#i love him and his slim brother

[acid-onthefloor]

Look at these little mice in the example picture of today's lecture about fat cells!

he is one big adipocyte

[hyper-fixation-land]

It’s a sigh of the incredibly effective world and character building in Sinners that I would happily watch an entire movie/series about the characters just going about their lives.

[rawrfrferrari]

The One Who Left | CL16

Plot: Y/n is Charles' ex but their families have been friends since even before they were born. Arthur is attached to Y/n like a brother and is not happy with his brother and his new girlfriend. After a few family events Y/n couldn't bear the uneasy atmosphere with the new couple and the hate by Charles fans, so she distances herself from them and finds herself a new man who treats her right.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x ex!reader

Type: Angst, SMAU.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

BACKSTORY

Y/N lives in London, working as a Brand Consultant. Y/N and Charles dated for nearly 6 years. They broke up 5 months ago for vague, “mutual but painful” reasons, mostly due to them not being able to handle long distance and Charles feeling emotionally unavailable. Charles started dating Alexandra a month later. Pascale and Y/N’s mom were also childhood bestfriends. Which is why the three brothers grew up with Y/N. Arthur has always seen her as his elder sister, was devastated after the breakup. He never really forgave Charles for “letting her go.”

Arthur’s birthday dinner was held at a private cliffside restaurant just off the port of Monaco.

Y/N arrived with her parents, her mother’s arm looped through hers and her father trailing slightly behind, greeting the host like an old friend.

“Ah, finally!” Pascale stood up the moment she saw them, her eyes lighting up like the birthday candles yet to be lit. She enveloped Y/N’s mom in a hug before pulling Y/N into a familiar embrace. “Tu es magnifique, ma chérie,” she whispered warmly, the scent of her signature perfume clinging to the air.

Charlotte , Lorenzo's girlfriend kissed Y/N’s cheek and took a glass of wine from the server for her. “You look so thin. London hasn't been treating you well, mon ami,” she said softly, though her eyes flickered with something that looked a lot like sympathy.

But it was Arthur who broke into a full grin, rising from his chair before anyone else had even registered their arrival properly. “Took you long enough!” he said, weaving past waiters and the elegantly dressed diners to get to her.

Y/N laughed as he pulled her into a quick, tight hug. “You said seven-thirty. We’re here at seven-twenty.”

“Exactly,” he said, pulling back and nudging her playfully toward the family table. “Still late by my standards.”

He was beaming, the way only someone young enough to still love birthdays could beam. And she, despite every buried emotion twisting in her stomach, smiled right back.

He led her to the long, white-clothed table where everyone was already seated. Lorenzo gave her a polite nod; Charlotte smiled again. Pascale reached for her hand as she passed.

And then her gaze fell on him. Charles sat at the far end, dressed in a navy-blue velvet jacket with the first few buttons undone. He was mid-sentence, saying something to Lorenzo, but his words faltered as their eyes met.

Y/N blinked. He looked away.His new girlfriend, sitting beside him in a cream halter dress, leaned toward him and said something low. He nodded, too quickly, reaching for the wine glass in front of him without meeting anyone's eyes.

Arthur pulled out the seat beside his, gesturing for Y/N to sit. “The favourite should always be next to the birthday boy”

“I feel honored,” she replied, taking her place. Her mother slid into the seat next to Pascale, already lost in conversation.

Dinner began with toasts and laughter. The servers moved smoothly, bringing out course after course. Arthur, though, barely touched his food.

When it came time for presents, he turned to Y/N with the excitement of someone who already knew she’d outdone everyone else.

“Okay. Yours first,” he said, eyes gleaming.

Y/N hesitated only a second before reaching into her bag and pulling out a slim, matte black, box tied with a dark silver ribbon. She slid it across the table to him, silently.

He tore the ribbon off with zero elegance. The lid lifted, and there it was.

A Patek Philippe watch. Limited edition. Midnight blue dial. Platinum finish. Behind it was engraved; 'Je resterai à tes côtés, mon petit frère'

“Holy sh—” he blinked hard, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

Arthur laughed, slipping the watch onto his wrist. It gleamed under the soft golden lights.

Charles looked over then, his gaze lingering on the timepiece. He said nothing.

“There’s something else,” Y/N added, lifting a second, heavier box.

Arthur looked confused until he opened it. Inside was a large, leather-bound photo album, its cover engraved with A.L. in silver.

The room quieted as he began to flip through the pages. Childhood photos. Karting trophies. Stick-figure drawings titled "Me, Char, Y/N." Birthday cakes. Family holidays. Y/N’s school graduation with him photobombing in a suit two sizes too big. Hervé and toddler Arthur and Charles in the garage, grinning with grease-stained fingers. Handwritten notes from when Arthur had panic attacks before races. Doodles, ticket stubs, and years of layered, intertwined lives.

One photo of Arthur sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Herve, with Y/N squished between them made him pause. His fingers trembled slightly.

He didn’t say anything. He just shut the book, stood up, and pulled Y/N to her feet with him.

“This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” he said quietly, arms wrapping around her. “Ever.”

Pascale dabbed her eyes with a linen napkin, as she observed each photo with him. Even Lorenzo looked down at the table, hiding a soft smile.

From across the table, Charles watched. His jaw ticked. He hadn’t touched his dessert.

When Arthur sat down, he immediately turned to show the watch to Lorenzo. Charles leaned back in his chair slightly, forcing a small, tight smile.

Alexandra touched his hand under the table and whispered something, trying to pull him back into her orbit. He nodded once, distracted.

Dinner went on. And still, Y/N and Charles didn’t speak.

At one point, Y/N's father was telling Charlotte a story about an old vineyard trip they all took together years ago. Pascale was laughing so hard she leaned into Y/N’s mother’s shoulder. The adults looked like they belonged to a time before this fracture.

Arthur remained glued to Y/N’s side. He nudged her plate closer when she left it half-finished. Poured her more water.

At one point, he leaned in and murmured, “Don’t let the them bother you. You’re family. No one can change that.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re too sentimental for your own good, Art." He rolled his eyes, bumping her shoulder with his.

Meanwhile, Charles sipped his wine, responding with tight nods when Alexandra spoke. He laughed at Lorenzo’s jokes, a half-beat too late.

He didn’t look at Y/N directly. But he felt a familiar ache he couldn’t remove, no matter how well he masked it.

And she smiled when spoken to. She laughed when she needed to. But she never looked toward the end of the table again.

Lorenzo leaned slightly over the table to speak to Y/N, “So,” he said, gesturing with his glass, “how long are you in Monaco this time?”

Y/N looked up from her plate, her fork paused mid-air. “Just three more days,” she said, setting it down gently. “I have to fly to Budapest for a client meeting on Friday.”

“Work?” Pascale asked, leaning in with interest.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, a brand alignment workshop with a biotech company expanding into Central Europe. It’s part of a longer campaign we’ve been working on since spring.”

Lorenzo raised his brows. “Consulting must keep you on the move.”

“It does,” Y/N said with a soft chuckle. “I’ve gotten really good at packing light and sprinting through security.”

Before anyone else could speak, her mother chimed in fondly, “But she’ll be back for Christmas.”

“Of course,” Y/N added with a small smile toward Pascale. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Pascale’s expression softened. “Good. I would've been really upset with you if you worked on holidays. We don't get to see you much anyways.”

They all laughed, but across the table, Charles had gone still again.

His hand curled loosely around his wine glass, and though he didn’t say anything, there was something cold behind his eyes which made Y/n shift in her place uncomfortably.

arthur_leclerc

Liked by lorenzotl, yourusername and others

arthur_leclerc 23 with the bests

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charles_leclerc Happy birthday, petit frère 🎂 (Even if you’ve started dressing better than me now)

lorenzotl Happy birthday, champ 🖤

charlottedepietro You’ll always be my favorite Leclerc (don’t tell the others). Happy birthday!!

yourusername Happy birthday, mon cherie. Love you, Artie 🤍

alexandrasaintmleux Happy birthday Arthur! Such a lovely evening 😊

pascale_leclerc Mon trésor. Papa would’ve been so proud today. Joyeux anniversaire 💫

leclerc.moments Why is Y/N still there? Alex must've got so uncomfortable. SMH.

→leclercupdates The Leclerc brothers and Y/n grew up together so its valid for Arthur to invite her. So happy that the breakup and Charles' actions doesnt affect her relationship with the rest of them ❤️

juliaaa_16 Y/N still looks like family idc 🥹

camiferrari The Leclerc genes 🤌🏽

monacogossipblog Where is Alexandra?? He posted Charlotte but not her. On top he also posted Y/N.

Y/N walked out of the arrival gates at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, dragging her suitcase behind her and tugging her scarf a little tighter. Her flight had landed a bit early, which was a miracle in itself. She scanned the small crowd of drivers and family members waiting outside the barrier.

And then she saw A hand-written sign in thick black marker on torn cardboard:

“CEO of Emotional Damage — Miss Y/N”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Arthur stood behind it, with a massive grin on his face.

She raised a brow. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Bonjour to you too,” he said, tucking the sign under one arm and opening his arms. “Now give me a hug, woman. I drove thirty minutes for this.”

She let him pull her into a strong hug. “I was going to take a cab,” she said when they broke apart.

“Yeah, and pay triple for a silent driver when you could get my award-winning company for free?” Arthur grabbed her suitcase and started walking toward the parking lot without waiting for an answer. “Let’s go. You’ve been missed.”

“So,” he said once they hit the highway, “I waited exactly seven minutes to give you the gossip. You should be proud.”

“Wow. Personal growth,” she deadpanned. “Go on.”

“Camille broke up with Tim. Again.” They were Y/n school friends who were together since grade ninth.

Y/N raised a brow. “I thought they were engaged?”

“Yeah.Not anymore. He’s already back on Raya.”

She snorted. “Typical.”

“Also Camille and Adrian were seen at that hotel in Verbier.” Adrien was an acquaintance through Tim.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m chronically online. It’s a disease.” They both laughed. The wind through the half-cracked window lifted a bit of her hair as the coastline blurred by.

“Oh,” he added, throwing a quick glance her way. “And I have decided to make it official with Jade."

"That's great Arthur, but I feel it's too early since you and Carla broke up a few months ago. It wouldn't look good on you in public perspective. Maybe wait till the next season starts?"

Arthur nodded and said he'll discuss it with Jade. He knew he should take her advice since she went through worse because of her brother and probably had also thought about Clara but didn't mention.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Monaco, dusk had settled. Streetlights flickered on, casting golden glows over stone buildings and quiet sidewalks.

Arthur turned down the familiar road to Y/N’s house. “You sure you don’t wanna come up to our house first?”

“Tempting,” she said dryly. “But I need a shower, and a solid hour of silence before I enter that arena.”

He pulled up outside her place, engine humming low. “Fair. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for brunch.”

She leaned over and squeezed his hand once. “Thanks for the ride, Artie.”

“Anytime. I’ll have new tea by morning.” She kissed him on his cheek and went in her house with her luggage.

yourusername

Y/N’s parents’ place had always been the Christmas house. While the two families spent their summers at Pascal's pool, This house brought the warmth during the winter holidays.

Y/N was pouring herself a glass of mulled wine Pascale made when Lorenzo and her dad walked in from the garage, lugging in the bare tree.

“Try not to break your back before dinner,” Your mother called from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a checked apron.

Y/N laughed, stepping aside to give them room. The same corner by the window had held every tree since she was a kid.

Minutes later, the front door opened again, Arthur and Charles came in, cardboard boxes in their arms, bits of tinsel already clinging to their sleeves.

“Where do you want to dump these?” Arthur asked.

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Is that the box with our old ornaments? Where was it, we lost it years ago.”

“It was in the wooden cabinet with our mamas old vinyls,” Charles said, his tone dry. He didn’t meet her eyes. She didn’t look for them.

They placed the boxes on the floor. Moments later, Jade and Charlotte arrived, both carrying platters of casseroles from their place as Y/n's kitchen was preoccupied with the mothers baking cookies. Alexandra trailed in behind them, with a few gift bags in hand.

The living room filled quickly with chatter, the occasional squeal from Jade when Arthur teased her with a furry ornaments.

Charlotte and Lorenzo untangled lights near the window.

Arthur knelt by the tree, unwrapping the handmade decorations like they were museum pieces.

Y/N stuck close to Jade not hovering, just casually steering conversations her way, checking if she needed help with the drink setup, looping her in when family stories got too deep too fast. It wasn’t awkward. Jade was kind and easy to be around.

At the same time, Y/N kept herself moving, rearranging the pile of gifts, going back and forth from the kitchen to bring out bowls of icing for the cookie decorating.

Charles drifted in and out of her periphery. He stayed mostly beside Alexandra, who smiled and complimented every cookie shape like she was on a first date with the entire household.

Still, every so often, Y/N would feel a glance across the table, a pause when they both reached for the same red sprinkle tub, a beat too long when her laugh cut across the room.

Later, around the dining table-turned-cookie-lab, Y/N’s mom handed her a tray of sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees.

Arthur was beside Jade, pressing too much icing on a snowman and laughing like a five-year-old. Y/N leaned over to pass her a piping bag.

Charles, quiet at the other end of the table, was outlining a tree in neat green lines. Alexandra was scrolling through her phone beside him, scrolling absently.

Y/N looked up from her own cookie, their eyes meeting for a second. He gave a small smile.

She didn’t return it. Not out of coldness but because it didn’t feel necessary.

When the cookies were laid out, a chaotic masterpiece of colours and bad proportions, Charlotte laughed. “It looks like Santa threw up.”

“Hey, Don't be mean on Christmas!” Arthur declared.

“Wait,” Pascale said suddenly, wiping her hands. “Did anyone hang the tiny car from Herve’s keychain?”

Everyone paused. Y/N turned to the tree and found it still nestled at the bottom of the ornament box.

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly. No one objected. She walked over, picked it up, and found a place on a lower branch not too hidden.

Alexandra shifted closer to Jade seeming to pick the red piping bag from that side of the table but stayed next to her in Y/n's seat.

She had watched how Jade gravitated toward Y/N in conversations, how Charlotte laughed at something Y/N said and touched her arm like they’d been friends for years. And she, who was the actual girlfriend of The Charles Leclerc felt peripheral.

“Hey,” she said lightly, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “You okay? You’ve been stuck to Y/N all evening.”

Jade gave a quick smile. “Yeah, she’s cool. Easy to talk to.”

Alexandra nodded slowly, like agreeing with a lie. “Sure. I mean, I get it, she has history here. But sometimes… it’s a little much, right? Like, she makes herself the main character everywhere?.”

Jade’s hand froze mid-reach for the paper towel. “Um… I didn’t get that vibe.”

“She can be a bit performative,” Alex continued, sipping her wine. “Don’t let it get to you. Arthur has this saviour complex when it comes to her, always puts her first. It used to be endearing. Now it’s just exhausting.”

Jade’s eyebrows knit together. She offered a polite nod and muttered, “Thanks for the heads up,” before heading back into the living room where Arthur was placing the gifts from the trunk of his car.

“Alex just cornered me when Y/n was busy,” she said under her breath.

Arthur blinked. “Seriously?”

“She implied you’re overly attached to Y/N and said she’s always making herself the centre of attention.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. Arthur didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood up, casually looped an arm around Jade’s shoulders, and walked them both back into the centre of the room.

Everyone had already cleaned up the mess from the dining table and were settled in the living room.

“Jade, did I show you the cursed Christmas photo from 2008?” Arthur asked loudly.

Lorenzo grinned. “Oh God, the one where the three of you wore same ugly sweater?”

“Exactly.” Jade laughed and leaned in.

Alexandra, still at the edge of the room with Charles, caught the exchange. Arthur hadn’t even looked her way.

And for the rest of the evening, Alexandra was present, but not included.

Every time she tried to interject into a conversation, it shifted away. Every story was a callback she wasn’t a part of. Every inside joke was a thread she couldn’t follow.

“Alright, alright, before anyone falls asleep,” Arthur said, clapping once, “present time. And no fake enthusiasm this year, please. I’m looking at you, Enzo.”

“You got me socks last year,” Lorenzo deadpanned.

“You wear them all the time,” Charlotte shot back.

Y/N laughed, reaching under the tree to start handing gifts out. She had wrapped them herself, brown kraft paper with twine, little handwritten name tags and wax seals. The kind of aesthetic Pinterest would be proud of.

"Mon Cherie, When did you get the time to do all this." Y/n shrugged as she waited for Pascale to open her gift. It was a cashmere shawl in mint green with her initials in the corner.

She got Lorenzo & Charlotte a limited edition bottle of red wine from a small French vineyard where they’d vacationed the year before.

Arthur tore apart the gift paper to find a personalised perfume from Saudi.” Jade got the same but one with floral notes.

Y/n was also considerate of Alex and got her a box of chocolates from her latest trip to Switzerland. Alexandra smiled and said “Thanks,” before moving on to clinging her boyfriend even more tight.

Y/N handed out the last box, turning to Charles. “And for you.”

He looked surprised. It was a rectangular box, neatly wrapped, subtle, quiet. He opened it slowly.

Inside was a team signed as monaco jersey. Charles ran a thumb over the cover. He didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. “Thanks.”

Alexandra passed Y/N a small envelope then. “From both of us,” she added. Her voice was light, like this was a business handoff.

Y/N opened it to find a gift card, an expensive one, but generic. Multi-brand. All luxury stores. She smiled politely. “Appreciate it.”

Arthur, standing behind the couch with a mug in hand, rolled his eyes at Alexandra and moved on to snatching it and replacing with his gift.

Him and jade had custom bracelets made for her, Y/n and Charlotte. Jade had given a separate gift to Alexandra, a boxed pair of gold stud earrings. She disappointed took it eyeing the new bracelet adoring Y/n's wrist.

But she smiled anyway and said, “That’s thoughtful,” before folding the wrapping neatly.

Y/n's dad had got each of them a Christmas themed ceramic mug and her mother had scarves custom made for each.

Later, as the wrapping paper lay crumpled on the floor and wine was being refilled, Arthur passed by Y/N with a satisfied look. “You crushed it,” he whispered.

