstory👍, tldr; working with 4 very fun guys / boss!zhongli / rival!childe / childhood friend!alhaitham / colleague!wriothesley / x gnreader

𝐳𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢 as your boss!

✦ oldest member, worked in the profession for many years. however, when you ask about that, he is suspiciously evasive. zhongli seems to have lived a long life, though his appearance does not tell it

✦ out of touch with the new generation and technology. asks alhaitham to fix his computer and the kettle (bro just needed to plug it in) or asks you what the newest trendy slang means. it is a wonder how he manages the workplace

✦ tea buddies with wriothesley. hosts tea parties in the local retirement home to discuss and rate tea (power scaling tea real). there's enough boxes to last a lifetime in the breakroom. oh, zhongli is pointing at the clock. it’s… tea time… again

✦ talks your ear off about philosophical questions such as what happens after death, or whether a hotdog is a sandwich

✦ you and childe share a joint role as zhongli’s personal wallet. as to what your boss spends his paycheck on… maybe the countless snacks he leaves at your desk. and tea. more tea. poosssiibly those trinkets he has gifted you too

✦ glasses wearer. appears when zhongli is in deep concentration, due to an unexpected influx of cases so he's staring at the computer often, or during an intense reading session

ᯓ★

you flick through the papers detailing the information you recorded from your client. you and zhongli are out on a scouting mission to obtain clues that could point the case in the right direction. “are you listening?”

“mhm,” zhongli claims, but you can see your words are flowing in one ear and out the other with the way he is plucking free food samples as if they were flowers, bunched together in his hand like a bouquet, offered to him by the fawning ladies at the market stalls. the foreboding premonition of another unproductive day is brimming to the surface.

“where should we start?” you clear your throat, keeping the task on track.

“we should entertain any threads and trace it back, even if it proves to be a dead end. there is no such thing as a bad clue,” zhongli pauses in front of a shop. “for starters, what’s this?”

you raise an eyebrow. “a waffle maker.”

“interesting. what about this?”

“a robot vacuum cleaner. would be good for the office.”

“indeed,” zhongli’s eyes shift. “and this? such a profound colour, this corrosive yellow that erodes my vision is quite unpleasant. could it be…? is this a weapon of mass destruction?”

“zhongli, sir, that’s a banana.“ you shake your head. “is this important?”

zhongli nods. “could be. is it really a banana? a true investigator must question even the simplest of theories.” he points a finger at your pocket. “and this?”

“... that’s my wallet.”

zhongli has a penchant for being attracted to your money, if he can trace the imprint of your wallet against your pocket.

zhongli nods, closing his eyes. “a sacred item indeed,” he opens one eye which looks at you expectantly. “i suspect you have quite a formidable sum of mora on your person. and mora is an imperative factor that may save the day, or destroy the world. after all, we still do not know if the banana is deceiving us in its testimony, hm?”

you give up, handing the money over to the shopkeeper.

his philosophy remains a cryptic language to you. perhaps it’s the gap in experience that makes it hard to connect a bridge to whatever planet zhongli lives on, a divide in universes between you, a disciple, and a master. sometimes, you do believe that there’s a rip in time and space with how zhongli’s senses lag behind as if stuck in the past.

you hand one over to your side. “here—huh?” where did he go?

one look behind you and you find zhongli by a lamp post. a young girl, scratching the ground with a sharp branch with a pout, gazes at zhongli. “who are you?”

zhongli slowly crouches down. “someone who listens to everyone’s troubles. would you mind telling me yours?”

no response. then, a small stomach growls.

zhongli motions at you. immediately, you walk over. “may i take one of the bananas?” you hand him one. “why don’t you take this?”

despite her embarrassed expression, the girl grabs it. she hesitates. “... mama, gone.”

your lips part in realisation.

“come now, we’ll help find your parents.” zhongli offers a hand but the girl extends his invitation, taking his whole arm instead, hugging it. he chuckles, picking her up, her arms naturally cradling his neck as if he is family.

you observe the warm scene, smiling. “you’d make a pretty good parent.”

zhongli watches you, quiet for a moment. “why don't we raise one together?”

“oh, i’m not—”

“alhaitham can be the teacher; wriothesley will do the cleaning. i can do the cooking, and childe can do all the shopping. you can play the toys with the child.”

“ah. of course,” teyvat’s sleuth operatives is one big family, after all. you have to ask, “also, that banana, how did you know to buy it?”

“well, who knows?” zhongli pats the girl’s back, helping her fall asleep. there’s a glint in his eyes when he looks at you, asking you to work out the mystery. to chase after the clues he left.

another cryptic answer. the master really does live in another world—one that you want to keep learning about.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 as your rival!