Y/N shrugged. “I like giving presents.”

“No. I mean… the whole night.”

She nudged his shoulder. “Couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

yourusername

yourusername

Liked by jade_distinguinn, carlossainz55 and others

yourusername joyeux noël🎄❤️

tagged: @/yourmomofficial, @/arthur_leclerc, @/pascale_leclerc, @/lorenzotl, @/charlottedepietro, @/jade_distinguinn

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pascale_leclerc Toujours la lumière de la maison ❤️ joyeux Noël, ma chérie! [Always the light of the house ❤️ Merry Christmas, my dear!]

→yourusername Joyeux Noël, maman Leclerc ❤️

carlossainz55 Feliz Navidad Cariño!

→yourusername Merry Christamas Carlitos 🫶🏽

softf1girlie Merry Christmas y/n❤️

arthur_leclerc Best day 💕

y/nangelarchive Not her posting and tagging everyone but Cheater and ad queen 😌

landonorris Do those cookies ship to the UK asking for a friend

→yourusername Nori I can bake you cookies when I get back 😭

yourmomofficial Belle soirée en famille. Que Dieu bénisse mes enfants et leur accorde tout le bonheur possible. [Beautiful evening with the family. May god bless my kids with all the happiness.]

→ yourusername Je t'aime maman❤️

→ charles_leclerc: Merci beaucoup ❤️ toujours reconnaissant d’avoir grandi entouré de tant d’amour. [Thank you so much ❤️ always grateful to have grown up surrounded by so much love.]

→ arthur_leclerc  Love you mama 2 🫶

→ pascale_leclerc Toujours un bonheur de voir nos familles réunies 🤍 [Always a joy to see our families together 🤍]

→ leclercfamupdates Y/n's mother is the sweetest. Even after what Charles did to her daughter, she wishes him the best because he's her son too 😭. Charles you seriously fucked up bad...

mluexupdates not her pretending like she still belongs lol

→ username1 THEYRE LITERALLY AT HER HOME!

softf1girlie lol Alex and Charles should be grateful she even invited them...

lewishamilton Merry Christmas ✨ I hope you're back in London for New Year!

→ yourusername Merry Christmas, Lew. I'll be home for the holidays. We can catch up when I'm back 🫶🏽

jade_distinguinn Thanks for making me feel so at home 🥹❤️

yourbestie Merry Christmas, Y/n/n 🫶🏽 Miss you 💗

→ yourusername Merry Christmas! Miss you too ❤️

alexstmbestie Homewrecking Slut!

leclercsdaily For the newbies and Alexandra fans who call Y/n names, They should know Charles has most probably cheated on Y/n with Alex, even if not jeopardised 24 years of friendship and 6 years of relationship for her. And Y/n is inviting them for christmas at HER HOME after all this only for the love she has for all the other Leclercs and Charlotte, She even made Jade feel at home. This explains a lot about her being a kind soul and Charles took advantage of this kindness and so does Alex now. Expecting her to separate from her family just because this guy fucked up is utter bullshit. Leave her alone goddamnit!!

ynarchive

Liked by leclercupdates, y/nangelmine and others

ynarchive Y/N was spotted at Ibiza Airport earlier today, sources confirm she flew out of Nice early this morning after spending Christmas with the Leclercs & her family in Monaco.

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ynangelclub honestly? protect your peace queen 🧘‍♀️

alexmlxupdates good. she doesn’t belong in Monaco anymore

→ leclercfamupdates dude stop she's literally born there.

leclercfamilyupdates Pascale already missing her we just know it

username1 This is what emotional maturity and boundaries look like

yln.ynlover she’s so real for escaping the drama!

username2 “she’s still close to the family” ok then why leave? 🙃

[error: happy new year in advance, Artie. Kiss both mamas for me? - y/n]

yourusername

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yourusername Happy 2024 and Happy Y/n 🪩🌊

tagged: @/carlossainz55, @/landonorris, @/yourbestie

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yourbestie You're the only one who upgraded. tbh

pascale_leclerc  joyeux nouvel an, mon étoile 💫

→ yourusername joyeux nouvel an, mon luna 🌕

carlossainz55 You are an alcohol menace...

→ yourusername Got reasons, mon cherie

→ carlossainz55 still?

→ yourusername Nah. Over it 😏

jade_distinguinn you are LITERALLY the moment

→ yourusername 💕

charleswife16 real homie hopper. ugly whore

lilymhe literal goddess vibes

→ yourusername Lilyyyy! Love u 🫶🏽

friend1 You dropped this 👑

→ yourusername oops 🤭

f1teaonline this squad > Y/n and Charles

username1 this is her I could’ve ruined you, but I chose peace post

landonorris  How did I end up being the least chaotic one on this yacht

teamalexmlx she really can’t sit still for a second huh. Attention seeking bitch.

sainz55fp Carlos stop looking at her like that... She's mine!

danielricciardo Ibiza huh? very proud!

→ yourusername Thank you Thank you

arthur_leclerc Take me with you next time...

→ yourusername Shore 👍🏻

friend2 I approve this version of you. She’s glowing.

→ yourusername 🫶🏽

y/nsupremacy the “Happy Y/N” era is going to heal me

charlexnation meanwhile Charles living his best life with Alexandra 🫶

yourusername

Liked by carlossainz55, landonorris and others

yourusername 🪷🩷

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yourmomofficial Ma belle fille 🌷

alex_albon @/yourbestie do you know what I know.

→ yourbestie I know what you know, but I won’t say it unless you say it first 😇

→ yourusername Snitches ends up in ditches!

leclercxangel I think she’s with Arthur?? It makes sense.

→ f1gridgossip No one else is in Melbourne yet except Carlos, Oscar, Lando and Alex Albon.

charlexchild funny how she’s always “working” when he’s racing

pascale_leclerc 🌸❤️

ynupdatesdaily She didn’t even need a face pic and still ate

arthur_leclerc stay for the race?

→ yourusername Can't. I have work on Monday 😭

charlesluvclub Someone’s trying really hard to be relevant this season 💅

alexandrasaintmleux So aesthetic!✨

→ username1 eww go away

lilymhe Date tomorrow?

→ yourusername Sorry Lils, I have a flight early tomorrow ☹️

f1wagsgossip Charles in the likes and Alexandra commenting 💀

alexusuals OMG Alex commented. She's such a girl's girl 😍

→ ynupdatesdaily 😂 She's anything but that. haha

username2 melbourne museums never looked this cute.

f1

Liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari and others

f1 🏆 AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX PODIUM 🏆 1️⃣ 🇪🇸 Carlos Sainz 2️⃣ 🇲🇨 Charles Leclerc 3️⃣ 🇬🇧 Lando Norris

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scuderialover Ferrari on top and my serotonin is back

gridenergy That post-race smile from Sainz >>>

mclarencryingclub Honestly thought Lando had it… sigh

taglist: @sarcastic-ravenpuff, @cryinghotmess, @dreaming-starlet, @agustdpeach, @yeslybanevi, @lovestruck-sky, @yara011, @nafisalove, @agustdpeach, @deleataecount, @janeh22, @mel164, @destinyg237, @esmeect, @saythename-sm, @ajordan2020, @ceekokocee15, @vinylphwoar, @paucubarsisimp, @flowersandalll, @mbioooo0000, @zoeyjadetice2010, @angstynasty, @sinfully-yoursss, @chlmtfilms, @san4117, @sachaa-ff, @kenkozkmg, @sagestach, @rawr-123s-stuff, @lemon-stvrrr, @whitlocklibrary, @nina481, , @angstynasty, @gigicisneros, @anunstablefangirl, @hawkins-2000, @jaydensluv, 

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[pucksandpower]

All the Hard Things

Oscar Piastri x obsessive compulsive!Reader

Summary: sometimes OCD has a way of taking over your mind beyond all logic, but that’s okay because the love you and Oscar share goes far beyond all logic too

Warnings: depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder and inadvertent self-harm due to it

It happens like this: your cap is crooked, your tassel’s stuck in your hair, and your mum’s crying harder than you expected. You don’t even feel that proud. Just tired. Wrung out and blinking against the flash of someone else’s camera.

“Y/N!” A voice calls from behind a crowd of hugging classmates.

You turn, already smiling. Oscar is leaning against a brick column, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s trying not to grin too wide, but he’s doing a shit job of it.

“There she is,” he says, and then, a beat later, “How’s my graduate?”

“I feel exactly the same,” you say, walking into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hands slide up your back, and he presses a kiss into your temple.

“You smell like other people’s success,” he mutters into your hair. “It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn��t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.��

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

��But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

And this time, it’s not just a hope. It’s the truth.

[grandpizzaponypie]

I love how community was always at the forefront of sinners

Smoke and that lil girl in the car, him trynna teach her in their small time together how to value your time and demand what you deserve

Even though Delta Slim and Sammie had that one lil spat in the beginning, Slim being so fierce in his protection of Sammie. Slim going out his way to teach Sammie the way, making sure he introduced himself. Setting him straight bout his music coming from somewhere good and not the devil like his father said. DYING for him

Bo always having the twins back and being reluctant to leave, the genuine glee he had at seeing Smoke. Grace thrown off by Stack not being with Smoke cause she knew em so well to know they should be together

Annie protecting not only Smoke but ALSO Stack when they weren’t together in her own ways.

Annie and Mary being Visible next to each other as much as possible. Mary literally screaming out in horror and snapping out of the hive mind at Annie’s death.

Stack being mad at Smoke bc it was supposed to be them against the world forever. Annie and Smoke, Mary and Stack, a family.

Annie saying “not you” when she realized it was Stack biting her because he ment so much to her, on the flip Stack spefically going after Annie so he could secure their immortal family.

That quite tense moment between Smoke and Mary after their lil argument bout Mary mother, the wordless conversation had as they both sat in silence.

The brothers putting their money where their mouth is and always giving the cash to patch up the ppl they fucked up.

“By us for us”

Cornbread face deeply sorry explaining why he couldn’t make it to Mary’s mother funeral cause he had to make quotas.

Everyone bucking up at the thought of Remmick taking Sammie, Smoke putting himself in front of everyone. And when he faltered at the sight of his literal other half in front of him turned, everyone being there to bring him back.

Even Remmick in his deeply twisted way just wanted back to his community, everyone else be damned (with him). His want to bring everyone together in his hell on earth. His yearning to find community in another person who was like him even if he no longer had those powers (I’m going off the bases that he was a his peoples version of a Griot, which I believe is a Fili)

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

THE HELL YOU MEAN YOU GOT A GIRL ?

summary : in which Tim's brothers find out he not only has a girlfriend but she's actually real and attractive and idk dating HIM of all people ???

Tim Drake is a busy man , his family knew that I meant come on ?? The kid is Red Robin, juggling Wayne Enterprises , solving cases, and not mention he attends college.

Not in a million years would they guess he of all of them would have a girlfriend and that he of all of them would have a functional relationship before any if them.

It started subtle at first - he'd finish patrol early , not really a big deal since they'd all assume he was busy with school and just had to go home.

Well truns out he was going home just not to do work just to simply have dinner with you.

The next sign was that he had a picture of you at the back of his phone - it's encased safely behind the clear casing . Dick saw it at first and shrugged it off, thinking it was a kpop idol or some model Tim liked alot - nope it was just him being in love with you and just showing it off.

Tim unironically smells better ? Damian doesn't know how to place it - its not that Tim ever smelled bad or had bad hygiene it's just that he's been particularly very into it as of late - he literally even has a skin care routine now but Damian writes it off as Tim being curious or weird.

Tim also starts dressing classier too like he wears good slacks or nice baggy jeans with fitted tops - showing off his slim but muscular figure as of late - he even asked Jason to borrow one of his old leather jackets and hey - Jason didn't mind lending his brother one - he just thought Tim was getting into the grunge style like him. Nope, it turns out Tim overheard you saying guys in leather jackets were hot, so of course, he had to get the real thing.

Flash forward to like a year and a half down the line and one day all three of them were talking about how Tim was glowing up and getting himself in shape .

Dick : " you know Tim's been idk dressing up as of late ".

Damian : " smh it's like he's pathetically trying to impress someone "

Jason : " I thought he was just idk changing his style ?"

Dick : " you think ? Plus he's been ending patrol early lately"

Damian : " he's a nerd Grayson , knowing him he gets home earlier to study or what not ".

Jason : *cackling* " and he wonders why he can't get a girlfriend "

*Tim who just walked in and overheard jason* : " I literally have a girlfriend. What do you mean ?"

Pin drop silence . Everyone stares at him, eye wide and then they burst out cackling.

Jason : " Timmy boy a blow up sex doll doesn't count a girlfriend"

Dick : *laughing* " Tim the day you get a girlfriend is the day the world would end"

Damian : " Timothy, that's the best joke you have ever uttered."

Tim scowls at them , " I LITERALLY HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND SHES A REAL PERSON"

Damian *still laughing* : " Alright Timothy, let's meet your so-called very real girlfriend."

Flash forward to two hours later and they're at a local Lego shop at the mall , the batboys are all confused .

Jason : " Tim, when we said a real girl, we didn't mean a Lego woman figure"

Tim just rolled his eyes - annoyed because he can't fathom why they didn't think he can't have a girlfriend .

Not even two minutes passed, and you bolted out of the store and engulfed Tim in a big hug and began kissing him all over his face. Tim wore a big , smug smile as he wrapped his hand around your waist and pressed you a forehead kiss.

Dick's mouth is too the floor , Jason's eyes just widen so big you'd swear his eyes will roll out and Damian looks like he's gonna hurl.

Damian : " I think - I think I going to die "

Jason *still in shock* : " There is no way this is real - literally no way I've got to be imagining shit "

Dick : " Someone pinch me " *Damian pinches him hard* " OUCH WHAT THE FUCK"

Jason points at you and then at Tim , " Miss is he holding you hostage -"

Tim rolls his eyes , " SHES MY GIRLFRIEND"

Damian tuts , " She's too hot to be with the likes of you she should date someone better "

Dick : " Like me -"

Shutting him down immediately, Tim : " Fuck no"

You awkwardly laughing , " So you're Tim's brothers ?"

Jason : " unfortunately ". *dick nudges him hard* " OW WTF"

You : " It's nice to meet you all I'm Tim's girlfriend "

Dick : " yeah that's the part we are all processing"

Damian : " Are you sure you're not talking about another tim?"

Tim , scowling : " Shut the fuck up demon she said she's my girlfriend so can yall stop being so annoying now "

You : " They didn't think you'd have a girlfriend ?"

Tim : " no and I don't know why especially since they themselves don't have one either "

Jason : " in my offense I died -"

Dick : " Pack it up. It's been 4 years since you came back. You got no excuse "

Jason : " I know the man who has fumbled every relationship he touches is not talking "

Damian : " This is all pointless. Love is stupid and worthless"

As the both continue to bicker back and forth, you turn to Tim with a wide grin , " Who do you think is worse ?"

Tim , pulling you in closer , : " Definitely Bruce "

*in a very far distance*

You laugh as you grab his hand and left him off somewhere , " Let's go get milkshakes".

Bruce *sneezes* : " Someone is trash talking me "

ty for reading !!!

[ariestrxsh]

olderbrothersbsf!matt x innocent!reader

જ⁀➴ ♡ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, sneaking around, praise, oral (m! & f!receiving), temperature play, pool sex, small age gap (both characters are adults), forbidden love

જ⁀➴ ♡ summary: your protective older brother has always warned you to stay away from his best friend, matt sturniolo but after losing your virginity to him, you're hooked.

dividers by @/roseraris

Young God

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

Your brother had been home from college for a few days now, and your parents had taken him into the city for a fancy lunch to celebrate graduating another year. You'd opted out because all you wanted was a nice, quiet, and relaxing day spent by the inground pool in your backyard.

You laid out a bright yellow towel beside the crystal blue body of water that you'd finally deemed warm enough to swim in. You kneeled by the poolside and in one hand, you held a creamsicle that was slowly being melted by the afternoon sun, and with the other, you delicately ran your fingers across the surface of the water.

The cold feeling of the liquid on your warm skin was rejuvenating and refreshing. You could smell the chlorine and freshly cut grass that drifted through the summer air. You laid on your side, propping yourself up with your elbow, enjoying the complementary combination of the slight, cool breeze and hot, sunny weather.

Behind you, the sound of the back gate slowly creaking open alerted you. You turned your head in the direction of the noise, and there stood Matt Sturniolo, your older brother's childhood best friend, your biggest crush as a little girl, and the man you'd given your virginity to just a few nights prior.

Your stomach fluttered, and your heart raced as the object of your affection made his way towards you, shirtless and in nothing but swim trunks.

"Hey, sweet thing. Is your brother home?" He asked you, watching the way you made your pink treat disappear behind your lips. You shook your head no. "He's out with my parents. I don't think they'll be home for another hour or so."

A sly smile peeked through Matt's expression as he realized what that meant. "Damn," he said, faking his disappointment and taking his beach towel that was thrown over his muscular shoulder and switching it to the opposite one. "Well, it looks like you and I had the same idea. Mind if I join you?"

"No, I don't mind at all," you responded, studying his slim build. "What kind of popsicle you got there?" He wondered, sitting next to you and watching the way you sucked on the cold dessert. "It's a strawberry creamsicle," you replied, blushing.

"You look so pretty with it in your mouth," he complimented you, and you responded with a timid giggle. His eyes grazed over your body, and how cute you looked in your black and white-striped bikini. "Look at you. You could be a swimsuit model," he flirted, running the tips of his fingers along the length of your thighs. You rolled your eyes and swooned.

"Have you put on your sunscreen yet, sweet thing?" He motioned towards the unopened bottle beside you. You shook your head. "Not yet. I have to wait til I'm done with this." You stuck out your tongue and licked a long stripe up your fruit-flavored treat.

Just then, some of the ice cream melted from your popsicle stick, landing on your chest, and you jumped at the cold feeling. "Let me help you with that," Matt cooed, and without missing a beat, he leaned in and licked it off the top of your breast that poked out of your bikini top with his blue eyes locked on yours. You softly hummed and squeezed your thighs together in response.

"Why don't I get your back for you, hmm? Gotta protect that pretty skin," Matt offered, picking up the suntan lotion. He applied a bit of the initially cold-feeling sunscreen to your shoulders, massaging it into your warm flesh.

He rubbed your back with his strong hands, exerting more pressure as you began to relax under his caress. He listened to the sounds you made while you sucked on your strawberry creamsicle, his cock stirring in his shorts.

After he had worked the lotion into the skin of your shoulders, he asked you to lay on your stomach, and he started to spread the lotion on the back of your calves and the back of your thighs while you propped yourself up onto your elbows.

He squirted a bit of suntan lotion onto your perfectly round ass, and started thoroughly massaging it into the fleshy part of your bottom. You grew wet under the touch of Matt's large hands.

He spent a suspicious amount of time squeezing it and groping it, smirking to himself. He even gave you a light swat on the ass, and you blushed and timidly laughed before he asked you to turn over again.

Matt intently watched you run your tongue along your sugary dessert while he slathered sunscreen onto your chest and your stomach. "Why do you like watching me lick ice cream so much?" You naively inquired. "Maybe I'll show you once you're all done with it," he teased you. You playfully glared at him for not letting you in on the secret.

Without warning, Matt's fingers slipped into your bikini top, and he started tweaking your nipples, causing them to harden at the sensation. You gasped. "Matt, what are you doing? I'm not gonna get any sunlight there!" You giggled as you peered up at him, lapping up your melting dessert.

"That's only if this top stays on the whole time we're out here," Matt raised an eyebrow at you and his lips curled into a flirtatious smile that indicated that he was up to no good. You let out a moan as he tenderly grabbed a handful of each supple breast.

Lust twinkled in his blue eyes as he started to jiggle them in his grasp, which made your cheeks rosey pink with embarrassment. "Don't be shy, sweetheart. They're so beautiful," Matt's voice was laced with sensuality.

He moved his hands down your stomach, your waist, and your hips. He slowly pushed your legs apart, and he started oiling up your thighs. A smug expression played in the corner of his mouth as he inched closer to your special place. "Matt! I'm definitely not going to be getting any sunlight there!" You lightheartedly giggled as he slipped his finger beneath the fabric of your swimsuit bottoms.

"Oh, I know, sweet thing, but you can never be too careful. Plus, I like the way you sound when I touch you right here," he said, tenderly rubbing your clit in circles. You immediately felt a faint whimper pass through your lips, and you stuck your creamsicle back into your mouth, sucking on it.

"That's it. Keep making those pretty sounds for me," Matt hummed, a smug smirk playfully crawling into his expression while he continued his movements. He started slowly taking off your bikini bottoms, and you lifted your hip points to help him remove them more easily.

You finished the rest of your ice cream, licking the stick clean and holding eye contact with Matt as he slipped your bottoms down your thighs and tossed them to the side. He reached behind your back and untied your swimsuit top and started removing the fabric from your body.

He spread open your legs once again, revealing your glistening folds and causing your shy nature to surface along with a flushed expression. There you were, tits out and pussy on display in your backyard while Matt ran his fingers along your slit, teasing you and making you even more wet.

You shivered as the summer breeze passed over your wet cunt, creating a delightful sensation. He took the tip of his pointer finger and started tapping rhythmically on your sensitive bud, causing you to jerk beneath his commanding touch. "Oh, Matt," you gasped.

"Good girl," he hummed in response as he leaned down and planted a kiss between your legs. Another moan escaped your pink lips as his tongue gently caressed your clit, circling it and teasing you. His blue eyes lingered on yours while he continued this motion with his licks, drawing closer to all your nerve endings.

When he was right on your most sensitive spot, he closed his lips down around it and started tenderly suckling. You threw your head back and let out a delighted noise while his tongue danced along your folds, lapping up your wetness.

"You know, I've got a popsicle for you to suck on," Matt glanced up at you with his charming smirk. You nodded at him wide-eyed with your lower lip pinned between your canine teeth.

"Why don't you hop in the pool, sweetheart?" Matt suggested, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You went to reach for your bathing bottoms, but Matt swatted your hand away. "Ah, ah, ah," he shook his head. "Your bathing suit stays off."

"But Matt, I'm naked," you giggled in a shy voice. "Good. I like you that way," he chuckled in response, reaching up and gently groping your breasts again. His touch was strong and demanding, but there was a softness to it and a tenderness in his tone as he spoke. His eyes danced across your exposed body as you inched towards the pool, and you let out a shrill sound as you slowly submerged yourself in the cold water.

Matt's swim shorts fell around his ankles, and he stepped out of them, one foot at a time, and your gaze immediately fixated on the rod between his legs. You couldn't believe that something so big had been inside of you a few nights prior. His protruding tip was glossy with a clear fluid, and his veins decorated his shaft so beautifully.

You didn't mean to be rude, but you couldn't stop staring. Even as Matt sat at the edge of the pool, immersing only the bottom half of his legs, you couldn't pull your eyes off his pretty dick. He wrapped his fingers around it and started slowly stroking it in front of you.

"Come have a taste," he motioned for you to come here with his free hand. You nodded and made your way back over to the edge of the pool. Your stare flickered between his eyes and his aggravated tip. "Open up, sweet thing," he purred, guiding his cock towards your mouth and delicately grabbing onto the back of your head. You slightly parted your lips for him.

"You're gonna have to open a little wider for me," he cooed, chuckling at how cute you were. You obediently listened, parting them further. He burrowed his tip into your mouth, which was still cold from your dessert earlier, and he emitted a guttural moan at the way the temperature change elevated the sensation.

"That's it. Be a good girl and suck on it just like you did with your popsicle, hmm?" He encouraged you, giving you direction and showing you how he liked it. You hollowed out your cheeks and slowly bobbed your head up and down, lightly gagging as the head grazed the back of your throat.

Matt peered down at you with a loving, lustful stare. Your soft, cold tongue slithered up and down the backside of his length, caressing his veins and causing his dick to twitch against your lips every time you came back up and stimulated his tip.

"Eyes on me, baby," Matt whispered, petting your cheek with his thumb and grunting as you swirled your tongue around his nerve-endings. You couldn't get enough of the way Matt looked at you while you gave him head, almost as if the feeling of your mouth was saving his life.

He licked his lips and nodded at you with his eyes glazed over with pleasure as you continued to suck on it for him. "Good girl. Don't stop. You're gonna make me finish all over that pretty tongue of yours," Matt moaned, thoroughly examining the way you serviced him in the most intimate fashion.

His lovely words and the tone of voice he used when he spoke them made your stomach drop. He delighted in the image of you peering up at him with your innocent eyes and his dick buried behind your pink lips.

"That's it, sweet thing. Be a good girl and swallow it all for me," Matt encouraged you with his brows knitted together in an almost concerned expression. His blue eyes were filled with seduction and temptation, and he licked his lips again before letting out another sinful moan. His cock began to twitch between your lips, and he held you in place while he loaded your mouth with his thick, milky seed.

"Oh, yes. What a good girl you are," Matt gave you his most charming smile as the muscles in his stomach spasmed, painting your tongue with several spurts of his cum and nearly filling your mouth faster than you could gulp it down. It tasted bitter, but you did as you were told, making sure not to let a single drop go to waste.

"That was perfect," Matt whispered breathlessly as he caressed your face and ran his fingers through your hair. "That made me so wet between my legs," you admitted to Matt. "I guess you like sucking cock, hmm? You took such good care of it," He cooed, giving you his bedroom eyes. You nibbled on your lip and nodded up at him.

"Now, I gotta take care of my girl," he replied, dipping into the pool along with you, making a bit of a splash in the water. He reveled in the cold feeling against his warm flesh. He grabbed you by your waist and picked you up, and you squealed at the way he handled you.

He directed his still-hard rod towards your hole, sinking it in and listening to your whimper at the sensation of being stretched out again. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pushed it in deeper. You were still sore from having lost your virginity to him a few nights before, and your walls fluttered around his sensitive cock. You whined in pain.

"Sh, sh, sh. It's going to be alright. I'm gonna make my girl feel so good," Matt hushed you, looking into your eyes and brushing his thumb across your flushed cheek once more. He went in for the kiss, passionately locking lips with you while your naked bodies were pressed up against each other in the water.

He slowly thrust into you, causing you to moan into his mouth, your lips vibrating against his while he held you in his strong arms, bouncing you up and down on his rod. Matt's tongue politely begged for entrance as he deeply kissed you.

The water around the two of you rippled out at the movements you made. You started to relax as the sensation transformed to pure ecstacy in the matter of a few strokes. He listened as your stifled whines turned into cries of delight.

"Good girl. You take it so well," Matt grunted, speeding up the pace and moving his lips down to your chest. He tenderly took your tit into his mouth and started licking and teasing.

"Oh," you muttered, throwing your head back. He hummed against your breast while his tongue flickered over your sensitive nipple. He suckled on it just like he had with your clit earlier while he drove his hips forward, stimulating that special place deep in your core.

His mouth moved back up, and he started kissing up your neck, nipping and biting at it while pulling you close again. You softly whimpered in his ear while he explored your erogenous zones with his lips.

Your arms were wrapped around the back of his neck, your fingernails lightly digging into his back as you tightly gripped his waist with your legs. "That's it, sweet thing. Take it," he groaned, savoring the feeling of your warm, wet pussy squeezing around his hungry cock while your bodies moved in tandem, giving and accepting one another in a primal dance.

Your brother had always warned you about Matt's perverse nature and his way with words, the way he could lull any girl he wanted into his arms and into his sheets, but you saw a different side of him. You saw his desire to make you feel safe, the appreciation he felt towards your body, and the way he prioritized your pleasure.

You were both on the verge of greatness, nearing your shared orgasm while you chanted each other's names. Before you knew it, your body was going limp as you steadily clenched around Matt's throbbing dick. The two of you finished together, and he filled you with his seed once again.

You'd been waiting for that feeling again, dreaming about it, yearning for it. You loved how easy it was for Matt to get you off, and your climaxes were so much more intense with him than they were on your own. You couldn't get enough of him.

The two of you were staring into each other's eyes, and your legs were still wrapped around Matt's waist when you heard a car door shut. You and Matt scurried out of the water, throwing your bathing suits back on. Matt was helping you tie the strings of your top back together when your brother wandered through the gate.

"Matt? What are you doing here? I told you I was going out to lunch with my parents," your brother said, clenching his jaw and squeezing his hand together in a fist. "I know. Your sister invited me to swim with her," Matt said, glancing over at you, and you blushed.

"What were you doing when I walked through that gate, huh?" Your brother raised his voice a bit. "I was just helping her fix her top. It came undone in the pool," Matt lied. "Dude, you're sick. Stay away from my sister when I'm not home," your brother said, baring his teeth and flaring his nostrils.

"Dude. Chill. Her top came untied when we were splashing each other, and I covered my eyes until she put it back on. She just wanted me to double knot it for her. That's all," Matt said, holding his hands up in a defensive position, his heart beating out of his chest.

"He's telling the truth," you nodded, Matt's cum still slowly dripping out of your pussy and into your bikini bottoms. Your brother's eyes glanced between you and Matt before he relaxed his shoulders and let out a sigh. "I'm sorry. I had a few beers with lunch. I just saw the two of you and assumed," your brother chuckled. The tension in the air was gone just like that.

"It's cool, dude. I get it. Come on. Let's go take some of that aggression out on those damn zombies," Matt laughed, playfully slugging your brother in the arm, and the two boys walked off together to go play video games.

Right before Matt disappeared from view, he looked back at you for a moment and winked, letting you know how much he was enjoying your little collective secret.

part four here ❣️

taglist: @thepubeburgler @realqueenofpepsi @mattsredgaphoodie @purpledreamertyphoon @moosegirl96 @idrk2292 @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @jaysturniolo @sturniolosweetheart33 @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1

[ifwdominicfike]

matt loves to feed into your love for his hands.

── .✦. ──

this is the 3rd time today you’ve caught yourself staring at matts arms, if it wasn’t his arms it was his hands. the way the veins spread out and then trailed up to his forearms, you were practically drooling.

he knows this too, he’s caught you staring at him multiple times. he hasn’t told you anything yet though, watching you watch his every move when he wears a tank top or when he’s playing videos games with his brothers, he knows you’re staring.

how could you not though?? he was basically teasing you at this point, like the other day for example, he had gotten some new rings and was desperate to show you them.

“sweetheart come look at these new rings i got” you make your way to your shared bedroom and see him staring at his hands, flexing them making the veins more prominent. that infamous grin while doing so is telling you everything you needed to know.

your eyes fixating on his hands immediately, the way he stretched out his fingers to show off the rings made your thighs clench.

noticing the gleam across your face made his grin widen, “you like them doll? or are ya’ gonna keep ogling at them hm?” he takes your hand into his and start peppering kisses to your knuckles. you couldn’t take it anymore, his teasing words, his stupid grin, just him. you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into you, your lips locking with his and you feel a hand cup your jaw and the other grip onto your hair.

“y’think you’re so fucking slick huh? staring at me like that with your thighs clenched like i wouldn’t notice, needy girl” he continues down your neck as his hands roam down your body, you gasp at the sudden movement of you being picked up. you’re back now lying against his white sheets “pl..please! matt- need you s’bad” you whine “gotta be more specific than that baby, what do you need from me sweet girl?” he grips onto your legs and places them on his shoulders “pl-please baby.. don’t t-tease me-“

your voice becoming more and more needy “aw, poor thing can’t take a little bit of teasing? such a desperate whore.” he starts sliding off your shorts, those being thrown and forgotten somewhere in the room while he stuffs your lace panties in his back pocket.. “so soaked f’me, all this over what? my hands?” he laughs in your face, tracing his fingers up and down your slick. you yelp out once you feel him slap your cunt, that same stupid grin on his face as he watched you squirm.

“fuck matt- come on pleasee, been such a g-good girl f’you” you grind against his hand, aching for any kind stimulation what so ever. “okay sweetheart, i guess you’ve had enough” you hum in agreement, you feel his slim fingers dip into you, the feeling of the cool metal from the rings sending goosebumps down your spine. “o-oh! mhm.. please!” you pleaded “yeah? s’this all you needed baby? dumb girl just needed my fingers thats all”

- avery’s note ˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆｡-

first smut!! i was thinking of making this a full fic but i didnt.. anyways school has been beating me up pray for me 😞 okayy well thats all for now bye i love youu ᥫ᭡ !!

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 1 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 7.5k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

0700

The bathroom tile was absolutely and utterly freezing against her bare knees, but Y/N did not move. She couldn’t. She couldn’t risk it, but she also, she couldn’t stop. Another wave of nausea crept up her spine and she leaned forward just in time to vomit into the toilet bowl again. Her hands gripped the rim of the toilet with white knuckles, her pulse loud in her ears. She stayed like this, motionless, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes watering and sweat along her brow.

            She knew now it was not food poisoning or stress. Yesterday, it confirmed it. She was indeed pregnant. Dana made her take a pregnancy test, and it came out clear. Then, they confirmed it with a blood test. Then again, with an ultrasound. Seven weeks along, she was, and she was completely terrified.

            Y/N had endometriosis, a very severe case which at nineteen she was told by doctors that the chance of her getting pregnant is very slim, but the chance of her being able to carry full term was even slimmer. Therefore, when she and Jack got serious, Y/N expressed to him that she was not able to have children,, and he supported her in that. He was older, forty-nine now and she just hit thirty, together for six years. Not married. But common law. Share a mortgage, a credit card and joint bank account as well as, four dogs while he helped raise her brother.

            Very serious, very committed, very much together, but just not legally binding to one another through a marriage contract. Though, they love one another with everything in themselves.

            However, he did not know she was pregnant. She found out yesterday during her day shift. He worked the nights. They have been barely passing one another, barely able to talk with their conflicting schedule. Y/N used to work nights, but she got pulled to day shifts lately due to a nurse leaving on maternity leave.

            She was planning on telling him tonight. He had the day off. His shift ended at seven in the morning, while she started hers at seven. When she got off at seven that evening prior, she had a whole speech prepared to tell him. However, only Dana knew at this moment.

            Y/N took a slow, ragged breath, blinking back tears. Not because she was sad. Not because she was happy. But because she didn’t know how to feel. Never had she thought she’d be able to get pregnant with him. Never had she thought she’d have to talk to Jack about what to do.

            He was forty-nine. He was older. To throw a child into their life would create chaos. She was younger, thirty and it could work. However, both were workaholics. Y/N never thought she’d be able to be a mother, so she never thought this through.

            Tonight. She would talk to him tonight. They would plan, discuss and come up with the solution moving forward. A nurse. A homeowner. A mother to four dogs. In a stable, quiet, loving partnership with a very nice man. A man who understood her more than anyone ever had. They owned dogs, shared a mortgage, grew herbs in the windowsill, argued about laundry and both fought over who would cook in the evenings,as that is one of their shared love languages. It was good. Peaceful. Calm. Lovely.

            However, morning sickness fucking sucks. And this? This was not part of the plan. Especially being told that this could never happen.

            Sleeping in a bed alone last night while Jack worked the evening shift was something she did not like. However, she had to go to work, talk to him and see him for a bit before he went home and she had to keep this a secret. She had twelve hours to work through before they could have a serious talk.

            Glancing at her watch, she groaned again.

            Late. She was utterly, completely and terribly late.

            Rounds were about to start soon. The handover from night shift to day shift was about to happen. Work was about to begin. Yet, Y/N was stuck on the ground of the ensuite, tears flowing down her face and nausea bubbling over.

            Dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and a bra, her hair was matted and bags covered under her eyes.

            She was fucked.

            Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself away from the toilet bowl. Guilty a little bit because she was leaving with a spoiled toilet, and normally she would clean it after puking. However, she was late to work and Robby would have a fit.

-

Jack was at the computer, filing in the last bits of his shift. Writing patient notes, talking to Robby for the handover. However, his eyes furrowed as he glanced at his watch to see that it was just past seven and Y/N was not here yet. Where was she? She was never late. Rather, she was constantly early.