✦ works for the rival agency which, unfortunately, is much more popular. when watching cat videos, their adverts often pop up with childe’s annoying face plastered on it, winking at you

✦ tags along when you are on a case. doesn’t he have anything else to do? at least he buys your fav drink from the vending machines. although he trails around you like baggage, you hate to say that he is good at what he does.

✦ … a bit too good at his job. you’ve spotted him slinking into dark alleys occasionally. what’s he doing there? one day you will know.

✦ trained under zhongli before. therefore, he is lowkey in competition with you. any task is met with the following question: who’s the better apprentice? so far, the score is even, but you’ll get him next time

✦ never enters your agency through the front door. opts to crawl in through the window (no idea why, maybe it's the challenge). comes bearing gifts such as expensive fruit baskets, bouquets, and medicinal roots like ginseng. you’d think he’s meeting his in-laws or something. rare, but may bring his younger brother teucer as well. on these days, teyvat’s sleuth operatives becomes half private agency and half daycare.

✦ for uniform, the red shirt from his birthday art is nice. maybe a leather jacket that hangs on the shoulder. wears accessories: earrings, rings, bracelets, watches, gloves. bro is something of a fashion icon, tbf he’s rich so might as well

ᯓ★

desolation unwraps itself before you, beckoning its finger at you to sink into the drab swamps. you saw a tuft of ginger hair disappear into this alley, submerged by its fog. it is inevitable; you need to know the truth behind the mystery to quell the ‘investigator’ in you.

as soon as you think that, your face hits against, according to your common sense, a wall—if the wall defined was actually an amalgamation of flesh and muscle.

“need our help?”

a voice irritates your ears. you frown, looking up at the culprit. “you can’t steal our catchphrase like that, childe.”

childe—your rival, your nemesis, the guy who childishly filled a ketchup bottle with strawberry jam so that he could chug it in front of you, without flinching, solely to disgust you, and counted it as a victory—that childe, shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

“boss, who’s dat?” a voice calls from the darkness.

your ears perk up. boss? childe? a responsible leader? no way. you push childe aside. “... who are you guys?”

a whole lot of people are uncomfortably staring at you. “us?” one man stands out from the crowd. “the fatui, duh. have ya not heard of us, newbie?” the man proudly puffs his chest out.

childe rubs his forehead. “you doofus.”

bells were ringing in your head, red alarms were sounding. “the fatui? aren’t you guys wanted?”

before you can reach for your phone, childe catches your hand. “don’t,” his tone is rigid. it takes you by surprise. “look,” childe sighs. “they’re not bad people, promise.” he lets go.

a fatui agent is dancing. “yup, we have many talents, like stealing lunch money.” that is literally illegal. “say, why don’t we host a talent show?”

“oooooh!!” a chorus of easily amused delight.

“me! me!” a burly man wearing a tank top and shorts, holds up a jar of hotdogs. he twists open the lid.

you and childe exchange glances. the next sequence of events you witness are really unfortunate. “oh– please don’t shove that up your– well, okay then.” the sky looks especially wonderful today.

these guys should be in prison after all.

“ahaha, okay, okay,” childe gestures with his hands, asking everyone to quiet down. “alas, this should be enough–”

“but i can break into people’s houses without triggering the alarm system!”

“i can use my anemo vision to amplify my fart!”

“aha…” the light in childe’s face falters. suddenly, he grabs your hand. “run!”

“—!” in an instant, your legs suddenly burst into strides, finding the right pace to keep up with childe. “where are we going?!”

“anywhere! anywhere is good!” under the sky, the breeze carries his airy laughter. in his eyes, the blue sea parts, a brightness coruscating on its horizon. it is refreshing, brilliant, childish. and vulnerable.

you can’t help getting carried along by the waves.

“i should report you… for almost getting me killed by an anemo-amplified fart,” hands on your knees, the words struggle out of your mouth.

“sorry about that, they’re just really friendly.” he laughs. you notice, the way childe expresses himself towards the fatui, it is a delicate artistry woven with heartfelt tenderness. it’s the same fragileness as when he talks about his family and home. “how about i buy you a drink?”

you contemplate his offer. after taking a few more breaths, you stand up. “even though i know you meddle with the fatui? how does a vending machine drink suffice?” childe tilts his head, encouraging you to speak. “for a week straight at least. there’s a new cafe opening, but the prices are too steep for my wallet.”

“okay, okay,” his gentle, tender voice extends to you, lifted by a smile. the blue sea parts, and behind it is childe, offering you a place in his home. “you win this time.”

𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 as your childhood friend!