            “Dr. Robinavitch?” a voice came from behind Robby as he leaned against the nurses’ station talking to Jack.

            “Yep,” he replied, turning to the voice.

            “Melissa King. I will be joining you today. I just came from two months at the VA,” Mel told Robby, voice pitched with excitement and a smile.

            “Hey, welcome to the Pitt,” Robby replied, shaking her hand. “This is Dr. Jack Abbot,” Robby introduced, glancing over to Jack, who was focused on the computer in front of him and didn’t glance over to the resident.

            “Nice to meet you,” Mel hummed before looking at Robby again. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here today, so…”

            “Talk to me at the end of the day,” Jack muttered, looking over to the resident, voice low and serious.

            Robby glanced at Jack. “Ignore him. He had a rough night,” he stated, “and is having an ongoing existential crisis.”

            Jack stood up, straightening as he looked a them. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there soon enough,” he joked, coldly, face serious. “Robby, have you seen Y/N?” he asked, looking over to his old revival and long time friend. “She’s never late and I haven’t seen her.”

            Robby’s brows drew together in concern. “No, not yet. She’s usually in by now.”

            Jack didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his gaze to the main hallway, like maybe she’d appear if he just stared long enough. But there was nothing – nothing…no rushed footsteps, no half-apologetic smile, no Y/N clutching a coffee cup and calling out something sarcastic to the team. Just a sterile corridor buzzing with too many lights and not enough soul.

            He tapped his fingers against the nurses’ station counter, the way he always did when he was trying not to overthink.

            “Maybe she overslept? Traffic? Maybe one of the dogs got out?” Robby offered casually, but Jack didn’t bite.

            “She doesn’t oversleep when she is supposed to work,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder. “She never oversleeps. The dogs are trained. They don’t escape.”

            Robby shrugged. “Traffic then? You two are like in the woods. Text her. She’ll be here,” he replied with a smile before patting Jack’s back. “Don’t stress.”

            Jack nodded watching as Robby walked away with Mel, rounding up his interns, residents and med students for rounds. Pulling out his phone, he brought up his messages with Y/N, but she had sent nothing since last night.

            Y/N slammed the door shut to her Bronco with more force then intended, her hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, pulled into a low messy bun. She hadn’t had time to do her usual minimal makeup, and her scrubs were slightly wrinkled. She felt gross. Heavy. Empty. Swollen. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, and a tangerine stuffed in her pocket that was her makeshift breakfast. She knew Jack would lecture her. However, the nausea was still there.

            Running across the hospital parking lot, her sneakers pounded against the concrete in rhythm. Each step sent a dull ache up her spine, her stomach still uneasy, her head spinning from the sudden movement and lack of food.

            She burst through the staff entrance, making her way through the triage to the back, scanning her badge on each door.

            It was 7:18.

            “Shit,” she hissed to herself, brushing past coworkers as she headed towards the nurses’ station after placing her belongings in a locker. Jack was still there. Robby too. And several new faces which she placed as the new intern, resident and medical students.

            Her gaze met Jack’s, and he raised a brow at her, but she just sent a small smile. He didn’t look angry. But his eyes were sharp, worried. That was worse.

            “As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” Robby began. “Good morning. Good morning. Come on over.”

            Y/N stood behind the station, looking over the new faces. Jack was glancing at her, but she said nothing.

            “Starting with second-year resident, Dr. Melissa King, fresh from the VA,” Robby announced.

            “Everyone calls me Mel,” Mel said with a smile. “I’m so happy to be here.”

            “Trinity Santos, intern,” a new face said, pale skin and dark hair.

            Y/N crossed her arms as she glanced over to Dana who was on the phone. Y/N knew there was an incoming trauma.

            “We’ve got two traumas from the T,” Dana said, holding the phone to her ear. “Five minutes out.”

            “Ok, copy that,” Robby replied. “Actually, this is the most important person that you’re going to meet today. This is Dana. She’s our charge nurse. She is the ringleader of our circus,” he said before looking over to Y/N. “And this here is Y/N. Nurse as well. Nurses are your best friends. As you can see, our house is always packed, and our department is mostly clogged up with boarders. Those are admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a very precious commodity around here, so please be quick and efficient with your workups. What else?” he paused for a moment to breathe, then nodded. “We treat the sicker patients back here, but please keep your eye on that waiting room. Make sure nobody’s gonna die out there. Your senior residents are Dr. Collins and Dr. Langdon. You report to them, and they report to me. Ok? Great.”

            As the last of the introductions faded into the background, Robby took his team to deal with the incoming trauma.

            Jack noticed she wasn’t listening. Not really. Her arms were crossed, fingers twitching like she was trying to ground herself, eyes glazed over just enough to make him uneasy. That wasn’t like her.

            Before she could slip away to get a shift change from the night shift, Jack reached out, a firm but gentle hand on her elbow. “Kid.”

            She looked up at him, startled.

            “Hi,” she whispered, a small smile gracing her face. “How are you? How was the shift?” she asked, sending him a small smile.

            He stared at her for a minute, whiskey eyes connecting with hers. “Fine. Rough, but fine. We can talk more later about it. Can I talk to you for a minute, though, in private?” he asked, his voice low. Not unkind. Just quieter than usual.

            Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gave a tiny nod, letting him guide her a few feet down the hallway near the med supply room, just out of earshot from others. It was private but not secluded enough to feel like a scene.

            Jack looked over her carefully now that they were face to face. Her skin was pale, tinged with that clammy undertone he only ever saw in patients who hadn’t eaten or had something deeper going on. The bags under her eyes were harsh against her face. No mascara, no usual faint blush or a neat bun. Her hair was tied back like she’d done it blind, and her face looked dry, bitten.

            “You were late. You’re never late,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Just a fact. His eyes narrowed as he scanned her over. Then he tried to make eye contact with her.

            Y/N glanced down, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably. “It won’t happen again.”

            “That’s not you.” He waited for a second, but she was still looking down. “What happened, Dove?”

            They were alone, and the nickname slipped his lips.

            “Nothing. I’m fine,” she replied a little too quickly, shaking her head.

            Jack frowned. “Dove, you don’t look fine,” he replied, trying to get her to look at him. “Look at me.”

            Y/N glanced up to see him, his eyes meeting her and all she could see what the complete care he had for her.

            “I’m just tired. It’s nothing,” she said, brushing her hand through her hair. “I went to bed late. I overslept. Forgot to set an alarm. Stayed up late talking to Beckett.” Beckett was her younger brother, half-brother.

            He tilted his head, raising a brow. Silence happened between them. “Y/N…”

            “Jack, just drop it,” she muttered, voice tight. “I’m here now. That’s what matters, right?”

            He stared at her for a moment, crossing his own arms now. Biceps bulging which usually makes her heart flutter, but she was glancing away. “I know you. You’re hiding something,” he whispered.

            Y/N glanced around. They were always professional at work. People never really questioned their relationship. Him being a trauma attending and her a trauma nurse. But now, with his voice so soft and eyes so concerned, it felt like a crack in their practised armour.

            “Jack,” she started, but the words faltered, her throat tight. “I didn’t sleep well. Ever since I’ve been put on days, it’s just weird sleeping alone when you are doing nights and–“

            “You’re deflecting,” he interrupted. He leaned in a little closer, not touching her, but lowering his voice so that no one would overhear. “Dove, I’m not mad. I just want to know what’s going on. Talk to me.”

            Her eyes flickered again, to the hallway beyond, to where voices were rising and monitors beeped from the trauma bay. She couldn’t do this here. Not now. She felt the weight of the morning crashing down on her all over again. The puke. The nausea. The fact that she was pregnant.

            “We can talk later. I need to work now,” she whispered, looking up to him. “I want to know how your shift went. I’m off at seven. I’ll be home and we can order in, watch one of those serious documentary movies thing you like and talk,” she proposed. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m ok,” she said confidently. “I’m ok,” Y/N said again.   

            Jack didn’t believe her.

            Not because he thought she was lying. But because he knew her. Knew the way her jaw clenched when she was holding back. The way her voice steadied was not out of calm, but control. A nurse who thrived in chaos. A woman who didn’t flinch in a code blue. But here she was – eyes too shiny, hands twitching like she was trying to hold her pieces together.

            Still, he nodded.

            “Alright,” he said quietly. “Later then.”

            She gave him the briefest nod. “I love you,” she whispered.

            He nodded. “I know,” he whispered back. Y/N reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s ok,” she whispered again, a mantra for herself more than anything. “Go home, sleep, have a shower, think of me in the shower,” she hummed, tone light as she winked, “give the dogs a kiss. Then I’ll be home before you know it.”

            He chuckled lightly as he stared at her. “Did something happen with your brother?” he asked, raising a brow. She shook her head, and he narrowed his eyes. “Did something happen to your mom?” he asked. She shook her head. “Did something happen to you?” he asked, voice low now.

            “Go home, Captain,” she stated, tone sharp. “I’ll see you later.”

            He stared at her for a few more moments. “Have you eaten?” he eventually asked.

            “No. I have a tangerine in my pocket that I grabbed on my way out,” she replied.

            Jack rolled his eyes. “Christ, Y/N,” he whispered. “Let me go buy something from the cafeteria. I don’t want you to be running on nothing,” he muttered before walking off but squeezed her bicep as he left.

            Y/N sighed, watching him leave. She stayed there for a moment before walking back to the nurses’ station. Y/N settled down next to Dana who looked over.

            “You look like hell,” she muttered, chuckling and shaking her head.

            Y/N rolled her eyes and glanced over to her friend. “You sound like Jack,” she muttered as she grabbed a tablet to look over.

            “Jack said that. Doesn’t sound like Jack,” Dana replied.

            Y/N sighed. “More like ‘Dove, you don’t look fine’ is what he said,” Y/N muttered as she looked over the charts. “Give me a shift change.”

            Dana looked over at her, glasses perched on her nose, as she looked at the young nurse. “Have you told him?” she asked, hinting to the little secret she had.

            Y/N groaned. “No. However, he is sniffing out that I’m hiding something.”

            “He needs to know, sweetheart,” Dana replied.

            “I know,” Y/N whispered back. “Spent the morning puking my guts out. That is why I was late.”

Dana clicked her tongue, her voice lowering but still tinged with that no-nonsense edge only a seasoned trauma nurse could carry. “Morning sickness is not your friend, but hey, you get something out of it in the end.”

Y/N looked over as Dana read her tablet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Y/N whispered. “Don’t know how Jack will react.”

Dana’s eyes met with Y/N’s. “I’ve known you since you were a small, new graduate nurse. Well, met your briefly when you did your last practicum. What I know about you is that you already know what you’re going to do,” Dana replied. “However, Jack needs to know. He’s a lot of things – gruff, grumpy, allergic to small talk – but he loves you. If he finds out you didn’t tell him? Especially over something like this? He’s going to be very hurt.”

Y/N nodded. “I will tell him. Tonight. I won’t keep this from him, but,” Y/N sighed and looked around, “I’m scared.”

Dana reached out and gently touched Y/N’s wrists, grounding her. “Of course you are. You’d be crazy not to be. But you’re not alone, ok? You’re not doing this alone.”

Y/N swallowed thickly and gave her a small nod, eyes glassy. “It’s just…I was told I couldn’t. I couldn’t have kids. Couldn’t get pregnant. Therefore, Jack and I just didn’t care. We just went along with the ride. We didn’t think that I could get pregnant, and here I am. And now it’s like I’m holding a secret I never thought I’d have. Now I have the impossible and it’s terrifying,” she whispered, voice cracking, barely audible now.

Dana squeezed her wrist once before pulling away, sensing how raw Y/N was. “That’s a lot to carry, hon. And you’ve been doing this all alone. Let someone in,” she whispered, giving her a look.

“I let you in,” Y/N replied.

Dana raised a brow. “Let him in. How long have you two been together? Six years or something.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. No ring though,” Y/N replied, trying to make a joke as she let out a low chuckle. “No, we aren’t planning on getting married.”

Dana rose another brow. “How many dogs do you have?”

“Four. Two rescues, then I have my dachshund from when I was twenty-two and Granny, Jack’s rescue from aeons ago,” Y/N replied, lowly.

Dana nodded. “Four dogs. You bought a house together a year ago. A beautiful house with a big yard. He’s your emergency contact. You go on camping trips with him even though you hate camping. He bought you a car when you were together for what, six months? Because he didn’t want you walking home in the dark. He’s basically like Beckett’s dad. You share everything. You two are serious. Practically married. Talk about everything together. He’s your best friend, your other half, though I would say you’re the better half and you deal with his trauma, and he deals with yours. Tell him. What are you scared of?”

Y/N was silent for a moment and the words were on the tip of her tongue, I haven’t told him the truth.

However, just when she was about to respond Jack appeared in front of them. Coffee in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other. His eyes narrowed between the two of them, trying to calculate what was happening.

“Eat, Kid,” he said, placing the sandwich down in front of her. “It’s a breakfast sandwich,” he told her. “And a coffee. Two sugars and a splash of milk.” He didn’t look smug about it, rather just quietly concerned.

Y/N stared at him. “Thank you,” she said. However, the sandwich stayed still.

He stared at her. “Eat.”

“I will,” Y/N whispered. “I just need to get a shift change.”

“Eat while you’re getting a shift change,” he replied. His eyes were bouncing now between Dana and Y/N, sensing the tension, the way Dana was sitting just a little too straight, and how Y/N was avoiding his gaze.

He looked at Dana. “You know something.” Jack raised a brow at Dana. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Dana gave him her best nurse face. Calm, unreadable, efficient, while Y/N said nothing. “Nothing. All good. We’re good. Just girl talk,” she said smoothly, tapping her table. “Thanks for feeding our girl, though. She needs it.”

Jack glanced at Y/n, raising a brow. He lingered for a moment, arms crossing over his chest again. “Girl talk, huh?” he asked, tilting his head.

She forced a smile, pulling up the coffee and bringing it to her lips. “Thanks for the coffee and food,” she whispered, then smirked. “Just girl talk. You hate girl talk. You know Dana,” Y/N said, looking over to the older woman, “probably telling me to eat better and stop dating emotionally unavailable men.”

Jack raised a brow, letting out a scoff. “I’m very emotionally available…now, aren’t I?”

Y/N huffed a small laugh, grateful for the reprieve, even if her hands were shaking slightly around the cup. “You’re evolving. Better than when I first met you.”

He studied her for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing just a better. “Talk to me tonight, ok?”

Y/N nodded. “I will. Just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like he was filing the entire interaction away in that steel-trap brain of his. The secrecy. The whispered tones. The way Dana had looked at Y/N.

Something was going on. And he didn’t like being left in the dark.

“You can tell me everything…anything. You know that, right?”

Her heart clenched. “I know,” she whispered. “And I do. You know too much about me.”

Jack gave a slight nod. “I’ll head out. Dogs are probably plotting a mutiny without me. Especially Delta. Barely a year, but pure chaos.” He sent her a small smile. “Text me if it gets too crazy here or if you get a really good case,” he finished.

Y/N nodded. “I will. Can you give Granny her medicine? I wasn’t able to when I left,” she told him, naming their oldest dog, a female named Alaska, but they call her Granny. She was Jack’s dog when they got together, which he got when he came back from his last tour.

He nodded. “Yeah, I can. Did you feed them?”

“I did. I let them out too before I came. Normal routine. However, Winston didn’t want to move from the bed so can you please let him out again?” she asked, sending him a smile. Winston was Y/N’s wire-haired dachshund, which she got when she was twenty-two after nursing school.

He nodded. “Yeah, can do. I’ll see you later, ok? Text me, ok?” he said, and Y/N nodded, agreeing.

Then Jack was gone, turning to leave, but he glanced back one more time, his brows furrowed, eyes sharp. Watching her like he was solving a puzzle.

As soon as he was gone, Y/N slumped back in her chair, sandwich untouched.

Dana glanced over; brow raised. “He totally knows something is up.”

Y/N groaned. “I know. He’s going to dig until he finds out.”

“Well, let’s make sure he hears it from you and not from putting two and two together.” Dana tapped her temple. “Smart man, that one. Scary smart.”

“I’ll tell him tonight,” Y/N muttered, more to herself than anything else. “Tonight.”

Dana gave her a look. “Promise?”

Y/N nodded, slower this time. “Promise.”

“Good. Let me get you something for the nausea,” Dana replied, getting up. She pointed to the sandwich that Jack bought. “But eat, you’re growing a baby,” she lectured.

“Dana, shush!”

            Dana gave her medication to help with the nausea. They were going over their shift change when Robby appeared. Y/N was munching on the sandwich when Robby called their names.

            “Abbot’s told me that he’s got a pregnant teen coming back today for mifepristone. Let me know when she gets here,” Robby said, looking at the two women.

            “Sure,” Y/N replied.

            “Yep,” Dana stated before turning back to the computer.

            “Bowel obstruction still waiting on surgery consult. What about Garcia? She was just here for the traumas,” Robby rambled of the board.

            “I think she was waiting for her attending to sign off,” Y/N muttered, looking over to Robby.

            Robby and her met eyes. Then he shook his head. “Ok…” he walked towards a computer to file patient charting. “Oh, and one of the med students took a header,” he chuckled. “I parked her in the lounge under the guise of a work comp report. Will one of you go in there, eyeball her, and make sure she’s alright?” Robby asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at the nurses.

            “Last time I checked, I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 178,” Y/N replied, typing on the computer. “I don’t babysit med students.”

            Robby turned to look at her. “Jack said you’re hiding something,” he said casually. “What are you hiding, Ace?” Then he raised a brow.

            Y/N glanced at Dana. “My kinky sex life,” Y/N said with a smirk.

            Dana snorted but didn’t miss a beat. “Yup. That’s exactly what she’s hiding. She’s got Jack handcuffed to the bed every other night. You should see the bruises.”

            Y/N chuckled as Robby stared at them for a moment. “I’m kidding!” Y/N expressed. “Maybe on the handcuffing, but not on the kinky sex,” she added with a smirk. “Men with trauma, freakiest in town,” she replied with a smirk and a wink.

            Robby just stared at her. “You deflecting adds to my hypothesis,” Robby muttered. “Abbot knows something’s up. I know some things up. Dana definitely knows what’s up.” Then his eyes landed on her. “You’re not planning on breaking up, right?”

            Y/N’s eyes widened. “No!” she exclaimed. “God, if anyone would leave anyone, it’d be him. I am a whole wagon of problems,” she muttered.

            Robby hummed. “Well, you deflecting is a sign. Secondly, Jack gave me this look this morning like he was ready to gut me with trauma shears, so whatever you’re hiding…he knows you’re hiding it, and he’s two seconds from losing his mind or figuring it out,” Robby muttered as he typed things into the computer. “Intelligent man.”

            Dana hummed. “That’s what I said.”

            Y/N turned in her chair to give them both an unimpressed look. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be this emotionally intelligent and book smart, responsible for lives, and handling interns, med students and residents who know less than me?” she poked.

            Robby glanced over his shoulder and pointed a finger to her. “Deflection.”

            Y/N rolled her eyes.

            “I’m just saying. You were late. In the eight years you’ve been working here, you’ve never been late. You look pale, there are bags under your eyes, you’re quieter than usual, you didn’t jump into this morning’s trauma, and Jack is acting like some keyed his fancy truck.” He glanced at her and he chuckled. “I know…” he whispered, shaking his head. “Jack will either not forgive you or will…” Y/N raised a brow. “You’ve adopted another dog.”

            Y/N stared at him and raised a brow. For a minute, it was silent as eyes were on her. “Yes. How’d you know?” she hummed.

            “Knew it,” Robby muttered before going back to the computer.

            “No. I didn’t adopt another dog,” Y/N said moments later.

            “Delta chewed through the seaming of the couch?” Dana asked, looking over to the nurse. “She’s a menace.”

            “That pup has the soul of a raccoon,” Robby added, clicking through patient charts. “Chaos and cuteness in the same package.”

            “Keeps us on our toes. Never had I ever had to kennel train a dog as she is not worth trusting,” Y/N replied.

            “Anyway,” Dana muttered, changing the subject, “med student is going to miss the arrival of the living dead.”

            Robby glanced over at them again. “How many are we expecting?” he asked, voice serious now.

            “We are getting three, but one died en route. Don’t know who’s luckier, us or them.”

            “What’s open?” Robby asked.

            “14,” Dana replied.

            Y/N got up. “Good luck. I have patients to see,” she muttered, leaving the nurses’ station after Dana gave her a shift change.

-

Y/N was talking to Langdon about a patient, writing down notes as they talked about what she needed to do to care for them, when Robby showed up.

            “Y/N, triathlete, Otis?”

            Y/N glanced up. “He’s stable. Repeat potassium is 6.1. Renal wrote the dialysis order. Tech should be down soon…maybe fifteen minutes,” she told him.

            Robby nodded, looking at her. “Good. Thank you.” Then he glanced over to Langdon. “Language mystery solved yet?”

            Langdon shook his head. “No,” then he sighed before looking up. “Hey, what’s your take on dogs?”

            “In what context?” Robby asked.

            “For kids,” Langdon added.

            “Kids and puppies go together like fish and chips. Man’s best friend, you know?” Robby said, walking around the station to go to one computer.

            “Well, you don’t have a dog.”

            “I don’t have a best friend,” Robby added.

            “What am I?” Langdon hummed.

            “You’re my best resident,” Robby replied. “Big difference.”

            “Yeah, but we’re still friends,” Langdon poked.

            Robby glanced over. “Not if this conversation goes on much longer. Talk to Y/N, she has dogs.”

            Y/N’s head perked up from where she was sitting, looking over to Langdon and Robby. “What?” she asked.

            “You have a dog?” Langdon asked, raising a brow.

            “I have four,” she said with a chuckle.

            “Four?” Langdon gasped, raising a brow. “Four dogs?” he asked again, shocked by her comment.

            “Uh, yeah,” Y/N said with a chuckle.

            “How can you have four dogs?” he asked, raising a brow.

            Y/N glanced around for a moment, then turned slightly in her chair to face Langdon fully, amused. “Easy,” she said. “I don’t have kids. I don’t sleep much. And I live with a man who’s just as much of a softie for strays as I am. We also have a giant piece of land for them to run around and we enjoy being outside.”

            Langdon blinked. “Jack’s a dog guy?”

            Robby snorted but before they could respond, Mel came over asking for Langdon to check in with a four-year-old.

            Y/N continued to type, but she could feel Robby’s eyes on her. “You’re staring,” she stated as she continued to type. “It’s creepy. Stop staring.” Then she glanced at him. Robby said nothing, and Y/N scoffed. “Robby,” she whispered, raising a brow.

            He threw his hands up. “Good work, Ace,” he said with a smile as he went back to work.

-

Y/N was doing her job within the hour, checking on her patients when Otis began to crash. She ran back out to the nurses’ station, catching the eyes of Collins, Robby and Dana.

            “Otis’ BP is crashing. 70 over 50. Still waiting for dialysis,” she announced, nodding to the room that her patient was in.          

            They entered and instantly got to work.

            “How are you doing there, Otis?” Robby asked.

            “Not so good,” he replied.

            A series of beeping was heard from the machine as the patient crashed. Y/N began setting him up.

            “50 litres. Non-rebreather, please,” Robby called out.

            Y/N listened, working alongside them. An ultrasound was done.

            “Fuck,” Y/N muttered, looking over at the ultrasound. “Diastolic collapse of the right atrium and right ventricle,” she muttered before Collins could say anything on the screen.

            “Tamponade from uremic effusion,” Robby muttered.

            “That is why his BP is low?” Santos asked, glancing over to the monitors.

            “Yup, indeed,” Y/N replied. “Too much fluid and pressure around the heart, chambers can’t fill.”

            “Otis, you’ve got some fluid around your heart,” Robby told the patient as Y/N grabbed gloves. “We need to get it off.”

            Y/N lowered the bed, making him flat lying down.

            “25 of Propofol, 10 cc’s of lidocaine with epi, pericardiocentesis tray,” Collins said to Y/N, who nodded.

            “I have to get that from central,” Y/N replied, looking over to Robby.

            “No, no. Just open a central line kit. Dr. Santos takes the head of the bed and bags him if he stops breathing, compressions if we lose the carotid. Prep and drape the subxiphoid, please. 10 cc’s of 1% with,” Robby ordered.

            Y/N nodded, grabbing supplies.

            “Chlorhexidine here.”

            “Injecting lidocaine,” Robby announced before following suite.

            “Pressure down. 60 over 40,” Santos explained.

            Robby grabbed the ultrasound from Collins.

            “Wait, you can’t ultrasound and place,” Collins barked to him.

            “I know, that’s why I’m taking the probe,” Robby replied. “18-gauge thin wall on a 60 cc syringe, please, Dr. Collins. Let’s go,” Robby muttered, looking over to the resident. “You’re going in right over the centre of my probe…” The doctors continued to work as Robby explained the procedure to Collins. Y/N watched.

            Eventually, the patient stabilised.

            However, just before they were stabilised, Y/N ran to the bathroom. Robby watched her cover her mouth and instantly ran out of the trauma room, running across the bay to the bathroom. Dana watched her run as well, dodging co-workers before making her way to the bathroom.

            Opening the door to the bathroom, she kneeled down to the toilet, puking her guts out. Breakfast sandwich and coffee coming back up as she clutched the toilet bowl.  

            The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above her as Y/N stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the toilet, the other holding her hair out of her face as wave after wave of nausea rolled through her.

            The bathroom door opened gently behind her. Soft footsteps. Not rushed. Familiar.

            Dana.

            Without saying a word, Dana stepped in and crouched down beside her, pulling a handful of paper towels, wetting them and placing them gently on Y/N’s back of her neck.

            “Nausea meds didn’t help?” she asked, rubbing her back.

            “Guess not,” Y/N muttered, coughing and wiping her mouth before leaning back against the wall. She took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes.

            “Are you ok?” Dana asked, looking at her.

            “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “I don’t know what set it off, as I was fine.”

            Dana chuckled lowly. “It’s morning sickness, sweetheart, you can’t control when it hits. It’ll be fine. You’ll stop being sick soon at the end of this trimester,” she responded.

            “If this baby stays within me,” Y/N mumbled, not thinking. “If I decide to keep it too.”

            Dana rose a brow. “What does that mean, sweetheart?” she asked, looking at the young nurse.

            Y/N sighed. “It’s not my first time getting pregnant. The other times, I’ve lost it early on,” then she groaned. “I think it’ll be better if I just get an abortion so I can’t go through losing it again.”

            Dana’s expression softened, the sharp edges of her no-nonsense persona melting into something gentler. She reached over and cupped Y/N’s cheek for just a moment, grounding her.

            “Sweetheart,” she said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

            Tears began to brew in her ducts as she looked at the older woman, blinking them away, trying to hold herself together. “No one knows. No ex-partner. Not even Jack knows. Not even Beckett,” she whispered. Then she sighed. “I don’t know what will happen or not. I just…maybe it’s for the best to just get this dealt with and never tell him. But what if I do tell him and he gets so excited then I lose it. I don’t want to go through that again,” she continued to ramble. “I don’t want Jack to go through loss again.”

            Dana sat beside her now, fully next to her, knees cracking slightly as she adjusted on the tile floor. “I get it. I do. But this isn’t something you should carry alone. Not this time.”

            “I don’t want to see that look in his eyes,” Y/N whispered. “The quiet heartbreak. I know he would like kids. He says he’s too old, and he’s ok with my endo, but like I see the way he looks at his sister’s kids or like kids in general. Like he’s wondering what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t missed his shot.” She closed her eyes for a moment to breathe.

            Dana was quiet for a moment before she said, “He loves you. Everything about you. Mess, chaos and all. Hope and heartbreak included. He’s your partner. Your other half. Talk to him. He deserves to know…not the decision, but the truth,” she told Y/N. “Go home. We will be fine without you today,” she suggested.

            Y/N scoffed. “That’s the last place I want to be,” she replied.

            “Let me cover for you for the next hour. Go lie down in on-call. I’ll say you’re charting or looking up labs.”

            “Dana,” Y/N tried.

            “Y/N,” Dana cut her off. “You just ran out of a trauma room and vomited into a toilet. You’re not fine. You’re a damn supernova most days with that brilliant brain of yours, but even stars burn out if they don’t rest,” she replied.

            Before Y/N could reply, there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door.

            “Y/N?”

            Robby’s voice. Low. Concerned and filled with love.

            She closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath, silence happening between them.

            “She’s fine, Robby,” Dana called out.

            A pause happened, then Robby replied, “I’m not leaving until I see that with my own eyes, Dana.”

            Dana turned to Y/N. “You ok if I let him in?” she asked.     

            Y/N wiped her eyes quickly with the sleeve of her scrub top. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Might as well. He’ll probably come in–“

            The door opened, and Robby walked in.

            “My point exactly,” Y/N muttered, looking up to see the older male attending.

            His eyes fell on Y/N instantly, crouched on the floor, pale and sweaty, but clearly alive. His concern deepened.

            “Jesus, Y/N,” he whispered, crouching down beside her, not too close, scanning her face like he was memorising it for changes. “Scared the hell out of me.”

            “Sorry,” she whispered. “Just a rough morning.”

            His brows furrowed. “You ran out on a code. That’s not like you,” he muttered. “What’s happening? You sick?”

            Y/N shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

            “Do you want me to call Jack?” he asked, voice dropping a little bit. A sympathy tone.

            “No,” she said a little too bluntly. “I’m not fucking broken if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m fine. I can work. I just needed to puke. That’s all. I will take an anti-nausea and I’ll be fine. Do not call Jack,” she barked. “Do not even mention this to Jack. I’m not in the mood to deal with this,” she muttered, getting up.

            Robby rose with her, slowly, watching every movement like he expected her to collapse again. “Y/N,” he said, carefully. “I didn’t mean–“

            “I know what you meant,” she snapped, her tone sharp but her body trembling. She leaned against the sink for a moment, catching her breath. “But I don’t need saving.”

            “No one said you did, sweetheart,” Dana replied gently, standing now, smoothing her hands down her scrubs. “We’re just worried.”

            “Well, don’t be. I’ll be right,” Y/N responded as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection betrayed her – pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, hair clinging to her damp forehead. “I’m not your patient. I’m your colleague. I’ll handle it.”

            Robby raised a brow, stepping just a little closer. “If this is just a stomach bug or food poisoning, you’re really overreacting to the offer of help.”

            Y/N glared at him through the mirror. “What are you saying?”

            “I’m saying,” he replied, crossing his arms, and tilting his head, “I’ve known you for far too long. Eight years. You don’t run from a code. You don’t puke in your shift. I have never heard you take a sick day. You don’t bark at people who offer to call your partner unless something is really wrong.”

            Silence.

            Dana cleared her throat. “Robby,” she tried.

            “No, it’s fine,” Y/N interrupted, voice strained. “There is something. But let me deal with it on my own.”

            Robby sighed. “Y/N,” he tried.

            “No. I’ll be right,” Y/N muttered. “I’m ok. I can work. I want to work. Honestly, the next trauma I’m jumping in as I haven’t gotten any blood on my hands yet today.” Robby and Dana slowly nodded. However, they stayed quiet. Y/N turned. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she responded. “Not with you. Or you,” she said, pointing to each of them, “definitely not Jack and definitely not even with myself.”

            “Can you talk to Kiara?” Robby tried, raising a brow.

            “Definitely not her,” Y/N barked. Both of them stayed quiet. “I love you all. I thank you for helping me. I thank you for your care. I thank you for your worry. I just need to deal with this on my own, and Jack will know eventually,” she said, voice softer now. Y/N’s eyes shifted between them. “Do not tell Jack, and if you do, I will make all your lives a personal hell,” she barked before turning to the door and walking out.

            Robby glanced over to Dana once the door clicked shut behind her. “You know what this is, don’t you?” he asked, looking at his nurse.

            Dana crossed her arms and levelled him with a look. “Not my secret to share.”

            Robby sighed, running a hand down his face. “Dana,” he tried.

            Dana snorted. “Do not try to get it out of me?” she warned, shaking her finger. “But she is going through something hard. Something she didn’t think was possible. And the fact that she’s still standing, still showing up, should tell you exactly the kind of woman she is.”

            Robby leaned back against the bathroom wall, arms crossed tightly, staring at the door Y/N had just exited like it might swing back open and explain everything.

            “She said Jack doesn’t even know,” he murmured.

            Dana said nothing.

            “She’s scared,” he added, quieter now. “Not panicked. Not sick. Not spiralling. Just…scared. Jack mentioned something was up with her this morning. He knows something is up.”

            Dana looked over at him, rose a brow.

            “Let me work the problem,” he muttered.

            “She’s not your patient, Michael,” she said sternly.

            He shook his head. “Just hear me out…humour me,” he said, holding his hand up as he began ticking off on his fingers. “Sudden nausea. She was late this morning. No fever. No reported GI outbreak in the hospital. She said she’s not sick. Ran out of trauma. Pale, lightheaded. Avoiding food. And her mood? All over the place.”

            Dana was quiet, arms still crossed.

            Robby held up both hands now. “And don’t even try to say stress, because Y/N thrives under pressure. She doesn’t run. She charges.”

            Silence stretched between them like a wire pulled tight.

            Then, he went softer. “Morning sickness. Hormonal shifts. Emotional volatility.” Robby looked over at Dana now, his voice lower. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

            Dana didn’t even flinch. “That’s not mine to confirm or deny,” she replied.

            “But I’m right,” Robby replied.

            “I did not say that,” Dana warned.

            “You didn’t have to,” his voice wasn’t triumphant; it was heavy. Like the realisation carried more weight than he expected. “Excellent doctor, I am,” he hummed with a smile, winking.

            “Don’t tell Jack,” Dana whispered, voice blunt.

            “Lips are sealed,” he replied, giving her a salute before going back to the outside world of the emergency room. “I am correct, aren’t I?”

[maysileeewrites]

bittersweet symphony || prologue

Haymitch Abernathy x f!reader || series masterlist

Summary: After being reaped as a Tribute for the 61st Hunger Games, you and your mentor Haymitch Abernathy are off to a rather rocky start …

contents: mentions of canon-typical violence, mentions off death; Haymitch being a drunk, snarky asshole; angst; bantering, Haymitch and Reader having a rather rocky start; gratuitous use of Princess as a nickname (you'd better get used to it); age gap! (Haymitch is in his late 20s, Reader is 18 at the start)

w.c: 5.3k (it's worth it, I promise!!)

AN: Here it is! I’m so excited but also incredibly nervous … Also don’t worry, this is in fact a Haymitch/Reader story, but the lovely @imnotcryingyouare1 suggested a way that wouldn’t make Haymitch the only one experiencing guilt for falling in love again and because I like drama and heartbreak and pining, I took it and ran haha. In other words: I really, really hope that you all like the prologue!! 

It’s fascinating how drastically a person’s life can change within just a few seconds. 

A few seconds ago, you were standing together with the other seventeen and eighteen year-old girls, desperately hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be your name that would be drawn from the large glass bowl. 

A few seconds ago, the bittersweet taste of freedom was right there on the tip of your tongue. This is the last year you’re eligible for the Reaping - you were supposed to come out unscathed on the other side. 

A few seconds ago, your heart was slamming against your ribcage and your hands were slick with sweat.

And then, Effie Trinket, your District escort read out your name, and everything changed - all of that within the span of a few seconds. 

Numb with shock, you walk onto the stage in front of the Justice Building, trying to keep your head up high. Trying not to cry, trying not to break down in front of the entirety of District Twelve, and - worse yet - all the cameras. 

You might be from the poorest District in Panem, but you won’t give the Careers and whoever else may be watching the chance to brand you as a weakling already. Though you know that the chances of you actually surviving the Hunger Games are slim to nonexistent, you can’t allow yourself to give up  already. 

And so, you take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as you come to stand next to Effie Trinket.

She’s saying something to you, but her words only register as a light, unpleasant buzzing in your ears. When you don’t respond, she frowns, before plastering a smile back on her face again, walking over to the other bowl of names. 