✦ more like estranged childhood friend. you left teyvat at a young age, leaving your childhood friend, alhaitham, behind. you only returned recently, surprised to find that little alhaitham grew up well

✦ does not concern himself with anything that doesn't yield results, keeps conversations succinct, conveying what needs to be said for the job with as little words as possible. only interjects if something intrigues him, or when anyone makes a clueless comment that needs correcting

✦ favours are not regarded well. one time, you asked him to grab you some coffee if he was going out for lunch break. alhaitham sighed, listing the side effects of overconsumption on caffeine and how a sufficient amount of sleep will do you better. although, when you came back to the office after an outing, you found a mysterious cup of coffee on your desk. must be the wind

✦ dislikes outputting energy where it’s not needed. when finished with his tasks, he will head to the breakroom or the corner with the bookshelf to relax until zhongli’s next order. rarely seen at his desk

✦ went to uni for a comp sci degree but it wasn't challenging enough. dropped out, but zhongli, a guest lecturer, managed to recruit him after witnessing his talent. has rejected prestigious titles and positions in favour of a peaceful life. but with you in the picture, he wonders how long this peace would last

✦ wears strapped pouches and harnesses… around the chest... and biceps... straps around the thighs... (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`) for utility ofc. equipped with useful items for the job, like a gps tracker, voice recorders, spy cameras, and his music player.

ᯓ★

“can you afford to be slacking off right now?” the silence breaks, and you are forced to speak.

“i’m not.” you quickly glance at the time on your screen. “besides, i should start heading home before the last train runs—”

“the last train has already gone.”

“... great.” you sigh. “how come you didn’t tell me earlier?”

“the sharp possibility that you’d insist on finishing your work is comparable to chasing after a dead end, and ultimately, a waste of time.”

a trained oracle, predicting every branching future based on your rooted disposition. it is difficult to debate against that which has inputted all your details, computing every possible output.

you rest your chin on your palm. “what are you even doing here? shouldn’t you be getting your healthy eight hours of sleep?”

“and in the time that has spanned since you’ve sat at your desk, shouldn’t you be done already?”

you object, “you can’t deflect me with a question.”

“which principle asserts otherwise? i can.”

“you can’t.”

“can.”

“can’t.”

“can–”

you sigh frustratedly, knowing that you’re talking to a wall. throw your words at it and it bounces right back, a ball hitting at you squarely.

with purpose, you blurt out, “little haitham was so much cuter, you used to follow me everywhere.”

and finally, alhaitham looks at you for the first time today. and for the first time today, you get a good look at him too. his posture manages to be effortlessly upright, not a lick of exhaustion burdened on his face.

“why are you bringing that up?” alhaitham returns to his monitor.

the buzzing of the ceiling light fills the silence. you blink. once. “we promised to the stars that we’d be the best detective duo in teyvat.” the mechanical clicking of keyboards clogs your ears. blink. you tug at the cuffs of your sleeve. “to solve all the mysteries, crimes, and beat up the bad people hiding in the world.”

sounds of the mouse clicking. a pause builds. alhaitham glances at you. “and? we’re doing that pretty well, aren’t we?” you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“i thought you’ve forgotten about that,” you admit.

“it was you who forgot.”

you sit up. “come again?” your eyes twinkle, watching alhaitham, your childhood friend. the hope that swells on your face, and alhaitham notices it; the stars in your eyes, he’s tracing the constellations in them.

"why do you think i'm here in the first place?" his voice dips, as if hoping you didn't hear that.

a promise embedded in the stars, and one of them was waiting for the fated reunion. then, in a split second, you see a younger haitham tugging at your sleeve, following your footsteps. you hide the smile behind your hand. “you’ve been waiting for me all this time?”

“don’t flatter yourself.” alhaitham quickly extinguishes. ouch. another pause washes over before he speaks up, “come over.”

your eyes widen. “over? where?”

“to mine.”

“mine? yours?”

“my apartment. it’s close by.”

“your place?”

“yes,” alhaitham glares at you. “do i happen to be speaking in another language?”

“i mean, how come?”

“i do not want to be investigating a missing person’s case anytime soon,” alhaitham stands up, packing his belongings, leaving you no choice but to swiftly follow suit. “and our photo albums,” he stops moving. “i've kept them.”

your heart skips, touched by the rare sincerity. you tease, “so you do care about me.”

alhaitham scoffs. “it's only a sensible suggestion. i don’t.”

“you do.”

“don’t.”

“oh, come on.”

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 as your colleague!