You bite down hard on your lip, and your hands twist into fists behind your back. 

Not Felix, please. Not Will, please.

Not Felix, not Will. 

Please. 

But Effie calls neither of your little brother’s names out. The relief that both your brothers will be safe for at least another year is only short-lived, though. 

„Kai Foster! Come on up, come on up!“ 

Your eyes widen with shock as you watch your best friend walk up onto the stage, coming to stand right beside you. 

This can’t be happening. Not Kai. Not your best friend. Not the only other boy besides your brothers you hold so close to your heart. 

The only thought that rings through your head as you numbly reach for Kai’s hand is that this can’t be happening. 

This can’t be happening. This was supposed to be your last year, you were supposed to get through this final Reaping together. Both you and Kai are already eighteen, in fact, Kai is turning nineteen in just a few weeks. 

And now, it seems highly unlikely that either of you will ever get to experience another birthday again. 

After the Games, who will be there to look after your little brothers? Ever since your mother died giving birth to Felix, it’s been you and your father looking after the boys, but your father’s a miner and while he’s doing his best to take care of you and your siblings, his work in the mines is already taking a big enough toll on him. Who will be there for your brothers? Who will be there to-

Breath hitching, you square your shoulders. You can’t afford to think like that, not yet. 

Not now. Right now, you have to hold yourself together, at least until you’re safely on the train headed to the Capitol. And so, you concentrate on the touch of Kai’s hand, as you’re looking out at the crowd, trying to hold yourself together. 

Then the Peacekeepers are ushering you off the stage and into the Justice Building, and then you and Kai are separated and you’re brought into a small waiting room, and before you get a chance to sort your spiraling thoughts and compose yourself, your family’s ushered into the small room. 

Your little brother Felix is crying, but Will, who’s only two years older than Felix and yet always trying to act all tough, is trying his hardest to keep himself from crying. He finally breaks when you turn to embrace him as well, begging you not to go, to please come back. 

You can’t lie to him, not to your little brother, and so just hold on to him tighter, catching your father’s gaze. He just gives you a sad, pained smile and somehow, that says more than all the words in the world ever possibly could. 

And then, the Peacekeepers are back again, ushering your family out and even though Felix and Will both cling to you, the Peacekeepers just drag them away, before ushering you out of the Justice Building and into a car that’ll take you to the train station. 

At least Kai is here with you, you think, as he silently reaches for your hand, threading your fingers together. At least he’s here with you as you’re being shipped off to your inevitable deaths together. 

The next few moments pass you by in a blur. Kai and you are being escorted onto the train by Effie Trinket. Her chipper, hyper-positive attitude is quickly starting to get on your nerves and so, you excuse yourself, saying that you just need to be alone right now. Kai shoots you a worried look, but you just shake your head, before heading off to your room. 

For hours, you just lie on your bed, motionless, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts of home, of your family and friends - all people you’re almost certain you’ll never see again, because while you certainly don’t want to die, don’t want to be just another quick, easy kill for the Career, you just know that there’s no real, tangible chance of you possibly winning these Games - race through your head, spiraling and spiraling and spiraling. 

Finally, when you can’t take it anymore, you stand up, feeling dizzy from the sudden, quick motion. You briefly consider going to find Kai, but somehow, you don’t really feel like you could stomach talking to him right now. 

And so, you head off to the compartment you were ushered into earlier that day, thinking that after grabbing a bite of food, maybe you won’t feel so bad anymore. You don’t encounter anyone as you walk through different train compartments, which is probably for the better, seeing how you’re still feeling incredibly dizzy and light-headed and the movement of the train underneath your feet isn’t exactly helping. 

You finally stumble into the dining compartment, only to freeze when you realize that the compartment isn’t empty as you’d been expecting it to be. 

„So, there she finally is.“ 

The words are delivered in a dry, mocking tone, yet there’s a slurred edge to them. Is he ever not drunk?, you find yourself wondering as you look up into the bright, grey eyes of Haymitch Abernathy. 

Haymitch Abernathy. 

The only living Victor of District Twelve.

Your mentor - he’s supposed to coach you, to help you and Kai get through the Hunger Games. The only problem is that he’s not even once managed to keep his tributes alive for longer than the first few days of the Games, which, you suspect, has a lot to do with him being constantly drunk out of his mind. 

He doesn’t seem to take anything in life seriously, especially not his job as a mentor, seeing how he’s failed to show up to the Reapings ever since you can remember. 

He wasn’t there for your own Reaping as well, and somehow, it’s that thought that finally manages to shake you out of your state of numb shock. 

„You were supposed to be there“, you say, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, „you were supposed to be there - you’re our mentor and yet you can’t even give us the grace to show up to our Reaping?“ 

Your voice has gotten louder with each word, and your hands are shaking with anger. 

Your eyes find Haymitch’s grey ones again. 

For a second, you think you see something akin to hurt flash in his eyes, but it’s gone in an instant, and his features twist into a scowl again. 

„Well Princess, I’m sorry for not clearing out my entire schedule for you“, he says, his tone sarcastic and mocking. 

Trying to suppress your anger, you bite down hard on your lip, shaking your head in disbelief. „Really?“, you grit out, „I can’t believe that there would’ve been much to clear.“ 

In reply, Haymitch just laughs. 

He laughs - he actually laughs in your face. 

„You’re unbelievable“, you seethe, not at all caring that he’s your mentor and nearly ten years older than you. 

He’s only twenty-seven - you’re not quiet sure, but you think that he was sixteen when he won his Games eleven years ago -, and while you have to admit that even with all the damage he’s done to his own body with all the drinking, he’s still fairly good-looking, with his short dark curls, tall stature and distinct features, yet the look in his eyes tells you that in his twenty-seven years he’s seen and experienced far more than most people do in a whole lifetime. 

Haymitch’s eyes find yours again, and something he sees in your gaze must get through to him, because he finally stops laughing, his expression turning serious again.

„I don’t really see that it would’ve made much of a difference either way“, he says, shrugging. „You and that boy would’ve still been reaped.“ 

„His name’s Kai.“ 

You expect another condescending reply, but when you look up at Haymitch again, he’s looking at you with a thoughtful expression. 

„Tell me something, Princess - why are you here?“ 

You frown. „Because I was reaped for the-“

„No“, he interrupts you, shaking his head, his gaze locking onto yours, „why are you here?“

„What - I don’t …“, you stammer, backing away from Haymitch , who, even though he’s still standing a few feet away from you, is too close, too close, too close. You feel as if even through his drunk stupor, he sees you, really sees you. He sees too much, way too much, and you just want him to stop looking at you like that. 

But, of course, he doesn’t. „Why are you here?“, he repeats his question again, „why are you here - why are you not in his room, pouring your heart out to your boy- Kai, right?“ 

At your sides, your hands clench into fists, but Haymitch continues talking, not giving you the chance to say anything. „Finally couldn’t take it anymore? Finally caught up with reality, did you now?“ 

„You’re one to talk“, you grit out through your teeth, angrily shaking your head. 

He’s unbelievable. He doesn’t even know you, and yet he just attacks you with all of these presumptions of his. He’s twisting the knife right where it hurts, and you hate him for it. 

For a moment, Haymitch just looks at you, his bright grey ares boring into yours. Then, his lips curl into another crooked grin, and he raises his glass, as if to toast you. „Touché, Princess.“ 

It’s disorienting, the way he’s switched from condescendingly provoking to a twisted, almost sarcastic kind of genuinety in just a few seconds. 

„Stop calling me that, just because you can’t be bothered to remember my name“, you snap, crossing your arms in front of your chest. 

Haymitch chuckles, before saying your name. At that, you quickly turn away from him, trying to hide your surprised expression. „I do know your name“, he says, chuckling again, „it’s just that I think Princess seems much more fitting for Your Highness who demands that I schedule my whole day according to her, wouldn’t you agree?“ 

And just like that, he’s managed to destroy the small inkling of sympathy you might’ve felt for him in these last few seconds. „Well, seeing as you’re supposed to be our mentor, I’d say that it’s not that outrageous a request.“ 

Haymitch doesn’t immediately answer you, instead, he takes another swig of his drink, then swirls the remaining liquor around in the glass. Finally, his eyes find yours again. 

„You really want my advice, Princess? Stop wallowing, and embrace the very unfortunate, very likely possibility of your imminent death once that gong sounds.“ 

You scoff. „Wise words, truly.“ 

Haymitch just shrugs. „You asked for advice, you got it.“ 

You roll your eyes, scoffing again. It seems pretty clear that there’s not much more you’ll get out of Haymitch, at least not right now. Whatever his deal is, you won’t get through to him by trying to appeal to a conscience he may or may not have. 

Normally, you’d up more of a fight. He’s your mentor, and whatever else he may be - a sarcastic, drunken asshole right on top of that list - he’s probably the best chance you’ll get at trying to survive in that arena, like it or not. 

But right now, you don’t particularly feel like trying to crack to complex riddle of Haymitch Abernathy. Right now, you’re just glad that your anxious thoughts have finally stopped spinning and you’re really looking forward to truly lying down in your bed and to finally just fall asleep. 

Your father always says that things look brighter in the morning, and maybe that’s true. 

Tomorrow, you promise yourself, as you walk towards the table holding all of the fancy liquor bottles. Tomorrow, you’ll talk to Haymitch, really talk to him. 

And so you take a glass, before reaching for a bottle on the table. You can feel Haymitch watching you, his own glass still between his long fingers, as you open the bottle. 

„So, I take it that you’re not in the mood for advice anymore?“, he asks you dryly. 

You laugh darkly. „No. I’ve had a shitty day, and right now, I just need a drink.“ 

Haymitch considers you for a second, before waking closer towards you and setting his glass down right next to yours on the table. „Well, there’s something I can help you with.“ 

You don’t bother with a reply, instead only rolling your eyes, trying to fight off the smile that’s tugging at the corner of your lips.  

Once you’ve finished pouring both glasses, you take yours, watching as Haymitch takes his as well. For a moment, you consider him, then you hold out your glass towards him. 

Haymitch raises his eyebrows at you, but then there’s that crooked grin of his again and you almost feel like grinning as well. „Well, what are we toasting to?“ 

„Staying alive“, you say, shrugging. 

Haymitch considers you for a second, then clinks his glass against yours. „Well, I’ll drink to that.“ He downs the contents of his glass in one swig. The same definitely can’t be said for you. Even before actually drinking the liquor, your eyes start burning. Then the sharp, almost acidic taste hits your tongue, and you immediately start coughing. How Haymitch willingly chooses to drink that stuff with abandon is beyond you. 

Haymitch watches you, chuckling. When you shoot him a dark look, he only shrugs, but his expression quickly turns serious again. 

He clears his throat. „Listen, Princess. If you stay off my case, I’ll - I’ll do my best to help you.“ 

You raise your eyebrows, looking at him. His expression’s sincere, his grey eyes are searching yours. He really does seem to mean it. 

So you nod, allowing a small smile. „Deal. But only if you stop calling me Princess.“ 

Haymitch just chuckles. „I fear it’s far too late for that, Princess.“ 

🏹☀

The next few days pass you by in a dizzying blur of differing impressions. It seems that at every corner you’re meeting new people. 

First, the morning on the train after your nightly run-in with Haymitch, there’s Effie Trinket, your District Escort. Of course, you’ve already met her the day before, but you weren’t really paying attention then, only registering that her forced positive attitude gets extremely annoying really fast. You still find her forced brightness and her constant exclamations of it being a ‚big, big, big day! for you and Kai‘ incredibly irritating, but you soon realize that underneath that flashy Capitol accent and all her twisted beliefs of the world of Panem, there’s actually a genuinely kind soul underneath. 

Even more surprising is the fact that Haymitch seems to know her. Of course, with him being Twelve’s only living victor and her being your District’s escort, he has to know her, but these two seem to know each other in more than just a superficial way. 

When you try to ask Haymitch about it, he avoids your searching gaze, only saying that him and Effie do indeed go way back. 

You want to press on the subject, but with the way he’s crossing his arms in front of his chest and still refusing to look directly at you, it’s clear that he’s not willing to say more on the subject. So, you just sigh, before walking back towards the breakfast table. 

At least Haymitch actually showed up to breakfast. You’re pretty sure that you’ve seen him spike his juice earlier, but still, he’s here. And he’s actually making an effort with both you and Kai, asking you about your strengths and skills and warning you that the Games don’t just start in the Arena - they’ll start the minute you get off this train. In fact, they’ve already started the moment you were reaped. From here on out, every single move either one of you makes will be watched, studied, analyzed. Public perception is key and public goodwill an advantage not to be underestimated.  

After breakfast, Haymitch’s the first one to excuse himself from the table, leaving the train compartment - not before picking up another bottle of liquor and winking at your irritated expression. 

You don’t have time to dwell on his behavior, though, because Kai’s already turned towards you. „Glad to see that you’re feeling better. Not to say that this doesn’t suck immensely, but, well - you know …“, he trails off, smiling sheepishly. 

You can’t help but grin as well, feeling blood rush to your cheeks when Kai continues to look at you with a soft, warm look in his eyes. 

„I know“, is all you say. Really, it’s all you need to say, even though the words somehow feel like both too much and not nearly enough all ot once. 

You’ve known Kai practically your whole life. He’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember. What else is there left to say, really? 

For a short, fleeting moment, doubt creeps into your mind. 

The truth is that there are things you could talk about. Things still left unsaid. 

Like how you’re not all that sure anymore whether what you feel for him is really best described as friendship. There’ve been those moments - moments where you’ve felt breathless just from the way he was smiling at you. Or when he’d gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear and your heart would start beating wildly in your chest.

You’re not really sure whether those are normal things to feel when in the presence of your best friend, but the thing is that there’s no point in dwelling on these thoughts, not now. 

Just as you’re most likely never going to see your family ever again, you’re also most likely never going to have a chance to explore those new feelings. 

„- hey, you still with me?“ 

Kai chooses that moment to break the silence and you’re glad to have your thoughts interrupted. 

You blink, forcing a pained smile on your face. „Yeah, it’s just - I … I ..“, you trail off, unable to put your thoughts into words. 

But Kai only nods, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. „Yeah, I know.“ 

Your eyes lock and when he squeezes your hand again, you somehow feel less awful. Kai’s always been that for you - a bright, hopeful spot in your otherwise dreary world. 

And he continues to be that for you during the next few days in the Capitol. 

He’s there for you, all the time. He never lets go of you, his hand is always there to catch you. 

When you stop off the train and are swarmed by Capitol citizens who all want to get to know this year’s tributes. He guides you through the crowd of eager, overbearing Capitol citizens, never once letting go of your hand. 

Then, before you’re both sent off to your prep teams, he hugs you, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, promising you that it’s going to be alright, somehow. 

With his words in mind, you manage to get through the grueling procedure - you’re washed and scrubbed and cleaned until your entire skin feels irritated. At least your prep team isn’t so bad. Sure, they’re self-absorbed, somehow managing to make everything about the Hunger Games about themselves, but at least they treat you with some respect. Your stylist’s alright as well, though she puts you in the same baggy miners outfits the District Twelve tributes have been put into during these last few years. 

After being deemed as presentable for the parade, you are reunited with Kai. There’s no time to talk though, because you’re already ushered into your chariot, surrounded by all the tributes from the other Districts. 

To you, the parade’s a blur of faces and voices and your heart beating wildly in your chest, but through it all, Kai is holding your hand, steadying you, grounding you. 

„Nice touch with the hand-holding“, Haymitch tells you, as soon as you’re all back in your rooms above the training center. „The people loved it.“ 

You just nod, though you could swear that Kai’s cheeks are turning rather pink. When you try to catch his gaze, though, he turns away, excusing himself and saying that he needs to go to the bathroom. 

Then, it’s just you and Haymitch. For a moment, neither one of you says anything. 

Haymitch’s eyes find yours. He looks as if he’s debating whether to say something, but then he just sighs, and that crooked grin of his is back. „Well, you should get some rest, Princess. The next few days are going to be crucial.“ 

And with that, he leaves you as well. 

For a moment, you just stand there, looking at his retreating form, but then you decide to heed his advice and to try and get some rest. 

Only that sleep evades you for hours. That first night in the Capitol you lay awake for hours, tossing and turning. Several times the thought of going over to Kai’s room, seeking his comforting presence, crosses your mind, but you decide against it every time. He’s got enough to deal with on his own, you don’t want to distract him as well. And, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re also afraid of what might happen if you decide to completely let your guard down around Kai. 

Like that one evening in the woods, some months ago, when - 

No, there’s no point in thinking about that now. Not when come morning you’re both going to be prepared for you own death. 

So, you turn over, but still, sleep evades you. You lie awake for the better part of the night, only dozing off for a few minutes at a time, until thoughts about the fate of your family or what might await you in the arena rouse you with a chilling clarity. 

The following days, it’s the exact same thing every night. 

Every evening, after a grueling day of long training sessions with the other tributes, followed by private sessions with Haymitch and Effie - Haymitch does his best to give you and Kai strategy pointers for the Games and your interview, whereas Effie concerns herself with preparing you and Kai for your interview, teaching you important Capitol manners - you’re beyond exhausted. Your head feels fuzzy and there’s barely any strength left in your body to step underneath the shower and then out of the bathroom and into your bed. But the moment your head hits the pillow, you suddenly feel wide awake, plagued by anxious thoughts of what-ifs about the Games and your loved ones back at home. 

It’s the worst the night after the interviews - the last night before the Games. 

You toss and turn for hours, scenes of the last few days replaying in your mind over and over again.

The way Kai always encouraged you during training. The way Flora and Dalton, the tributes from District Eleven - both only twelve, so incredibly young - started following you and Kai around during training. How you eventually agreed to an alliance with them, even though Haymitch tried his hardest to convince you otherwise. But you and Kai stayed strong, wanting to protect the little ones, as Kai soon took to calling them. Soon enough, the tributes from seven and nine had joined your alliance as well, their tributes not as young as Flora and Dalton, but all still younger than you and Kai. When you’d told Haymitch about Cassie, Finn, Sarah and Lucas joining your alliance, he’d only sighed, shaking his head at you. 