✦ was classmates with you at a police academy. by the academy was an arcade where you two played too many games. after graduation, you two silently seperated. wriothesley worked in enforcement for some years before gaining his investigators licence, moved to teyvat, and eventually settled at teyvat’s sleuth operatives

✦ your current hangout place with wriothesley is still an arcade, the one by the agency - it reminds you two of the past. favourite games include money-grubbing claw machines, boxing machines, and “dancing dance rev rev” (i dont wanna get sued–). that, or you end up chatting the day away about whatever new complaints you received from alhaitham, not realising the sun has set and the owner ends up shooing you two out

✦ owns a red motorbike. will take you on rides for fun, watching sunsets on the highway feeling the breeze. will take you home whenever you need—just give him a call. he insists that the best place to hold onto is around his waist

✦ the tea connoisseur of all time. drinks a minimum of 5 cups a day, and you worry he might drop dead one day. you’ve tried to get him onto different drinks, like the popular boba tea, but plain old tea always triumphs in the end. tea is life and zhongli agrees

✦ good at subduing any targets. prefers not to shed blood, but will deescalate confrontations, usually by submission rather than violence

✦ messy uniform. shirt not buttoned all the way up, rolled sleeves, fingerless gloves, dark colours. often seen with bandages along his arm. wears a choker. like a werewolf, rugged

ᯓ★

years back, before you returned to teyvat, you attended a police academy to aid in the preparation and experience needed for your investigators licence.

you always frequented the desolate arcade by the academy. there was no door, the arcade was impartial to any of its visitors, like an open hug.

time and time again, you blew your stress off after a long day. the boxing machine was particularly satisfying in that regard. you and that machine watched the early evening resign, and the night shift taking over everyday.

the tedium was so easily penetrated by soaking crimson, the liquid leaked vividly dripping down from the forehead. a moment was needed for you to process it.

a dark-haired person sat languidly against an arcade machine, in a uniform you recognise. half bent-over, head tilting. the sanctity of life departing through hurried breaths.

“h-hey,” you crouched next to him, hands outstretched but were waiting for a coherent command. “shit.” the lectures slipped by you, running past but never handing the baton. it felt useless.

suddenly, your hand was flicked away by the person. behind his fringe, it was frozen, crystallised, icicles shot past his dark strands piercing you. “don’t bother. it’s nothing.”

eyebrows furrowed. “you’re insane,” you brushed the hair out of his face, finding splotches of bruising. his lip, busted red. injuries walked all over his skin, trampling the delicate layer. his complexion ghastly pale, you weren't sure if it was his skull peeking through his skin. “i need to call you an ambulan–”

“i’m serious,” he reiterated, “i… i just need a moment, some quiet. please. i don’t want them to find…” his sentence trailed off.

you gulped, hands trembling. “you’re sure you don’t need me to call?”

he nodded.

he reassured you, but you can’t help but feel weighed by the fact that an injured person was right next to you. you made a mental note to ensure he visits a doctor by the end of this. sighing, you slowly sat next to him.

“... i’m just stressed. tired.” his words hung heavy in the blank air.

a familiar word. a sentiment that resonated. all too familiar.

if there was a way to cheer him up... there was only one thing you knew about feeling burdened. you point a thumb at the boxing machine. “wanna blow off some of that stress?”

“do you think that the arcade by the academy is still open?”

“i hope so. i wanna know if we’re still first on all those machines. and if my bloodstain still frightens people when they walk in,” a snicker. “remember when we played ’dancing dance rev rev’ for six hours straight? those were good days.”

you and wriothesley watch the boxing machine, your joint high scores blinking on the leaderboard in excited colours.

“do you still have those old plushies i gave you from the claw machine?” you ask.

“of course,” wriothesley searches his pockets and pulls out his keys. a miniature wolf plush keychain hangs, bobbing up and down. “like this one. named it after you, how adorable they are.” he playfully pokes "mini you", cracking a grin.

you smile at the gesture. after all these years, you never forgot each other. “hey, no bullying.” you pause. “... weren’t we supposed to be tracking a suspect? i think they have already left this arcade.”

“oh, yeah. oops.”

a pair of fraternal twins stand outside outside a small agency, reading the sign over and over: teyvat's sleuth operatives… sounds tacky and lame... they think in unison.

it is only when you approach them, that they stop hesitating. your uniform tidy, almost mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, smiling at your newfound clients. you are no longer the new recruit. “need our help?”

a/n: i havent played genshin seriously since inazuma so i missed out on many events ( ; ω ; ) sorry alhaitham and wrio i tried my best⭐ lemme know if my reserach sucks bc my references were ace attorney and google (ﾉД`) also i wanted to draw their uniforms but got lazy, so i drew the banner instead (･ω<)☆ anw im off to read more manhwa (great start to the year), ill be back when the motivation finally whacks me hard again. if anyone wants to request ideas, feel free! my inbox is open 24/7! happy new year!!!! 🎆🎆🎆2025 will also be the year of the snake, so shoutout to all my snakes😎

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #childe x reader #alhaitham x reader #wriothesley x reader #genshin x you #they said the world is ending in 2025 #when bro #im waiting🧍‍♂️

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