„Well, I guess that no matter what I’ll say, you’re not going to reconsider?“ 

„Definitely not“, you’d replied, crossing your arms in front of your chest. 

Haymitch had sighed again, though this time it sounded far more weary than just simply frustrated. „Well, I did try to warn you“, was all he’d said, before pouring himself another drink, effectively signaling the end of that particular conversation.  

Remembering that conversation with Haymitch has doubt creeping back into your mind. What if he was right in trying to discourage you from forming that alliance? What if, if it comes down to it, you won’t be able to protect all these kids? You’re fast and aced the edible plants station at training, and though you’re not entirely useless when it comes to throwing a knife, when it really comes down to it, you’re not much of a fighter. 

Kai, having had to learn how to hunt illegally to in the foods to provide for his family years ago, is good with a bow and arrow and with setting traps, but who’s to say that the arena will even have a bow and arrows? 

What if it’s like that arena a few years ago, when the whole place was a desert? What if there won’t be any weapons at all? And even if there were, there’s still the biggest question of all that’s gnawing at you - would you actually use a weapon to end another life, even if it’s self-defense or to save someone else? 

Because no matter how you might try to spin it, telling yourself that you swore to protect those kids, that you want to protect Kai or that you just want to survive - in the end, it’s still another life you’re taking, just to preserve another one. 

Suddenly, you can’t take it anymore. Your thoughts are spinning and you feel too hot underneath your sheets, so you throw them aside, standing up and leaving your room in a split-second decision. 

You have no idea of where you want to go, you just know that you can’t spend even another second in that room right now. 

In the hallway, you cross your arms in front of your chest, trying to fight off the chilly night air. Where just seconds ago, your hands were sweating and you were feeling way too hot underneath your sheets, you’re starting to freeze in your thin, satin nightclothes. They’re pretty, the fabric’s incredibly soft and they’re probably more expensive than all the clothes you own back at home put together, but they’re doing nothing to ward off the chill you’re feeling. You really should’ve grabbed a sweater to throw on over your night clothes. 

Uncertainly, you turn towards Kai’s room. 

„Can’t sleep either?“ 

You freeze. Even without turning around, you know that it’s Haymitch standing in the Hallway with you, not Kai. 

„I mean, I get it, last night before the Games and all …“ 

Slowly, you turn back around. Haymitch is standing just a few feet away from you, arms crossed in front of his chest, a small bottle of liquor in his right hand, like always. 

He looks like he’s about to say something more, but before he gets the chance to, you quickly say: „Please, not right now Haymitch.“

Your voice sounds raw and uncertain, not exactly the strong, defiant tone you were aiming for. But you really can’t handle another one of his signature sarcastic remarks, not right now, not when thoughts about what awaits you in the Arena and what might happen to your loved ones back at home have been plaguing you for hours already. 

Haymitch looks ready to retort something, but then his eyes find yours, and his expression seems to soften. „Don’t worry Princess, I was just going to say that you should really get some rest … you know, get your beauty sleep and all that.“ 

Somehow, you find yourself laughing dryly. „Beauty sleep, yeah, right.“ 

Haymitch’s eyes widen when he hears you laugh and he grins as well, but then his expression turns serious once more. „I mean it, though. Adrenaline’s only gonna get you through everything for so long.“ 

You sigh tiredly. „I know, it’s just - I can’t stop thinking about … about … about-“

„About what the arena might be like?“, Haymitch interrupts you, a knowing look in his eyes. „About how your family and friends back home are doing? What you’ll do if one of your allies doesn’t make it out of the bloodbath alive?“ 

He trails off, and for a moment, neither one of you says anything. Haymitch’s grey eyes find yours again, and suddenly his eyes seem to be full of guilt and regret. 

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his dark curls. „Look, Princess, I know that that’s not the answer you want to hear, but I don’t have the answer to any of these questions, and neither do you. And driving yourself crazy over all of the what-ifs isn’t going to do you any favors.“ 

You nod, sighing. „I know. I - I know that, I - it’s just … “

„You can’t help it“, he finishes your thought, and you nod again. 

You look at him again, and something in his expression seems to shift then. There’s a dark, heavy look in his eyes, and his lips quirk into a twisted grin. „Look, I won’t - I can’t make any promises, because who knows what these Gamemakers might have up their sleeve, but trust that I’ll be looking out for you and these kids, alright?“ 

You want to say something in reply, but suddenly your throat feels all chocked-up. There’s pressure behind your eyes as well, and you blink heavily. Haymitch thankfully doesn’t comment on it, instead averting his gaze, as you try to compose yourself again. 

„I - thank you, Haymitch really“, you finally manage to say, your voice sounding small. 

Haymitch just nods, still avoiding your gaze. „Don’t thank me just yet, just - try to stay alive, because that would make my job a whole lot easier, you know?“ 

You can’t help but roll your eyes at his words, scoffing. „I’ll try my best.“ 

„Good. And now try to get some rest, you need it“, he says, his gaze serious once more. 

You nod. „Yes, I will - I - good night, Haymitch.“ 

„Good night, Princess.“ 

For a moment, he looks at you, but then he turns around and starts to walk away. 

„Oh, and Haymitch“, you say, causing him to turn back around to look at you again, „any last advice?“ 

His grey eyes find yours, an emotion in them you that can’t quite decipher. For a moment, you find yourself unable to look away from him and you can feel your heart starting to beat faster in your chest. 

Haymitch holds your gaze, nodding, a sad smile on his lips.

„Stay alive, Princess.“ 

taglist: @sundawn1990 @star611 @psychicfartvendor @madz22 @pervigilatrix @bemissconstrued @neonawax @not-the-teen-witch @luvlyluxx @cocastyle @mannythemunchkin @alitaar @juiceboxfullofslime @imonmyvigilanteshh @queenofnightdreamland @chenellearose @bluecookies08 @laramcflyyyy @nikki-is-a-nerd @jaybbygrl @face-the-grace-blog @knights-of-ni @mel3484 @heidiland05 @qtkarma @things-i-will-never-say-to-you @yoursrosie @theseerbetweenus @nyra-42 @eatmyheartdear @jarofshells @helenasarrow @takemeoutkc

read the next chapter here!

[luveline]

hotch’s daughter and him looking thru baby n childhood pics n realizing just how much they missed angst (her missing out on having a present father n him missing out on raising her)

Aaron’s winded when he sees you that morning. You’re smiling, in sweatpants and a hoodie with a bag on your shoulder that promises an overnight stay, but what hits hardest is the way you light up when he opens the front door. He sees you coming through the window and can’t wait for you to knock. 

“Hey, honey, you’re early!” he says. 

“I know,” you say, stopping just a paving stone away, “but I got this magic jigsaw for Jack that I thought he’d like. Once you complete it you can move it around and create a new jigsaw in the middle.” You smile. “You look happy. Good breakfast?” 

“I’m happy to see you, that’s all.” 

You cross that last step. “Thanks, dad.” You bite your bottom lip, ever so slightly bashful. 

He literally couldn’t be happier. “Did you eat?” 

Aaron brings you inside. Jack is already awake and eating his second breakfast in a meandering picking by the TV. 

You love being a big sister. It’s all the more endearing. “Hey, babe. What are you upto?” you ask. 

Jack whirls and sends a couple of grapes flying. “Oh my gosh yes!” he says, to your laughter and Aaron’s disbelief. He races across the rug in a blur of blue pyjamas to wrap himself around your thighs, face pressed to your hip. “You’re here!” 

“We said Saturday sleepover, right?” 

You get down on your knees to hug him. Your arms around his back, your face to his, you aren’t as rough as you could be —how do sisters hug their brothers? Aaron doesn’t know. But you rub his back in a gentle up and down and lower your voice to say hello. “Hi, Jack. You’re happy to see me?” 

“I’m so happy.” 

“Me too, I’m so happy. I brought you something.” 

“A present?” Jack asks, leaning out of your arms. 

“Not really, it’s for me and you, but I brought you cookies too.” 

“Dad,” Jack says, “can we have some?” 

Aaron holds up a finger. One cookie is enough sugar for the morning. “We can have a couple more after dinner tonight, okay?” 

You take the cookies from your bag, a huge box of palm-sized cookies, chocolate chips shaped like stars, the best kind of indulgence from the bakery not far from here. Aaron catches a look at the inside of your bag, spying a slim white photo album against your weekly medication divider and the plastic wrapped jigsaw puzzle. 

“What’s the album?” he asks. 

“Oh.” You slide your thumb along the sticker that seals the cookies and crack them open for Jack to take his spoils. “They’re my baby photos.” 

He stills. “They are?” 

“And some of me growing up.” You tip your head at him and smile. A little shy, more happy. “I was thinking about Jack, how we both do that chokey laugh when we’re tired, and I wondered if we had any other similarities. And then I realised you’ve never actually seen any of my photos. Would you want to look at them?” 

“Please,” he says immediately. “Yes. I’d love to see them.” 

You lay the album out on the coffee table. Aaron sits beside you on the couch, and Jack sits on his feet, and together you look through your baby album one page at a time. At first, he’s quiet. He has no idea what to say. You are a beautiful kid, you’re perfect, little baby you with a pacifier on your tummy, or in the summer sun with mud on your little hands, wearing a pink dress with matching canvas shoes and a smile so wide he can see all your baby teeth, or sitting beside a fish tank with a party hat on. 

His favourite is a photograph of you that’s been printed oddly, more sepia than colour, where you look to be eight or nine years old. He can see everything in your adult face right there in ink, your smile, the trusting warmth in your eyes when you love the person it’s directed at. Maybe he’s full of himself, but he swears it’s his smile, and Jack’s smile. Hotchner through and through. 

“I wish I’d seen you in person,” he says quietly. “Just once.” 

You tease the photograph from the plastic sleeve and offer it to him. “Sorry.” 

He doesn’t want you to be sorry. Aaron takes the photograph and stares at it against his leg, your little face, your hands behind your back, your left knee wrapped in a bandage. “We missed out on so much,” he says softly. 

“I know.” 

He places the photo on the armrest, precious and needing a frame. You melt into his arm as he wraps it around your shoulder, and you let him kiss your temple, even if he doesn’t deserve to do it yet. He’s polite about it, he knows his sincerity might feel gratuitous to you —after all, he missed out on so much. But you don’t go rigid at his affection, you just breathe. 

“I would’ve loved to have seen it,” he says, too old for tears, and yet a warmth collects behind his eyes anyhow. He won’t cry, only the feeling is there and aching as you move back and give him a typical Hotchner smile. Like he’s being silly, and like you love him. 

“It’ll be okay,” you say, “you’ve got, what, a good ten years left? You can see my golden years.” 

He laughs suddenly. “Ten? How old do you think I am?” 

“You act like you’re nearing seventy.” 

“Oh, I do?” 

You roll your eyes and lean across the photo album for another cookie. “You do! I wish we didn’t have to wait so long to meet, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. You won’t find me so charming in a few years, so don’t worry. Now, could you leave me and Jack alone for a bit? I’m trying to sneak him another cookie and you’re getting in the way.” 

Aaron hugs you whether you want him to or not, a tight squeeze that you always seem to enjoy, before doing as you’ve asked, promising to find the jigsaw board in the garage so you and Jack can start the newest one. 

“Did you miss him?” he hears Jack asks inexplicably. 

“Who, dad?” Aaron watches you from the door that leads into the garage. He can only see your hands from this angle, your left one landing on Jack’s shoulder for a small squeeze. “I missed him so much you couldn’t believe it.” 

“Thank you for the cookie.” 

“You’re welcome! I missed you too, you know? I have to make up for all my lost time being your big sister. Here, you can hide this one in your pocket, if you want. Just don’t forget it’s there.” 

[charcoaldustonmyfingers]

Splinter mutation speculation! This one is actually pretty old, I drew it before I did all that research on turtles :)

Fun facts about rats: When they are happy, they do a thing called bruxing and boggling, wherein they will grind their teeth together sometimes to the point where the muscles of their jaw make their eyes wiggle in their sockets. They also don’t have paw pads the way dogs or cats do, but instead have little bumps of thicker skin. Look up happy pet rats, they’re absolutely adorable!

These are mostly just my head canons for Splinter as an old jokester with a messed up past trying to do better for the future. We don’t actually see much of him in the show despite dialogue refrencing his daily lessons and his great ‘embarrassing dad’ comedy, so I wanted to speculate of how he might be when the cameras not rolling, per se. It’s tough being the single father of four teenagers without the help of a community, but the brothers are pretty well adjusted (relatively speaking) and are loving towards each other and open to others.

In terms of his anatomy though, while rats may look chubby, it’s in part because of their curved spine and rodent posture. They can get pretty slim when they stretch out. It may be because of these changes to his skeleton that Splinter seemingly shank so much from his human form, while still having the strength to beat people up despite his age. He also made a vow to stop fighting in the Battle Nexus leading to his eventual mutation, which he does break when his kids are on the line, but could be a reason as to why he avoided many of their squabbles in the show? Who knows!

There’s a lot to work with from little characterizations, and it’s fun to see all the different interpretations of his character!

[General][Raph][Donnie][Leo][Mikey]

[freddie-duchess-of-shipping]

one thing i noticed abt sinners that really stood out to me was that none of the juke joint group thought of sacrificing sammie. like it didn’t even enter their heads.

even when sammie tried to sacrifice himself after remmick promises to leave once he has him, smoke (fresh after his second encounter with the newly turned stack, his twin brother who he did everything for for their entire lives, telling him to join them) pulls him back inside. pearline grabs onto him. slim mouths off to stack.

now, i know what you’ll say- “oh, smoke’s sammie’s big cousin. annie wouldn’t have give any of them up, especially sammie. pearline was in love with sammie. of course, they wouldn’t give him up”. that, i get.

but what about grace and slim?

grace and slim, in the film’s context, had no reason to not give him up. grace was deeply worried and terrified over what would happen to lisa, still alone in the town while she was stuck in the juke joint till sunrise, and by all means, slim had no obligation to protect sammie, or protect anyone in the joint, really. he could’ve offered, even half-jokingly, half-fearfully, to give sammie to them, or tried to get sammie to give himself up, again. grace could’ve, as well.

but what happened, instead?

grace doesn’t breathe a word about sammie, doesn’t even suggest they take the offer, even when remmick basically says that if they give him sammie, they’ll all leave (she doesn’t know if that’s true, but she doesn’t know it’s not). she screams, she cries in her grief and rage, but she only dooms the juke once her desperation reaches a fever pitch, once it enters her mind that her- their- only option is to fight, and take all of the undead down with them. she’s consumed and burning, but she doesn’t turn it into sammie, even if it would’ve made sense for her to do so.

and slim? slim goes out of his way to protect sammie, to take him under his wing. he tells sammie that he doesn’t have to worry, that the devil (remmick, in this case) will “have to go through his old friend, delta slim”. slim chooses to stay behind to buy sammie- to buy all of them-, a chance to escape, knowing he wasn’t going to make it to sunrise. but he did it anyway.

and that? that’s community. that’s solidarity. that, even, is family.

[bxunyx]

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬

MDNI

Pairing-Bo Chow x Smoke&Stack sister

Summary-Lou comes back form New York after almost a year and runs into Bo at her brothers juke joint

A/N: This one was a bit challenging since I’m not too familiar with writing Bo, but he got the most votes! I think the next one will be about Stack—I just need to come up with a good idea. I hope you all love this one, lovelies!

Words-804

This doesn’t follow the exact movie

Clarksdale ain't changed. Not really.

Same dust sticks to your boots. Same cotton ghosts flutter on the wind. Same creaky wood porch groans under my boots as I step inside the juke joint for the first time in almost a year.

But everything feels different.

Maybe it's me.

New York taught me how to walk faster, talk tougher, laugh tougher. But it did not teach me how to forget Bo Chow.

The juke joint sizzles as I come in. It's late. Delta slim at the piano. Stacks tending bar, mixing a drink. Faces turn to look, but it's not the looks I feel.

It's his eyes.

Bo's sitting in the back, near smoke who had his arm around Arna. He hasn't seen me yet.

Then—

Slim played the song me and Bo first danced to. That same damn song. My heart leaps into my throat.

He turns.

And Lord, that man still resembles a sin wrapped in Sunday starch. Vest snug over his physique, sleeves rolled like he's about to fight or fall. When our eyes meet, the entire room fades away.

He doesn't blink.

Neither do I.

The last time I saw him, I was boarding a train with tears running down my face. His kiss still burning at the nape of my neck . I was telling myself it was best. Telling myself that distance would help make it better.

But to be honest, I’m not really sure I even know what ‘easier’ means.

He approaches me slowly, as if he's afraid I'm gonna leave.

"Lou," he whispers, my name spilling out his mouth.

"Hey, Bo."

"Come back to stay?"

"I shrug. "Didn't come back to leave."

We are this close. The music whizzes between us.

"You still like this song?" he ask, tone slightly raspy.

I nod.

"You see," he begins, "I still recall that night. That storeroom. That gleam through the burlap. That kiss."

I laugh, softly. "I remember thinking one kiss wasn't enough."

He glances at me, eyes deep and tired but blazing. "Still ain't."

And then—

he does it.

One step closer. One breath space between us. He kisses me.

It's different now. Not stolen or forbidden. Not rushed like last time.

It's something else.

It's ours.

Smoke's voice breaks the music at our backs. "Y'all gonna make folks talk."

I turn, laughing over my shoulder. "Let 'em."

Because this time, I ain't hidin'. Not from the world. Not from my brothers. Not from this man.

Because sometimes one kiss is all it takes to know where you're supposed to be.

And I know I belong here.

Later that night, after the crowd had thinned and Smoke and Stacks closed up, Bo asked to give me a ride home.

But we didn't go to my house.

We were in his—the quiet, naked backroom of the store, where time waited. Where the world didn’t even dare knock.

The light on the shelf was burning low, casting shadows across the jars and ledgers. He stood near the door as if he wasn't sure he could step—like I would vanish again.

"I missed you," he said.

"I know," I whispered. "I missed you, too."

He moved towards me slowly, always wary, his hands hovering at my waist before settling. "You real?" he asked, his voice rough with something tender.

"Come and find out," I told him.

And he did.

His hands found my back, then my neck, then my face. His thumbs curled under my jawline, lifting my head, and the kiss that followed was not desperate. It was tender. It was a slow relearning. A rewriting of the memory.

He kissed as he prayed—deeply, reverently, patiently.

Clothing dropped away like secrets. Abutton at a time. A breath at a time. No rush, just… worship. His fingers skimmedover the revealed flesh of my belly asthough he were remembering me. Mapping old ground with new devotion. My dress fell softly, pooling at my feet, and his eyes never wavered from my face.

He led me to the cot against the window, the frayed sheets crisp. The evening air blew in through the slats in the wood, soothing the burn of us.

He kissed the space at the hollow of my throat. My shoulder. My ribs.

"Still know you" he breathed into my skin.

I arched into him, tugging him down, exhaling his name like it had been trappedin my chest all these months.

As he eased into me, it wasn’t hard or rough—it was slow, like a melody you never want to end. His hips moved slow, deep, and smooth, and I had his face cupped in my hands like he was something fragile. He moved in and out of me like he was committing every quiver, every breath to memory.

And when we came, it was together—quiet, shaking, clinging to each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Afterward, he wrapped himself around me, his arm under my neck, one around my waist. I made circles on his chest.

One kiss only.

I smiled into his skin.

No—just one would never be enough.

[justjudethoughts]

The hardest part about recovering from Religious OCD is that you are eventually going to have to make the most terrifying leap of faith in the world: to admit that you have done all you can, and trust that God is going to take care of the rest.

For someone who has never experienced OCD, that probably doesn't sound scary at all. But believe me, when you seriously believe that your immortal soul is on the line, that kinda of trust take every last thing you have.

To trust that He wants you in heaven more than you want to be in heaven. To trust that He knows how much you love Him, even when you think that you aren't positive that you love Him. To trust that jumping through hoops isn't what gets you to heaven—His arms are.

For a Catholic, that probably looks like trusting your loved ones when they tell you that you don't need to go to confession. "Okay, but what if I did that time, and it happens to be the ONE time I wasn't obsessing?" 1) the likelihood of that happening is slim to none BUT 2) if it did, do you really think a God Who is love and mercy itself would hold that against you? Don't you know that He knows how confused and scared you are? Don't you know that He knows that you are trusting your loved ones because your brain can't be trusted? Don't you know that He knows that you love Him so much you want to never, ever, ever hurt Him, and you are just trying to be healthy? That is the leap of faith you have to make.

For an Evangelical, it likely looks like doing your best to dismiss questions about whether or not you are saved. You did what you knew to do. You repented, you were baptized, you love God and you are continuing to seek Him out. "But what if I didn't repent right?" --- If you weren't repentant, you wouldn't be worried about it. You love Jesus with everything in you. I know you do. Because if you didn't, you wouldn't be sobbing over the sinner's prayer, trying to say it "correctly." Jesus knows. Jesus knows Your heart, and He came to earth for you, and the misfiring neurons in your brain are not going to be what determines your eternal salvation. He wants you. And you want Him. And that's enough. That's your leap of faith.

And some point, you have to throw your hands in the air and say "Jesus, I did everything I can. I'm scared, and I'm confused, and I don't understand anything, and I don't know what to do anymore. So will you figure it out for me?" And rest in that. Because He will figure it out for you. You don't need to be solving all those mental puzzles. He knows the answers.

He is not mad at you for being confused. He is not upset with you for being scared. He is not angry that you don't have all the answers. Righteousness is not necessarily determined by clarity. He is not impatient with you for being a little lost. He does not begrudge you for your illness.

That is the scariest leap of faith you will ever take. But brothers and sisters, there is freedom on the other side. There is joy on the other side. And Christ will catch you when you jump.

[hoetachi]

LOVEHAPPY — E. (SMOKE) MOORE

➠ modernau! smoke x blk! reader

➠ mulan’s input; this song by the carters was on loop as well as int’l players anthem and the idea of a big luxurious wedding had me cheesing

➠ cw; in this annie passed unfortunately, n-word usage, smoke has cherophobia (yes, ik im evil yall), stack just being the best (& worst) best man

“big pimpin’ settlin’ down!? can you believe this nigga, sammie!?” stack chuckled as he readjusted his twin’s tie. smoke gave a small smile, but it barely shifted the knit in his brows as he returned to his thoughts. todays a big day— the biggest day for him and you… so why do he feel—

“we all knew you was the one really pimpin’, nigga. you was wildin’ last night,” sammie teased. “lucky mary ain’t see what I saw,” he added, cutting his eye at his older cousin.

“hey, y’know what the smokestack twins do to snitches?”

“do what?”

“shoot ’em in the ass,” they both said in unison, dead serious.

“go make sure cornbread is actually watchin’ over the bride’s door. knowin’ his ass, he got slim ol’ ass sittin’ drunk at it,” stack ordered, smacking his younger cousin in the back of the head playfully as he sent him out.

once sammie left the room, stack turned back to his twin, giving him a once-over.

“nah, for real though, big pimpin’…” stack’s grin softened as he dusted off his brother’s shoulders. “i’m proud of ya’”

“’preciate it…” smoke smiled sheepishly, eyes flicking to the mirror in front of him.

stack exhaled, pulling in his lips like he was bracing himself. like what he was about to say could shift the whole energy of the room.

“i know it was a lot to open up again after annie…” his voice dropped. “she was a great woman. epitome of a great wife.”

a long silence held them. smoke stared at his reflection—royal blue tux hugging his frame, a white magnolia tucked in his lapel like a whisper from heaven.

“i believe y/n is the best woman a man with blood on his hands could pray for,” smoke finally said.

then, quieter, “i just hope i’m the answer to her prayers.”

he turned, meeting his twin’s gaze head-on

3 years earlier

the hospital room smelled faintly of clean linen and antiseptic. the machines beeped soft and steady, but every tick of the clock felt louder than it should.

smoke sat beside annie’s bed, his large hand engulfing hers, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. her body looked fragile, but her eyes—when they opened—still held that same flame. faint, yes. but not gone.

“eli…” she murmured, her voice brittle, like a memory hanging on thread.

he leaned closer. “yeah, baby?”

a soft smile curled her lips, small and tired. “you look like ya’ already buried me.”

smoke swallowed hard. “don��t talk like that.”

“i gotta,” she whispered. “you hardheaded. and i can’t haunt your ass if i don’t get the last word.”

she paused, shifting her hand slightly in his. “eli… you gotta stop thinkin’ love is punishment.”

he tried to speak, but she shook her head gently.

“you ever heard that old saying? ‘when the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind.’”

he blinked. “what that mean?”

she smiled again—this time with a quiet pride. “it means love that’s real… it don’t break when life blow through. it bend. it sway, but it don’t fall. we had roots, eli. me and you, but you gotta let somebody plant new ones with you. someday.”

his jaw clenched, but his voice cracked when he finally spoke. “ain’t nobody gon’ love me like you.”

“no,” she whispered. “they not s’posed to.”

a silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythm of her breathing, slower now.

“just promise me…” she said, breath hitching, “you’ll let yourself grow again. you deserve to grow. to bloom into something beautiful..”

smoke bowed his head to her hand, tears soaking into her wrist as her fingers curled one last time around his

present day

smoke exhaled slow. the weight in his chest wasn’t gone, but it had shifted—become something steadier.

“when the roots are deep…”

he looked into the mirror, fingertips brushing the magnolia pinned near his heart.

“i’m still growin’, baby,” he whispered. “and I think I finally found good soil.”

stack’s voice came from the doorway, warm and steady. “e, don’t let that cherophobia ruin this damn day for you,” he strolled over to his other half, “‘cuz i spent too much on a damn suit that ain’t even my favorite color” he complained

“but what if someone objects? o-or she has second thoughts and gets cold feet?” smoke’s once relaxed features now etched with paranoia; gripping him like a vice

stack just sighed, smirk tugging at the corner as he shook his head. “1. i don’t think that’s how that works, especially at weddings and 2. sounds like you’re the one gettin’ the chills in ya big toe,”

stack watched his brother spiral in silence for a moment—eyes darting, lips tight, fear creeping up like smoke from an old fire. then he stepped forward and pressed his weight on him like a ragdoll, locking his eyes on his twin in the mirror

“look at me, e.”

smoke raised his eyes slowly.

“she chose you, my nigga. ain’t no bluff, no charity, no ‘maybe.’ she know who you are, who you was, what you used to do and she still wanna meet you at the altar. that mean somethin’.” he jabbed a finger right where the magnolia was pinned against smoke’s chest.

smoke stared at it, silent, trying to breathe past the knot in his throat.

stack pulled back, eyes narrowing like he was tryna decide whether to console him… —or call him a pussy. then his lips curved. “y’know what? you remind me of that one song…” he started, waving a finger as if he was sorting through his memory right before him. smoke sighed.

“what fuckin’ song stack?” smoke asked, sounding exhausted of his own paranoia

stack cleared his throat as he rested back on his twin, “so.. i typed a text to a girl I used to see, sayin' that i chose this cutie pie with whom i wanna be” smoke shook his head at his twin’s stupidity, but a tiny smile was threatening his lips.

stack raised his arms in feigned surrender, backing away while still going “…and i apologize if this message gets you down then i cc'ed every girl that i'd see-see 'round town and hate to see y'all frown, but I'd rather see her smilin'” he pointed towards the door, like he could already see her at the altar, waiting.

smiling.

for him.

“wetness all around me, true, but I'm no island, peninsula maybe” stack shrugged, sauntering over to open the door, revealing sammie, cornbread & a surprisingly sober delta slim that all held knowing grins

stack strolled back to smoke, slung an arm over his shoulder, cool as ever. “it makes no sense, I know crazy? give up all this pussycat that's in my lap, no lookin' back”

smoke snorted despite himself, head dipping down, that weight on his chest beginning to ease. “you done?” he asked quietly.

stack just smirked. “would not burn me on my bum, when I shoot the moon high jump the broom, like a preemie out the womb”

“my partner yellin' "too soon! don't do it!, reconsider! read some literature on the subject, you sure? fuck it”

“y’know we got your back like chiropractic,” cornbread brought him into a brotherly dap

sammie giddily joined in, “if that bitch do you dirty, we'll wipe her ass out as in detergent” smoke cut his eyes at his cousin, an unspoken “my wife ain’t some bitch” look

“now hurry, hurry, go on to the altar!” they all shouted in unison, laughter erupting as they pulled smoke in for big bear hugs, back slaps, and handshakes. then, just like that, the others filtered out—leaving only smoke and stack in the quiet of the dressing room again.

stack leaned in, hand cupped around the back of his twin’s neck, foreheads nearly touching. “i know you ain’t a pimp,” he said softly, “but pimp… remember what i taught ya.”

stack cut in again, voice low now—soft but clear as a prayer, “keep your heart, 3 stacks, keep your heart…” he squeezed firmly, a few tears flowing down his twin’s cheeks without him realizing his crumbling exterior.

“hey, keep your heart, 3 stacks, keep your heart… man, these girls is smart, 3 stacks, y/n is smart” smoke let out a choked half-laugh, half-sob, wiping at his eyes at the alternation.

“play your part,” stack whispered, brushing away one last tear from his twin’s face.

the music started soft—low strings and the distant coo of a piano, like the prelude of a dream. the altar was dressed beautifully—lit candles, antique candelabras, and vines crawling up wooden beams like nature wanted to bear witness too. the double doors parted, first came pearline, regal as ever, arm locked with a freshly lined-up sammie, who walked like the aisle was his big break.

behind them came grace, cheeks pink with nerves, walking proudly beside bo, who nodded respectfully to everyone like he was at a barbecue and a board meeting all at once.

then came cornbread, slow-steppin’, lips pursed with fake reverence and one hand curled protectively around mary’s. she looked elegant—graceful even—but something in her eyes was off. distracted. sharp.

grace’s brow furrowed. a subtle twitch that can be missed if you wasn’t taking in the details of each bridesmaid. however, pearline noticed too, glancing discreetly over her shoulder once the pair had passed.

and that’s when it hit them.

there were only three groomsmen.

and stack hadn’t walked out with any of them.

pearline leaned in to grace, her voice barely a thread beneath the music.

“where’s stack?”

grace shook her head slowly, clutching her bouquet tighter. “i was wonderin’ the same thing.”

mary, already halfway into formation, dipped her chin slightly as she caught their eyes.

then, low and quick like a snake through grass, she whispered—just loud enough for them to hear, “smoke ain’t cold, but his feet might be. stack’s in the back—tryna keep it from reachin’ her before it’s too late.”

grace’s eyes widened.

pearline’s lips parted, but she said nothing. just turned forward again, holding her position like any good soldier would.

the music swelled again. the chapel walls seemed to lean in closer.

the tension had shifted—just slightly.

a tremor beneath all the satin and lace.

the hush in the chapel was thunderous once the doors opened for a second time

and there she was.

y/n, radiant. floating. veiled in ivory and wrapped in soft candlelight. every step was poetry. every breath held in by the crowd.

her hand clutched her father’s arm like a lifeline, bouquet trembling just enough to give her nerves away.

but when her eyes lifted—when they reached the altar, her breath caught.

there was no groom waiting.

the aisle stretched on, long and holy. the officiant stood patiently beneath the archway, hands folded. the groomsmen had lined up. the bridesmaids were all in place. but the man she was walking toward?

he wasn’t there.

y/n’s heel stuttered on the tile. a half-step. almost nothing, but her father felt it.

“hey,” he murmured, squeezing her hand tight. “look at me.”

she turned, eyes wide with quiet panic, lips already trembling. “now i know what you’re thinkin’, baby girl. but let me ask you this…”

his voice softened, memories laced through every word.

“‘member that time you got sick down in lil’ rock? 4 states away, middle of nowhere, ain’t no flights runnin’, weather all sideways?”

y/n blinked, throat thickening.

“you ain’t even call him. just mentioned it to pearline in a damn text. and that boy—that man—showed up at your door in less than twelve hours. had soup in one hand and damn near tears in his eyes.”

she let out a shaky laugh, shoulders easing just a little. her father leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple like he used to when she was little.

“if that man could move mountains and highways to get to you then, you don’t think he movin’ heaven and hell to get to you now?”

y/n swallowed hard, vision blurring behind her veil—but her back straightened. her grip steadied.

she nodded once, strong. chest now blossoming with confidence, not for herself but for her husband

“alright then,” her father smiled. “let’s go greet whatever miracle’s 'bout to walk through them doors.” and together, they began walking again

she reached the altar with every eye still on her, every breath in the chapel caught in a slow, suspended hush.

her father brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently. then, as if blessing her journey into something deeper, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“you’re gonna be alright,” he whispered. “you already are.”

he stepped aside, blinking faster than he’d admit, and gave her hand one final squeeze before moving to his seat.

y/n stood alone now at the altar—no veil of nerves left to hide behind. just her, radiant and trembling, wrapped in satin and courage.

pearline was the first to speak, soft and reverent from behind her.

“girl… you look like a damn vision.” her voice cracked halfway through, eyes shining with pride. “ain’t no one ever looked that stunning and that ready at the same time.”

grace fanned herself dramatically, sniffling. “lord, bo, i might cry more than i did at our wedding.”

bo, standing among the groomsmen with a steady expression, gave a quiet, reassuring nod to y/n

“he’s comin’,” he said calmly, his voice carrying just enough to be heard without stirring the crowd. “man like that? he wouldn’t leave you. not for all the nerves in the world.”

y/n blinked away the burn in her eyes, lips parting—but she couldn’t find words.

mary gave her a slow wink from the bridesmaid line, chin tilted, that old fire in her voice. “you better not cry and mess up that beat face. stack’d kill him before you ever got the chance.”

the guests were quiet, but a ripple of chuckles moved through the front pews.

as if on queue, the music started again but this time bold and a little too upbeat. people turned, confused, as the chapel doors flung open like a movie set.

and there he was. stack.

“y’all can relax—wedding’s still on!” he announced, arms wide like a prophet, tux glistening under the light, sunglasses still on indoors.

he strutted down the aisle slow, with the kind of confidence that said ‘i helped make this day happen, so you gon’ see me’.

“y’all thought i wasn’t gon’ walk?” he called out, halfway down. “i’m the best man, not otis!”

laughter bubbled up from both sides of the aisle. pearline groaned, already shaking her head, while someone’s uncle clapped in approval.

“he treatin’ this like a bet awards entrance,” mary muttered from the bride’s side.

stack paused to shake hands with a few guests like he was campaigning for mayor. then he stopped mid-aisle, threw his head back dramatically and yelled

“SMOKE! THEY WAITIN’ ON YO’ BLACK ASS!”

that drew full-on laughter this time.

stack made it to the altar, popped his collar, and dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief like the moment was too hot to handle.

“okay, now we good,” he grinned, finally falling in line beside the officiant. “commence the tear-jerkin’ shit.”

then the music shifted.

a slower, cooler rhythm with that deep southern soul rolled in. the chapel settled.

and then— smoke appeared.

framed in the doorway like the final line of a poem; royal blue tux sharp as sins from his youth, magnolia pinned near his heart like a memory.

his eyes swept the room—nerves still lingering in their corners—but when they landed on her?

the world quieted— his world quieted

y/n stood at the altar, light hitting her just right—veil soft like moonlight, bouquet clutched tight to her ribs. her lips parted, and though her eyes shimmered, they didn’t cry. she smiled.

the kind of smile that broke chains and erased all doubt

smoke exhaled hard, almost staggered. like something cracked wide open inside him and poured out into the soles of his shoes, steadying him.

he walked.

not rushed. not too slow. just enough to carry the weight of this moment like a crown and a cross, that won’t be stolen from him this time

pearline mouthed, “told ya’.”

mary let out a relieved breath, fanning herself with her bouquet.

bo gave a knowing nod to his longtime friend

and stack?

stack smirked like his work here was done.

as smoke reached the altar, he didn’t say anything right away. he just took her hand.

“sorry i was late”

pt.2?